‘I don’t know that there are any specific societies. I’ve never been that interested in them. But they’re probably out there somewhere. I’m sure I’ve had nutters like that come and listen to me. If I were you I’d start by looking on the Internet. They may prefer to live in the past, but they’re extremely technologically literate.’
‘But you don’t actually know of any?’
‘Not in particular. There are never any records kept of who attends my open lectures. It’s like the cinema or a concert. You come, you watch and listen, then you go away again.’
‘But you know that they’re technologically literate?’
‘Isn’t everyone like that these days?’
‘What about on your courses here at the university?’
‘Oh, they never find their way here. And midwinter sacrifice gets little more than a mention in the greater scheme of things.’
Then the professor pulls out the hand he has been keeping hidden under the desk and strokes his cheek, and Malin can see angry scars criss-crossing the back of his hand.
The professor seems to lose his train of thought, and quickly lowers his hand.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘We have cats at home. One of them had a bit of a turn when we were playing the other day. We took her to the vet. It turned out that she had a brain tumour.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Malin said.
‘Thank you. The cats are like children for Magnus and me.’
‘Do you think he’s lying about his hand?’
Malin can hardly hear Zeke’s voice in the wind-tunnel between the buildings.
‘I don’t know,’ Malin shouts.
‘Should we check him out?’
‘We can get someone to take a quick look.’
As she is shouting the words her phone starts to ring in her pocket.
‘Fuck.’
‘Let it ring. You can call back once we’re in the car.’
As they’re driving past McDonald’s on the Ryd roundabout, Malin calls Johan Jakobsson back, not caring that his wife might be trying to put the children to bed and that the sound of the phone ringing might keep them awake.
‘Johan Jakobsson.’
The sound of children playing up in the background.
‘Malin here. I’m in the car with Zeke.’
‘Right,’ Johan says. ‘I haven’t managed to find anything specific, but the idea of midwinter sacrifice pops up on a lot of sites. Mostly residential courses that-’
‘We know all that. Anything else?’
‘That’s what I was coming to. Apart from the courses I found a site belonging to someone calling himself a soothsayer. Soothsaying is apparently some sort of Old Norse magic, and it says that according to these particular traditions, every February you have to make a midwinter sacrifice.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Then I went on to a Yahoo group about soothsaying.’
‘A what?’
‘A discussion group on the Internet.’
‘Okay.’
‘It doesn’t have many members, but the man running the group gives an address outside Maspelosa as his home location.’
‘Maspelosa.’
‘Exactly, Fors. Not much more than ten kilometres from the crime-scene.’
‘Are you going to talk to him tonight?’
‘Because he’s got a website? It can wait till morning.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Wise or not, unless the pair of you fancy driving out to Maspelosa now?’
‘We can do that, Johan.’
‘Malin, you’re mad. Go home to Tove.’
‘You’re right, Johan. It can wait. You two take it tomorrow.’
The kitchen worktop is cold to her touch, but still feels somehow warm.
Soothsaying.
Old Norse magic.
Unexplained, thus far, holes in a pane of glass.
Does all this belong together?
The ?sir belief-system.
Zeke had laughed to begin with, then his face had taken on a rather uncertain look, as if it had struck him that if a naked man can be found hanging in a tree on a cripplingly cold winter’s morning, then there could well be ‘nutters’ who live their lives according to Old Norse mythology.
But they had to follow several threads at once, looking under any stone where there might be something relevant. There were countless police investigations that had ground to a halt simply because the officers themselves had got hung up on one of their own theories, or, worse still, fallen in love with it.
Malin eats a couple of crispbread sandwiches with low-fat cheese before she sits down at her desk and starts phoning the people on the list she was given at Ljungsbro social services.
The clock on the computer says 21.12. Not too late to call.
A note from Tove in the hall.
Maths? Didn’t she say geography? Filippa?
No answer anywhere; she left messages, her name and number, why she was phoning:
Theatre, cinema, a concert, evening classes, the gym. All the things people do to stop themselves getting bored.
Maria Murvall’s number was unobtainable. This number is no longer in use. Directory enquiries had no new number for her.
Half past nine.
Malin’s body is tired after her exercise; she feels the fibres of her muscles protest as they grow. How her brain is tired after the encounter at the university.
Maybe this will be a peaceful night? Nothing holds the nightmares at bay like exercise and concentration, but she can still feel the anxiety and restlessness, how impossible it is to stay inside the flat even though it is so cold outside.
She gets up, pulls on her jacket, her holster out of habit, and leaves the flat again. She walks up Hamngatan towards Filbytertorg, then carries on up towards the castle and the cemetery, where the snow-covered graves keep their owners’ secrets. Malin looks up at the memorial grove; she usually goes there to look at the flowers, trying to feel the presence of the dead and hear their voices, pretending that she can breach the dimensions, that she’s a superhero with fantastic powers.
The rustle of the wind.
The panting of the cold.
Malin stands still in the memorial grove.
The oaks are drooping. Frozen branches hang in the air like stiff black rain. A few nightlights are burning around her feet, a floral wreath makes a grey ring on the snow.
But everything is silent and empty and still.
