“Go,” she continues. “And never come back.”
She turns around and buries her head in her pillow.
Malin
I don’t know what wakes me up, maybe the noise outside. I can hear the wind whistling around the corner of the house and a lone branch tapping against the window—it sounds like Suzette is sitting out there in the dark, slowly tapping one of her long blue nails against the window.
The moon casts a pale shine on the rug, and a few lonely snowflakes float by.
I think about Max and Kenny and what Mom said a few days ago about how you can’t escape yourself.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe Max is my escape from Ormberg, or from Kenny, and ultimately also from myself.
Something broke inside me when Kenny died.
Not because it was a terrible accident, not because we were drunk, but because I learned how much it hurts to lose somebody you love.
I never wanted to feel that pain again.
I hear a scraping noise coming from downstairs, almost like a chair being pulled out.
I glance at the clock: five past five in the morning. Maybe Mom is going to the bathroom.
After Kenny died, I didn’t want to get out of bed, and I didn’t want to eat. It felt like food expanded in my mouth, and it made me nauseous. All I could think of was Kenny’s face, which was no longer a face—just a deformed, fleshy mass.
Mom and Margareta stayed by my side, day and night. Sure, Dad was around, too, but he had to work. And taking care of depressed teenagers is women’s work.
Then when Mom and Dad came down with the flu a few weeks later, and got very sick, Margareta moved in. Made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for all of us. Cleaned the attic, boiled winter apples and made applesauce, washed and pressed all the linen, and scrubbed the floor.
That’s when I realized how much Margareta means to me, to our entire family. She’s no soft, sensitive person, but she’s there when it counts. She’s the hub around which we all turn, what unites our small, fragmented family. The help she offers can be harsh and wordless, but she’ll never desert you.
And in the end, isn’t that what matters?
A thud sounds from downstairs, and then a bang as the front door slams.
I sit up. My heart pounding, sweat starting at my temples.
Would Mom being going out now, at five in the morning?
I get up, wrap the blanket from the foot of the bed around my shoulders, and sneak toward the stairs.
Everything’s quiet. The moon shines a ghostly light over the room. The floor is cold, and I wrap the blanket tighter around me.
Dad used to walk in his sleep. Usually he ate. Mom would catch him at the fridge with his hand literally in the jam jar and blueberry marmalade all over his pajamas.
I creep down the stairs and check the hall and the kitchen.
Empty.
The bushes outside the kitchen window bend under the heavy wind and cold air nips at my ankles.
I move on to Mom’s room, open the door slightly, and listen.
Her breathing is heavy and even, and her scent hangs in the air. I carefully pull the door closed behind me and go back to the hall, and my eyes are drawn down the snowy driveway toward the trees in the distance. And there, between two of the biggest, I sense movement.
Someone or something is moving between the tree trunks. It could be a human, or could just as well be an animal.
At that very moment, something dings in the living room.
I turn around.
Something is glowing on the coffee table, bathing its surroundings in a cold, artificial shine.
My laptop.
Didn’t I turn off my computer yesterday?
I enter the living room and bend over the laptop. Various colors dance around each other on the screen. Next to my computer my notebook lies open, just as I left it yesterday. My notes about Hanne and what little she remembers from the night Peter disappeared fill two whole pages.
I push a key and the log-in page replaces the screen saver.
The computer is locked.
I let out a deep sigh, but at the same time my glance falls onto the floor next to me. A damp spot spreads out on the fake hardwood floor, shining dully in the light of the computer screen.
My heart starts to race and my ears throb.
I go out into the hall, unlock the door, and stare out into the darkness. The cold wind catches hold of my hair, and I shiver.
At first I don’t notice anything strange, but then I detect something in the snowdrift right next to the door.
It’s a footprint.
I sink down and examine it. The contours of a five-pointed star sit in the middle of the sole.
* * *
—
Hanne is sitting at Berit’s kitchen table with a teacup in her hand. Two candles are lit on the table.
It’s the second Sunday of Advent.
My head aches from fatigue—after hearing those sounds downstairs and finding my computer turned on early this morning, I couldn’t fall back asleep. Instead, I lay awake, tossing and turning until my alarm rang.
On my drive to the office this morning, I thought about telling Manfred what happened, but in the pale light of morning it felt so silly: a thud, a footprint in the snow that might be fresh but could just as well be old. A movement between the trees, which could have been conjured up by my own fears rather than by the trespasser I dreaded.
I stare at the table in front of me.
Next to the candlesticks lie pictures of Azra and Nermina Malkoc’s dead bodies, the map of Ormberg, the interrogation reports, and the notes Manfred has taken.
We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour while Manfred reviewed every single detail of the entire investigation, explaining to Hanne all we know about Nermina and Azra, Peter’s disappearance, and the medallion. He hasn’t mentioned Stefan Birgersson, a conscious choice—he doesn’t want Hanne to have any preconceived notions about a possible perpetrator.
