wiped out among the mud and decaying leaves, the unpicked mushrooms on their way to becoming part of the undercurrent of the forest. Long ago people in these areas believed in trolls, fairies, goblins and cloven-footed monsters, all wandering among the trees and trying to lure people to their doom.
What do people believe in today? Malin wonders, looking over at the church tower instead of the forest. Ice hockey and the Eurovision Song Contest?
Then she glances at the animal bodies in the snow.
Borje Svard with his earpiece in. He’s scribbling a number on a scrap of paper, then makes a call on his mobile.
Zeke on another phone.
Dennis Hamberg, a farmer outside Klockrike, has reported a break-in at his farm, very upset: ‘Two organically reared animals stolen, a young pig and a year-old lamb. I moved here from Stockholm to get involved with sustainable farming, and now this happens.’
The forest.
Black and full of secrets, a girl from a John Bauer painting staring into a lake at her own reflection. Is there someone creeping up behind her?
Then they are all sitting in the police van, the muffled sound of an engine idling in the background, a treacherous heat that makes them undo their padded jackets, thaw out, open up again. A quickly convened meeting out in the field: Malin, Zeke, Borje and Karim; Sven Sjoman at the station, busy with paperwork.
‘Well?’ Karim says. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I’ll take care of tracing the dog,’ Borje says. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’
‘The uniforms can go door-to-door,’ Zeke says. ‘And Malin and I will go and see the organic farmer and check out what Kalmvik and Svensson were up to last night. We can’t let go of anything yet.’
‘The connection looks pretty obvious, though,’ Karim says from the driver’s seat. ‘The ritual, increased clarity of purpose and carelessness.’
‘In cases like this the level of violence usually escalates,’ Malin says. ‘Experience suggests that. And to go from a human being to animals is hardly an escalation.’
‘Maybe,’ Borje says. ‘Who knows what goes on inside some people’s heads?’
‘Check out Rickard Skoglof and Valkyria Karlsson as well,’ Karim says. ‘The ?sir stamp on this is quite clear.’
When the meeting is over Malin looks over at the forest again. She closes her eyes, sees a naked, unprotected human body on scratchy moss.
She opens her eyes, trying to force the image away.
Karin Johannison walks past, carrying a large, yellow sports bag.
Malin stops her.
‘Karin. The chances of analysing the DNA in traces of blood have got a lot better in recent years, haven’t they?’
‘You know they have, Malin. You don’t have to flatter me by pretending you don’t know. In the main British lab in Birmingham they’ve made huge progress. It’s unbelievable what they can find out from practically nothing.’
‘What about us?’
‘We haven’t got those resources yet. But we do sometimes send material over there for analysis.’
‘If I had a sample, could you sort that out?’
‘Of course. I’ve got a contact there. An Inspector John Stuart I met at a conference in Cologne.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ Malin says.
‘Do,’ Karin says, then heads off with her bag over the rough snow, and despite the weight she still manages to look as elegant as a model on a Paris catwalk.
Malin walks away from the others along the road, pulls out her mobile and calls the exchange in the station.
‘Can you put me through to a Sven Nordstrom at Motala Police?’
‘Of course,’ the female receptionist says.
Three rings, then Nordstrom’s voice: ‘Nordstrom.’
‘This is Fors from Linkoping.’
‘Hello, Malin. It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, but now I need your help. You know your rape case, Maria Murvall? The woman whose brothers have cropped up in our current case? Was she wearing any fragments of clothing when you found her?’
‘Yes, but the blood on them was so filthy that forensics said they couldn’t get anything out of it.’
‘According to Johannison here, they’ve come up with a lot of new techniques. And she’s got a contact in Birmingham who’s a bit of a wizard at this sort of thing.’
‘So you want to send the fragments of clothing to England?’
‘Yes. Can you see that they get to Karin Johannison at the National Laboratory of Forensic Science?’
‘It really ought to go through official channels.’
‘Tell that to Maria Murvall.’
‘We’ve got the samples in the archive. Karin will get them today.’
‘Thanks, Sven.’
Just as Malin hangs up Karin passes her in her car. Malin stops her.
Karin winds down the window.
‘You’ll be getting some material today, from Nordstrom in Motala. Get it to Birmingham as soon as you can. It’s urgent.’
‘What is it?’
‘Maria Murvall’s clothes. Or the remains of them.’
Margaretha Svensson is tired when she opens the door of her flat. There is a smell of coffee from the kitchen and she doesn’t seem surprised to see Malin and Zeke again, just gestures to them to come in and sit down at the kitchen table.
Is Niklas Nyren here? Malin thinks, but if he was he would probably be sitting at the table or in the living room already. He would have been visible by now.
‘Would you like coffee?’
Malin and Zeke stop in the hall once they’ve shut the door behind them.
‘No thanks,’ Malin says. ‘We’ve just got a couple of quick questions.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Do you know what your son was doing yesterday evening and last night?’
‘Yes, he was at home. He and I had dinner with Niklas, then we all watched television together.’
‘And he didn’t go out at all?’
‘No, I know that for certain. He’s asleep upstairs at the moment. You can wake him and ask him.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Zeke says. ‘Is Niklas here now?’
‘He’s gone home. Went late last night.’
‘I’ve asked him to call me, I left messages.’
‘He told me. But he’s been so busy with work.’
A murder investigation, Malin thinks. A fucking murder investigation and people can’t even be bothered to call back. And they complain that the police are slow? Sometimes Malin wishes that people understood that the police are only the last link in a network covering the whole of society, where everyone, each and every one of us, has to do their bit to hold things together.
But everyone relies on everyone else doing their bit. And do nothing themselves.
SEP, as it’s called in
‘What do you think?’ Zeke asks as they head back to the car.
‘She’s telling the truth. He was at home last night. And Jimmy Kalmvik would hardly have done it on his own. Next stop the farmer.’
The group of buildings on a field a few kilometres outside Klockrike is covered in snow and cold, and the surrounding clusters of birches and a lovely dry-stone wall provide only slight protection for the garden in front of the newly built farmhouse.
