body wasn’t even meant to be found. And no use of violence to relieve tension either. This is a completely different modus operandi. It could be another person altogether. So the answer to your question is no. It’s highly unlikely that Stefan Wikstrom was murdered by a serial killer suffering from a psychological disorder, and that the murder was committed in a highly emotional state and inspired by Viktor Strandgard. Either it was somebody else, or Mildred Nilsson and Stefan Wikstrom were killed for a more, how shall I put it, down to earth reason.”
“Yes?”
“I mean, Mildred’s murder seems very… emotional. But Stefan’s murder is more like…”
“… an execution.”
“Exactly! It feels a bit like a crime of passion. I’m just speculating now, I want you to bear that in mind, I’m just trying to communicate the emotional picture I’m getting… okay?”
“Fine.”
“Like a crime of passion, then. Husband kills his wife in a rage. Then kills the lover in a more cold-blooded way.”
“But they weren’t a couple,” said Sven-Erik.
Then he thought, as far as we know.
“I don’t mean they’re a married couple. I just mean…”
She fell silent.
“… I don’t know what I mean,” she said. “There could be a link. It could definitely be the same perpetrator. Psychopath. Certainly. Maybe. But not necessarily, not at all. And not to the extent that your grasp on reality has completely lost its basis in reality.”
It was time to hang up. Sven-Erik did so with a pang of loss. And Manne was still missing.
Rebecka Martinsson walks into Micke’s. Three people are having breakfast in the bar. Elderly men who look at her appreciatively. A real live beautiful woman. Always welcome. Micke’s mopping the floor.
“Hi,” he says to Rebecka, putting the mop and bucket aside. “Come with me.”
Rebecka follows him into the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “Everything turned out wrong on Saturday. But when Lars-Gunnar told us, I just didn’t know what to think. Were you the one that killed those pastors in Jiekajarvi?”
“Yes. Although it was actually two pastors and a…”
“I know. A madman, wasn’t it? It was in all the papers. Although they never said what your name was. They never put Thomas Soderberg’s name or Vesa Larsson’s either, but everybody around here knew who it was. It must have been terrible.”
She nods. It must have been.
“On Saturday, I thought maybe what Lars-Gunnar said was true. That you’d come here to snoop. I did ask you if you were a journalist and you said no, but then I thought well, no, maybe she isn’t a journalist, but she works for a newspaper all the same. But you don’t, do you?”
“No, I… I ended up here by mistake, because Torsten Karlsson and I were looking for somewhere to eat.”
“The guy who was with you the first time?”
“Yes. And it isn’t something I usually tell people. Everything that happened… then. Anyway, I ended up staying here, because I wanted some peace, and because I didn’t dare go out to Kurravaara. My grandmother’s house is out there and… but in the end I went there with Nalle after all. He’s my hero.”
The last remark is accompanied by a smile.
“I came to pay for the cabin,” she says, holding out the money.
Micke takes it and gives her change.
“I’ve included your wages as well. What does your other boss think about you working in a bar on the side?”
Rebecka laughs.
“Oh, now you’ve got a hold over me!”
“You ought to say good-bye to Nalle, you’ll be passing his house on your way. If you take a right up toward the chapel…”
“I know, but it’s probably a really bad idea, his father…”
“Lars- Gunnar’s in town and Nalle’s on his own at home.”
No chance, thinks Rebecka. There are limits.
“Say good-bye for me,” she says.
Back in the car she rings Mans.
“I’ve done it,” she says.
Mans Wenngren answers her the way he used to answer his wife. He doesn’t even need to think about it.
“That’s my girl!”
Then he quickly adds:
“Well done, Martinsson. I’ve got to go to a meeting now. Talk to you soon.”
Rebecka sits there with her cell phone in her hand.
Mans Wenngren, she thinks. He’s like the mountains. It’s raining and it’s horrible. Howling wind. You’re tired and your shoes are soaked through and you don’t really know who you are. The map doesn’t seem to match the reality. And then all of a sudden the clouds part. Your clothes dry out in the wind. You sit on the side of the mountain looking down over a sun-drenched valley. Suddenly it’s all worth it.
She tries to call Maria Taube, but gets no reply. Sends a text: “Everything fine. Call me.”
She drives away down the main road. Tunes the car radio to some kind of background music.
By the turning off toward the chapel, she meets Nalle. A shiver of guilt and sorrow runs down her spine. She raises her hand and waves to him. In the rearview mirror she can see him waving back at her. Waving like mad. Then he starts to run after the car. He’s not very fast, but he won’t give up. Suddenly she sees him fall. It looks bad. He tumbles down into the ditch.
Rebecka stops the car by the side of the road. Looks in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t get up. She moves fast now. Jumps out of the car and runs back.
“Nalle!” she shouts. “Nalle!”
What if he’s hit his head on a stone?
He’s lying there in the ditch, smiling up at her. Like a beetle on its back.
“Becka!” he says when she appears.
Of course I have to say good-bye, she thinks. What kind of person am I?
He gets to his feet. She brushes him down.
“Bye then, Nalle,” she says. “It was really good fun…”
“Come with,” he says, tugging at her arm like a child. “Come with!”
He turns on his heel and lumbers away up the road. He’s going home.
“No, really, I…” she begins.
But Nalle keeps on going. Doesn’t turn around. Is confident that she’s following him.
Rebecka looks at the car. It’s parked tidily by the side of the road. Clearly visible to other drivers. She could go with him for a little while. She sets off after him.
“Wait for me, then!” she calls.
Lisa stops the car outside the vet’s. The dogs know exactly where they are. This is not a nice place. They all get up and look out through the car window. Jaws hanging open. Tongues lolling. The German begins to shed dandruff. He always does that when he’s nervous. White scales work their way up through his fur and cover his brown coat like snow. Their tails are plastered to their stomachs.
Lisa goes in. The dogs are left in the car.
Aren’t we coming with you? their eyes ask her. Are we going to get away without any injections, examinations, frightening smells and those humiliating white plastic funnels round our heads?
Annette, the vet, comes to meet her. They sort out the payment, Annette deals with it herself. There’s only the two of them there. No other staff. Nobody in the waiting room. Lisa is moved by her consideration.
The only thing Annette asks is:
“Are you taking them with you?”
Lisa shakes her head. She hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. She’s only just managed to think this far. And