Hanne has been reading, making small notes in her notebook, and asking questions. Berit’s brewed more tea, walked the dog, and, finally, sat down in the next room to knit.
It’s quite obvious Hanne doesn’t remember anything from the investigation. Both Andreas and I have a hard time understanding the point of this visit. If Manfred was hoping Hanne would remember something, he was way off. And we have a lot to do—the prosecutor needs all the help he can get before issuing a search warrant.
Outside Berit’s window, the morning sun shines over Ormberg. A thin strip of pink hovers above the treetops, and the fog is lifting at the edge of the forest.
It’s lovely, but the meteorologists have warned of heavy snowfall and traffic problems later this morning.
Hanne lays her glasses on the table and rubs her eyes. There’s a crackle from the woodstove.
“You know I don’t remember, right?” she says, meeting Manfred’s eyes.
Manfred nods and lays a big hand over Hanne’s.
She smiles. He smiles.
Everything between Hanne and Manfred seems to happen with an unspoken understanding.
“What would you like to know?” Hanne asks.
“I want to know if the same person who killed Nermina also killed Azra Malkoc. And then I want you to tell us who it is.”
Hanne laughs and squeezes Manfred’s hand.
“I’m not psychic.”
“Yes, you are,” Manfred says, smiling widely.
Hanne lets go of Manfred’s hand and runs her hand through her long hair, twisting a lock between her fingers.
“I’ll do it for you, Manfred. But you have to understand that what I say is nothing but hypotheses based on a very superficial review of the material.”
“Of course.”
Ha
nne sighs and slowly shakes her head. She almost looks worried.
“I don’t like to draw hasty conclusions.”
“But if you were to do so?”
She nods.
“Then I would say that the murders are definitely connected. It’s unlikely that a girl and her mother would be found murdered in the same place by sheer chance, even if these events are separated by many years. So, yes, I think we could be dealing with the same perpetrator. Secondly, there are certain aspects of the perpetrator’s conduct that lead me to believe that he or she had a personal relationship with the victims.”
“Please enlarge on that,” Manfred says.
Hanne nods.
“The perpetrator displayed a certain…care. He or she—but let’s say ‘he’ for the sake of simplicity—placed the little girl on her back, with her hands clasped over her chest, before covering her with stones. Almost like a funeral. It feels like he…respected her. The same is true with Azra. The perpetrator placed her under the tree and clasped her hands together just as he did Nermina’s. I think he knew them. Maybe even liked them.”
Hanne puts on her glasses again, looks at her notes, and continues:
“But then we have the business of Azra’s battered face.”
Her forehead wrinkles and she falls silent. Stays quiet for a long while.
We watch her without saying anything. Berit coughs in the other room.
“At first glance, it makes no sense,” Hanne says. “Not if he respected the victim. You wouldn’t crush someone’s face with a rock. You do that when you detest someone, or when the crime is driven by rage. But there may be some other reason he did so. Of a more instrumental nature.”
Manfred looks up from his notebook.
“Yes,” she continues, sounding surer. “That could be the case. He may not have had time to hide the body and so crushed her face in the hopes of making it difficult to identify her.”
“But you can identify a person anyway,” I say. “With DNA, for example.”
Hanne shrugs slightly.
“Sure. But it’s more difficult. Then you need something to compare it to. Same thing with fingerprints.”
“And the fact that both victims were barefoot?” I ask.
“Hmmm,” Hanne says, tapping her pen against the table. “If we’re certain the girl was barefoot. Her shoes may have decomposed. She was lying in the cairn for fifteen years before she was found. But her mother…”
Hanne falls silent and stares out at the snowy field.
“Can the technicians ascertain if the shoes were removed before or after the murder?” she asks.
“They can’t be completely sure,” Manfred says. “But she had scratches on her feet, so they think she probably walked barefoot through the woods.”
“She may not have been psychologically healthy,” Hanne says. “Or…”
“Or?” Manfred says.
“Or she made a hasty exit from somewhere, a nearby house or car.”
“There are no houses nearby,” I say.
“But there’s a road,” Hanne says, pointing to the map. Manfred nods.
“So?” he says slowly. “Who is he?”
Hanne smiles ruefully.
“I wish I could say. But I think he’s lived around here for a long time because of where both murders took place, and because such a long period of time passed between them. I’m pretty sure it’s a man, simply because most killers who shoot or beat up their victims are men. He’s physically strong and knows the area well. I’d say he should be somewhere between forty and sixty-five…”
“Wait a minute,” Andreas says. “How can you know that?”
Hanne nods, and appears almost energetic.
“Murder is a serious crime. Most murderers have some kind of criminal record, or at least what we would call a pathological development curve. So if we assume that the killer was at least eighteen years old when he killed Nermina, he’s at least forty-one today. Then we have the murder of…what was her mother’s name again?”
“Azra Malkoc,” I say.
