the roof, but which still sound like rattlesnakes, the pulleys, neat little planets right up in the roof. Steel worktops along all the walls, shining faintly in the darkness, and then the stench, of death and blood.
‘There.’
Zeke is pointing at the wall, at the circuit-breaker.
Seconds later the room is bathed in light. Zeke and Malin see the congealed blood on the floor, on the chains, the neat rows of knives placed on the polished steel worktops.
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Get forensics in here.’
‘Okay, we’re going to back out of here very carefully.’
Malin, Zeke and Johan Jakobsson are standing by the sink in the kitchen of Adam Murvall’s house. Uniformed police officers are emptying out the contents of the drawers in the living room, the floor of which is covered with newspapers, photos, placemats and cutlery.
‘So the whole inside room of the workshop looks like a slaughterhouse? They could have done it there?’ Johan asks.
Zeke nods.
‘And what have you found?’ Malin asks.
‘The entire cellar is full of meat. Big white freezers. Bags marked with the year and what cut it is: mince 2001, steak 2004, deer 2005. Same thing in all three houses. And presumably in the mother’s as well.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Only a lot of rubbish. Not much paperwork. They don’t seem the sort to keep that kind of documentation.’
They are interrupted by a cry from the four-car garage belonging to Elias Murvall’s house.
‘We’ve got something here.’
The happy voices of the new recruits. Did my voice sound like that nine years ago? Malin wonders. When I had just graduated from Police Academy and was doing my first shifts on patrol, back in my home town?
Malin, Zeke and Johan rush out of Adam Murvall’s kitchen, sprint across the yard and out into the road, then over to the garage.
‘Here,’ one of the young uniformed officers calls, waving them over. His eyes are shining with excitement as he points to the flatbed of the Skoda pick-up.
‘The back of this looks like it’s been swimming with blood,’ he says. ‘Incredible.’
Hardly, Malin thinks, before she says, ‘Don’t touch anything.’
She doesn’t notice how the young man’s face goes from an expression of pride and happiness to the sort of itchy anger that only the arrogance of a superior officer can cause.
Borje Svard walks with his stomach muscles clenched, feeling how their power spreads throughout his whole body.
The petrol pumps are well-maintained, he has to give these idiots that much. Nothing funny in the shop, nothing in the workshop. Well-managed and with an aura of competence. He would have been happy to leave his own car here.
Behind the shop is a small office, a few files on a shelf, a fax machine. And another door. Two strong padlocks, but not strong enough.
In the workshop Borje finds a heavy iron bar. Back to the office, where he pushes the bar behind the locks and presses down with all his weight. He hears the locks protest, and then, when he presses even harder with his chest, the metal gives way.
He looks inside the room. First he picks up the familiar smell of gun grease. Then he sees the rifles lined up against the walls.
Bloody hell, he thinks. Then it strikes him that petrol stations are always getting broken into. And if you keep weapons in your petrol station, you’re not particularly worried about that happening. Otherwise you’d keep them somewhere else.
He grins.
He can imagine the talk among the petty crooks: ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch the garage in Blasvadret. The Murvall brothers are crazy as fuck, so watch out.’
Darkness is starting to fall over on the horizon, as a whirl of activity surrounds Malin. Uniforms, plain-clothes officers, blood, weapons, frozen meat. The family is gathered in Adam Murvall’s kitchen now that they are searching the old woman’s house.
Malin is thinking that there is something missing. But what? Then she realises. Daniel Hogfeldt. He
But instead there is some other reporter whose name she doesn’t know. But the photographer is here, nose- ring and all.
Malin finds herself wanting to ask about Daniel, but that would be impossible. What reason would she have for asking?
Her mobile rings.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Tove, darling, I’ll be home soon. Some serious stuff’s happening at work today.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask if I had a good time at Dad’s last night?’
‘Of course, did you-’
‘YES!’
‘Are you at home now?’
‘Yes. I thought I might catch the bus out to Markus’s.’
Through the hubbub she hears Johan: ‘Borje’s found a load of guns down at the petrol station.’
Malin takes a deep, cold breath. ‘To Markus’s? Good… do you think you could get something to eat there?’
38
Karin Johannison’s cheeks seem to absorb the glow from the floodlights and the brown nuances of her skin are emphasised by the wine-red fabric of her glamorous padded jacket. Not the same one she was wearing out at the tree, a different one.
Burgundy, Malin thinks, that’s how Karin would describe the colour.
Karin shakes her head as she approaches Malin, who is standing waiting by the entrance to the workshop.
‘As far as we can tell, it’s just animal blood, but it’ll take us several days to check every square centimetre. If you ask me, I think they slaughter animals in there.’
‘Recently?’
‘Most recently just a few days ago.’
‘It isn’t the season for hunting much right now.’
‘I don’t know about that sort of thing,’ Karin says.
‘But that’s never stopped some people hunting everything throughout the year.’
‘Poaching?’ Karin frowns, as if the very thought of padding about in the forest in minus thirty degrees with a rifle on her shoulder is seriously off-putting.
‘Not impossible,’ Malin says. ‘There’s money in it. When I lived in Stockholm I always used to wonder how there was so much fresh elk meat in the markets all year round.’
Karin glides away, her eyes fixed on the garage. ‘It looks like the same thing with the pick-up. But we don’t know yet.’
‘Animal blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, Karin,’ Malin says, and smiles without really knowing why.
Karin takes offence.
She adjusts her cap so that her earlobes peep out, little concave earrings with three inlaid diamonds shimmering in each one.
