‘Who?’
Suddenly Malin can’t say his name.
‘The one with blue-black eyes.’
‘Adam Murvall? Do you want a patrol?’
‘No, for heaven’s sake. He’s gone.’
‘Fuck, Malin. Fuck. What did he do?’
‘I think you could say that he threatened me.’
‘We’ll pick him up at once. Come in as soon as you’re ready to. Or do you want me to come and pick you up?’
‘I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.’
Three cars with blue lights, two more than just a few hours ago. Adam Murvall sees them through the window, they stop outside his house; he makes himself ready, knows why they have come, why he did what he did.
‘You have to say no.’
And a thousand other things. Little sister, big brother, events in the forest; if you persuade yourself of one truth, perhaps a different truth doesn’t exist?
‘Go and pay a visit to that female pig, Adam. Give her the note, then leave.’
‘Mother, I…’
‘Go.’
The doorbell rings. Upstairs Anna and the children are asleep, his brothers sleeping in their own houses. Four uniformed officers outside the door.
‘Can I put my jacket on?’
‘Are you arguing with us, you bastard?’
And the police are on him, he’s fighting for breath on the floor, they force him down and Anna and the children are standing on the stairs, screaming and shouting, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
In the yard other policemen are holding his brothers back as they lead him like a chained wild dog to the waiting van.
Further off, in the illuminated window, stands Mother. He sees her, in spite of his bowed, stiff back.
34
The cold eats up the last of the anxiety and fear, and the effects of adrenalin have already worn off. The closer Malin gets to Police Headquarters, the more prepared she feels to face Adam Murvall now, and the other brothers tomorrow. Because however much they may want to live outside society, they have stepped into it now, and after that step there is no return, if there ever was.
When Malin walks past the old fire station, she comes to think of her mum and dad, without knowing quite why. How she gradually realised that her mother was always trying to make their home seem smarter than it was, but that the few trained eyes that set foot over their threshold must have realised that the rugs were of low quality, that the prints on the walls came from vast print-runs, that the whole decor was an attempt to appear significant. Unless it was something else?
Maybe I should ask you next time we meet, Mum? But you’d probably just push my question aside, even if you doubtless understood what I meant.
‘What an idiot,’ Zeke says.
Malin hangs her jacket on the back of the chair behind her desk, and the whole station is breathing expectation, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee is noticeable the way it usually is only in the mornings.
‘Not too smart, was it?’
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ Malin says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re the ones setting the pace here. Have you thought about that?’
Zeke shakes his head. ‘Don’t make things more complicated than they already are. Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’
Two uniformed male officers come in from the staffroom, their cheeks glowing with warm coffee.
‘Martinsson,’ one of them calls. ‘Is your lad going to get a few goals against Modo?’
‘He was bloody good against Farjestad,’ the other one says.
Zeke ignores them, pretending that he’s busy, hasn’t heard.
Karim Akbar comes to Zeke’s rescue. Stops alongside him and Malin.
‘We’re bringing him in,’ Karim says. ‘Sjoman has arranged for the van to pick him up. They ought to be here any minute.’
‘What can we hold him on?’ Malin wonders.
‘Threatening a police officer in her own home.’
‘He rang on my door, and left a note.’
‘Have you got the note?’
‘Of course.’
Malin digs in her jacket pocket, pulls out the folded sheet of paper, holds it out to Karim, who carefully unfolds it and reads.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘An obvious case of obstructing a criminal investigation, on the verge of threatening behaviour.’
‘It is,’ Zeke says.
‘This is directed at you personally, Malin. Any idea why?’
Malin sighs. ‘Because I’m a woman. I think it’s as simple as that. Have a go at the easily scared woman. Tiresome.’
‘Prejudice is always tiresome,’ Karim says. ‘It couldn’t be anything else?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Where’s Sjoman?’ Zeke asks.
‘On his way in.’
A commotion over in reception.
Are they coming now? No, no flashing lights outside.
Then she sees him: Daniel Hogfeldt, gesticulating, talking non-stop, but nothing can be heard through the bulletproof, soundproofed pane of glass between the open-plan office and reception, just a familiar face, a figure in a leather jacket who wants something, knows something, looks serious but who somehow always seems to be playing a game.
Alongside Daniel is the young photographer. She is taking picture after picture of Ebba the receptionist, and Malin wonders if her nose-ring could ever get caught in the camera, if her rasta plaits ever get in the way of the lens. Borje Svard is trying to calm Daniel down, then he just shakes his head in resignation and walks away.
Daniel glances in Malin’s direction. Self-satisfaction washes across his face. Possibly also longing? Playfulness? Impossible to tell.
Fixed expression, Malin thinks.
‘Meet the press,’ Karim says, smiling at her as the skin on his face seems to change and become entirely new. Then he adds, ‘By the way, Malin. You look like it’s all getting to you. Is everything okay?’
‘Getting to me? You’d never say that to a male colleague,’ Malin says and turns towards her computer, trying to look busy.
Karim smiles again. ‘But Fors, it was just an innocent remark, no harm intended.’
Borje comes over to them. A look of faint amusement on his face, like someone who knows something no one else does, but isn’t telling.
‘The pride of the press corps. He wanted to know if Adam Murvall is suspected of the murder, or if we’re bringing him in for something else. He got angry when I said, “No comment.”’
‘Don’t annoy the press for no reason,’ Karim says. ‘They’re bad enough as it is.’ Then: ‘How does he know we’ve got something going on right now?’