“Thank you. The terrain was rugged and the body had been moved and placed under a spruce. It must have required a certain amount of physical strength. That excludes the elderly and handicapped. I don’t believe the perpetrator is older than sixty-five.”
Everyone is quiet.
Hanne seems pleased. Her eyes twinkle.
“Any more?” Manfred asks.
“Well. One could speculate on the type of person the perpetrator is. If one wanted to. But I would rather not.”
Hanne’s voice is teasing, and she stares hard at Manfred.
“Come on!” Manfred says.
“Okay. I would say that he’s impulsive and disorganized. At least the murder of the woman indicates that. It was…sloppy. Rash and not particularly smart.”
“Could the perpetrator be an addict, or maybe an alcoholic?” Manfred asks.
Hanne shrugs.
“It’s possible. Or, maybe it was sloppy because it was unplanned. And as I said earlier, I think he had some kind of relationship to the victims. Start there, and maybe you’ll find him.”
Manfred bends forward, his eyes on Hanne. Then he reaches for the map. Places it on the table between him and Hanne and points to the cairn.
“Why here, Hanne? Why the cairn?”
Hanne shakes her head, and seems troubled.
“My first thought was that the place might have some meaning for the perpetrator. But I’m not so sure. It could be that…”
“What?” I ask.
Hanne’s eyes meet mine; she closes them and seems to be concentrating. The dog, who until now was lying still on the kitchen floor, lifts his head and looks at us, as if sensing something important is taking place here, at the kitchen table in Berit’s little cottage.
“Imagine a crossroads that you have to pass by to get out of or into a city,” Hanne says. “A place that everyone drives by, not because they want to, but because they have to. Perhaps the girl and her mother passed by this place on their way to or from another place. A car. A house. The cairn lies in a clearing, so a person who passes by will stop and look around, as if to orient themselves. And if someone’s following you, they’d have a clear view of you in that clearing.”
Hanne lifts her arms and cocks her head as if she were holding a rifle and taking aim at something.
Manfred nods and makes notes.
“So, we’ll look at the nearby properties again?”
“I think so,” Hanne says, pushing the papers aside. “The properties and vehicles that drive the road near…in the vicinity of…”
Hanne bangs her hand on the table in frustration and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Close to that…the pile of stones…” she says finally.
“The cairn,” Manfred adds, gently.
Hanne meets Manfred’s eyes. Blinks several times and clasps her hands together.
Then she sighs audibly.
“This doesn’t feel good. I had that woman’s…What was her name again?”
“Azra,” Manfred says.
Hanne nods.
“I was wearing Azra’s necklace. And her blood was on my shoes. I don’t think Peter is in any of the summer cottages out there. I think something terrible happened to him.”
No one answers her, but Manfred squeezes Hanne’s hand hard.
* * *
—
We’re back in the office. Andreas hangs up his winter coat and sits down in the chair across from me.
“How could she know all that?”
I shrug. I’m as surprised as he is. Hanne, who was so quiet and reserved throughout the investigation. Who listened in on all our meetings, took notes, nodded, and barely asked a question.
I never really understood her abili
ties, even though Manfred said she was good, maybe even the best. It’s almost as though she was holding back for Peter’s sake.
“There’s a reason they call her the witch,” I say.
Andreas nods.
He looks good today, has done something with his hair. Maybe he cut it, maybe it’s wax, because it lies close to his head, and for once he’s wearing a nice sweater and a pair of jeans that aren’t too short for him.
I think he notices me looking at him, because he glances up from his computer and meets my eyes. I look away, but a moment too late—he’s already fired off one of those self-satisfied smiles, as if I’ve just confirmed how hot I think he is.
Manfred enters. Hangs up his coat and sits down. Flips through a stack of papers and then says:
“We should take it for what it is. Hanne’s damn sharp, but she’s also confused and doesn’t remember anything from the investigation. Still, I’d bet my tweed cap that there’s quite a bit that’s right in what she says.”
“Stefan Birgersson certainly fits her description,” I say. “He’s forty-eight years old, lives close to the cairn, knows these woods, and seems quite…How was it that Hanne described the murder? ‘Disorganized’? ‘Sloppy’?”
Manfred nods and picks up his notebook. At that very moment his phone rings. He glances at it and notes drily:
“NFC. I’m glad they work weekends nowadays.”
Then he holds five fingers in the air.
“Five minutes.”
He gets up and disappears into the store area to talk on the phone undisturbed.
Andreas’s expression is inscrutable.
“I think we should look for the child,” I say. “The one Azra gave birth to.”
“Did you check with the delivery clinics?”
I nod. “No Azra Malkoc gave birth to a child in the spring of 1994. No unknown women, either. But she may have used a false identity. In any case, the child is surely buried in those woods somewhere.”
“Yes. The question is where to start looking. The forests are huge around here. And now everything’s snowed under. We won’t be able to search the ground until this spring.”
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