He and Jimmy Kalmvik must have taken the rifle some time when Niklas Nyren was off on one of his sales trips, and gone up to Bengt Andersson’s flat and fired a few shots just to scare him, to tease him. The little sods, Malin thinks, then stops herself. Testosterone and circumstances can cause a great deal of trouble for teenage boys, and someone who sees themselves as abandoned and downtrodden often ends up treading on others.
Malin opens her eyes to see Niklas Nyren coming back from the kitchen.
In one hand he has a packet of freezer-bags, and in the other a box of ammunition.
‘I usually use rubber bullets,’ he says. ‘Damn. I was sure this box hadn’t been opened. But someone must have opened it. There are three bullets missing.’
Disappointment transforms Niklas Nyren’s face into a grimacing mask.
Put pressure on the Ljungsbro bullies and get them to confess that they fired shots at the window of Bengt Andersson’s flat? Put a bit more pressure on them and get them to say even more?
If there is anything more to tell?
However much I want to go in one direction, it’s too early yet, Malin thinks.
She presses harder on the accelerator pedal, on her way right across the snow-covered plain towards Maspelosa. She’s already decided to wait, see what fingerprints Karin finds on the rifle, which is in the boot, wrapped up in a blanket. But Malin can’t help playing with the idea. Shouldn’t I turn round and go and put some pressure on Jimmy Kalmvik? I can do that on my own, child’s play compared to the Murvalls. No, better to let Karin do her thing, work out if the rubber bullets in Bengt Andersson’s flat come from Niklas Nyren’s rifle, and, if so, present the boys with hard facts. The uniforms can take their fingerprints, and Karin can match them against any she may have found.
Rickard Skoglof’s address is in her mobile, but it’s not easy to find the house, and Malin spends a while driving among fields until she finds the little farm.
She stops.
The grey stone buildings are huddled against the cold, snow on the thatched roofs, and there is light coming from the windows of the main house.
?sir nutters, Malin thinks, before she knocks. I can deal with them on my own as well.
It only takes a few seconds before the man who must be Rickard Skoglof opens the door, wearing a kaftan and with his hair and long beard in one great tangle. Behind him a white-clad woman’s form moves, presumably that of Valkyria Karlsson.
‘Malin Fors, Linkoping Police.’
‘He must have been relieved of duty, that other one, after the shooting,’ Rickard Skoglof says with a smile as he lets her into the house. A damp warmth hits Malin, and she can hear the crackle of an open fire somewhere in the house.
‘You can go in there.’
Rickard Skoglof points to the left, into the living room, where a huge computer screen shimmers on a shiny desk.
Valkyria Karlsson is sitting on the sofa, her feet drawn up under a white nightgown.
‘You,’ she says as Malin walks into the room. ‘The one who interrupted me.’
Rickard Skoglof comes in, carrying three steaming cups on a plate.
‘Herbal tea,’ he says. ‘Good for the nerves. If that’s ever a problem.’
Malin doesn’t reply, takes a cup and sinks on to the black office chair in front of the computer. Rickard Skoglof stays on his feet after giving a cup to Valkyria.
‘Does it feel good,’ Malin says, ‘encouraging young people to do idiotic things?’
‘What do you mean?’ Rickard Skoglof laughs.
Malin gets an urge to throw the hot tea in his leering face, but controls herself.
‘Don’t play stupid. We know you sent emails to Andreas Norling, and who knows what else you might have got other people to do.’
‘Oh, that. I read about that in the
‘Have you had any contact with Jimmy Kalmvik? Or a Joakim-’
‘I don’t know any Jimmy Kalmvik. I presume that’s one of the teenagers the paper mentioned, the ones who had been tormenting Bengt Andersson. I want to say once and for all that I, the two of us, had nothing to do with that.’
‘Nothing,’ Valkyria says, stretching out her legs on the sofa, and Malin notices that her toenails are painted with luminous orange varnish.
‘I’m going to confiscate your hard drive right now,’ Malin says. ‘If you protest I’ll get a warrant to search the whole house within hours.’
Rickard Skoglof is no longer grinning, looks afraid.
‘Go. Go. You’ll never get us, you police bitch.’
Tove comes home just after six o’clock. She slams the door shut, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s because she’s happy or upset.
A reasonable Sunday, Malin thinks as she waits for Tove to come into the living room.
The rifle is at the National Laboratory of Forensic Science; Karin and her colleagues will check the weapon first thing tomorrow morning. Rickard Skoglof’s hard drive is safely secured at the station. Johan Jakobsson and the IT experts can get going on that, check if the bastard ?sir prophet had goaded anyone else to do anything really, really stupid, like murdering Bengt Andersson. If he has, there ought to be traces in his computer of emails and so on. Who knows how much more crap this winter, this landscape, can throw up?
Tove is standing in front of Malin, smiling, and her face and eyes are calm, free of anxiety and restlessness.
‘Was the film good?’ Malin asks from her place on the sofa.
‘Hopeless,’ Tove says.
‘But you seem happy.’
‘Yes, Markus says he can have dinner here with us tomorrow. Is that okay?’
Tove sits down on the sofa and takes a crisp from the bowl on the table.
‘He’s very welcome.’
‘What are you watching?’
‘Some documentary about Israel and Palestine and double agents.’
‘Isn’t there anything else on?’
‘Bound to be. Have a look.’
Malin passes the remote to Tove, who zaps through the channels until she finds the local channel. Linkoping have beaten Modo away, and Martin Martinsson scored three goals, and there are rumours that scouts from the NHL were at the match.
‘I went round to Grandma and Grandad’s earlier today.’
Tove nods.
‘Grandad rang. He was wondering if you’d like to go and see them during half-term?’
Malin waits for a reaction, wants a smile to spread over Tove’s lips, but instead she looks worried.
‘But we can’t afford the plane ticket?’
‘They’re paying.’
Tove looks even more worried.
‘I don’t know if I want to go, Mum. Will they be upset if I say no?’
‘You can do what you want, Tove. Exactly what you want.’
‘But I don’t know.’
‘Sleep on it, darling. You don’t have to make a decision before tomorrow or Tuesday.’
‘It’s hot there, isn’t it?’
‘At least twenty degrees,’ Malin says. ‘Like summer.’
There are apples hanging in the trees and a boy, two boys, three, four boys are running around in a verdant garden. They fall and the grass colours their knees green, and then there’s just one single boy left and he falls but gets up again and runs. He runs until he reaches the edge of the forest, then hesitates for a while before summoning his courage and heading into the darkness.
