Sketches, notes, and my little black book with little black words, pictures of now, of the future, of the past, of blood.
I’m not mad. It’s only a part of me that’s given in, that’s come loose. What good did it do, talking to that psychologist?
It’s in the wardrobe at home, the notebook; here there are only crumbs, apples and everything that needs doing, that’s already done and needs doing again.
Let me in, do you hear? It’s cold out here. Let me in.
Why are you laughing? You laughter is tearing me apart.
It’s cold and damp. I want to go home. But this is probably my home now.
I want to join in and play.
Receive some love.
That’s all.
29
Daniel Hogfeldt’s bedroom.
What am I doing here?
Are those his hands on my body? He’s eager, firm, caresses, nips, slaps. Does he hit me? Oh, let him. Let him scratch a little, it might as well hurt a bit.
I give way. Let it happen. His body is hard and that’s enough, I don’t give a damn who he is.
Grey walls. My hands near the chrome headboard, he nibbles at my lips, his tongue in my mouth and he pumps and pumps.
Sweat. Minus thirty-four degrees.
Tove, Janne, Dad, Mum, Ball-Bengt, Maria Murvall.
Daniel Hogfeldt on top of me, in charge. Do you think I’m yours, Daniel? We can pretend that if you like.
It hurts. And it’s nice.
She takes control, rolls away from him, forces him down on the mattress. Clambers on, in.
Now, Daniel. Now.
I disappear into the lovely pain. And it’s wonderful.
Can’t that be enough?
Malin is lying next to Daniel, twists herself up into a sitting position. Looks at the sleeping muscular body beside hers. Gets up, puts on her clothes, leaves the flat.
It’s five o’clock. Linkoping deserted.
She walks towards Police Headquarters.
I heard you, Malin, I was awake, but you didn’t notice.
I wanted to keep you here, I wanted that. It’s so damn cold out there, I wanted to say that I wanted you to stay. Even the very toughest, people who seem hard, need warmth, everyone does.
There’s nothing original in warmth.
But it still means everything.
I dig and root about in people’s lives, try to uncover their secrets. There’s no warmth in that, but I still like doing it.
How did I get like this?
The Murvall brothers.
Adam, Jakob, Elias.
Malin has their files in front of her on the desk, leafing through them at random, reading, drinking coffee.
Three people. Poured into almost the same mould.
The brothers’ police records read like the report of a boxing match.
Round one: shoplifting, hash, souped-up mopeds, driving without a licence, obstruction of official duties, break- ins in kiosks, thefts from Cloetta trucks.
Round two: assault, fighting in bars.
Round three: poaching, extortion, stealing boats, possession of illegal weapons. Small-bore rifles, Husqvarna.
Then after that it’s like the match is over.
The last notes in the brothers’ files are some ten years old.
So what’s happened to the Murvall brothers? Have they calmed down? Got families? Gone straight? Got smarter? Never the last of these. It doesn’t happen. Once a gangster, always a gangster.
Which one is worst?
Notes, extracts from interviews.
The youngest brother, Adam. A hash-smoking petrol-head with violent tendencies, if the file is to be believed. He beat one of the drivers at Mantorp horse-trotting track until he was pouring with blood, after he failed to win a race that Adam had high hopes of.
Illegal betting? No question. Three months in Skanninge secure unit. Two elk poached in February. One month in Skanninge. Beating up his girlfriend. Suspicion of attempted rape. Six months.
The middle brother, Jakob. Illiterate, according to the files. Dyslexic. Prone to violent outbursts. And what does someone like that do? Hits a teacher in year seven, breaks the arm of a contemporary outside the kiosk in Ljungsbro. Juvenile institution. Dealing hash in the playground when he returned, broke a policeman’s jaw when they came to pick him up. Six months in Norrkoping, extortion of businesses in Borensberg, drink-driving. One year in Norrkoping. Then nothing. As if whatever was wrong suddenly stopped.
The eldest brother, Elias. A perfect example. Some sort of talent for football, in the reserve team as a thirteen-year-old, until he broke into the kiosk at Ljungsbro IF and was expelled from the club. Causing death by dangerous driving when he hit a tree, drunk. Six months in Skanninge. Grievous bodily harm in the Hamlet restaurant. He smashed a beer-glass into another customer’s head. The man lost the sight in one eye.
‘Slow-witted, easily led, insecure.’ The psychologist’s words. Slow-witted? Insecure? Did people really write things like that?
Little sister Maria.
So these are your brothers, Maria? The ones who put up the posters in your room? Adam? In their language, his language, I suppose that’s a sign of concern.
Bengt’s blue body in the tree.
The revenge of three brothers?
Round four: murder?
Malin rubs her eyes. Sips her third cup of coffee.
She hears the door of the office open, feels a cold draught.
Zeke’s voice, rasping and tired: ‘Early today, Fors? Or just a very long night?’
Zeke puts on the radio.
Low volume.
‘Interesting reading, isn’t it?’
‘They seem to have settled down,’ Malin says.
‘Or they just got a bit smarter.’
Zeke is about to say something else, but his voice is hidden by the sound of the radio. The song that is playing fades out, then an annoying jingle, then Malin’s friend’s voice: ‘That was…’
Helen.
She grew up out there, Malin thinks. Almost the same age as the brothers. Maybe she knows them? I could call her. I’ll call her.
‘Hello, Malin.’
The voice as soft and sexy over the phone as on the radio.
‘Can you talk?’
