Midwinter Sacrifice aka Midwinter Blood

‘No new tip-offs from the public?’ Johan tried.

‘Nothing,’ Sven said. ‘Total silence.’

‘We could make a new request,’ Johan said. ‘Someone must know something.’

‘The media are chewing us up already,’ Karim said. ‘We’ll have to manage without another request for information at the moment. It would only lead to more bad press.’

‘The National Criminal Investigation Department?’ Sven suggested. ‘Maybe it’s time to call them in. We have to admit that we’re not making any progress.’

‘Not yet, not yet.’ Karim sounding self-confident, in spite of everything.

They had left the meeting room with a general feeling that they were all waiting for something to happen, that they could really only follow developments, wait for whoever had hung Bengt Andersson in the tree somehow to make themselves visible again.

But what if he, she or they remained invisible? If the whole thing was a one-off?

Then they were stuck.

All the voices of the investigation had fallen silent.

But Malin remembered how she had felt out by the tree: that there was something left unfinished, that something was in motion out in the forests and the snow-swept plain.

And now the clock on the brick wall is almost at twelve. As it hits, Malin says, ‘Lunch?’

‘No,’ Zeke says. ‘I’ve got choir practice.’

‘You have? At lunchtime?’

‘Yes, we’ve got a concert in the cathedral in a few weeks’ time, so we’re squeezing in some extra practice.’

‘A concert? You haven’t mentioned it. Extra practice? You sound like a hockey player.’

‘God forbid,’ Zeke says.

‘Can I tag along?’

‘To choir practice?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure,’ Zeke says, nonplussed. ‘Sure, Malin.’

The assembly hall of the city museum smells musty, but the members of the choir seem happy enough in the large space. There are twenty-two of them today. Malin has counted them, thirteen women, nine men. Most of them are over fifty and they’re all well dressed and well ironed in typical provincial style. Coloured shirts and blouses, jackets and skirts.

The members have crowded together, standing in three rows on the stage. Behind them hangs a large tapestry with embroidered birds that seem to want to take off and drift around the room, up to the vaulted ceiling.

Malin is sitting in the back row, by the oak panelling, listening to the members tune up, giggle, chatter and laugh. Zeke is talking animatedly to a woman the same age as him, tall, with blonde hair and wearing a blue dress.

Nice, Malin thinks. Both her and the dress.

Then one woman raises her voice and says, ‘Okay, then, let’s get to work. We’ll start with “People Get Ready”.’

As if on command the members line up neatly, clear their throats one last time, and adopt the same look of concentration.

‘One, two, three.’

And then the singing, a harmonious sound, fills the hall and Malin is surprised at its gentle strength, and how beautiful it sounds when the twenty-two voices sing together as one single voice: ‘… you don’t need no ticket, you just get on board…’

Malin leans back in her chair. Closes her eyes, letting herself be embraced by the music, and when she looks up the next song has started and she can see that Zeke and the others really enjoy being up on stage, that they’re somehow united in their singing, in its simplicity.

And suddenly Malin feels an oppressive loneliness. She isn’t part of this, and she feels that this loneliness means something, that the sense of being an outsider somehow has a meaning beyond this room.

Over there is a door.

An opening into a closed room.

Intuition, Malin. Voices. What are they trying to tell me?

63

Bad deeds.

When do they start, Malin? When do they end? Do they go in circles? Are there more of them over time, or is the practice of evil constant? Is it diluted or enriched whenever a new person is born?

I can think about all this as I move over the landscape.

I look at the oak where I hung.

A lonely place. Perhaps the tree liked my company? The balls. I fetched the balls and threw them back, and they came back again and again and again.

Maria?

Did you know?

Was that the reason for your friendliness? The connection between us? Does it matter? I don’t think so.

Air beneath and above me, I reside in my own vacuum. All the dead around me whisper, Carry on, Malin, carry on.

It isn’t over yet.

I’m scared again.

Is there a way out?

There has to be.

Just ask the woman down there. The woman that black-clad person is approaching from behind, hidden behind a row of bushes.

The early evening is silent and cold and dark. The garage door refuses to open, creaking and squealing, and the sound seems to catch on the frozen air. She presses the button on the wall again; the key is where it should be and the power is on, that much is sure.

Behind her the buildings, the deep-frozen vegetation, lights in most of the windows. Almost everyone is home from work. The garage door won’t move. She’ll have to open it by hand. She’s done it once before. It’s heavy but not impossible, and she’s in a hurry.

Rustling in the bushes behind her. Maybe a bird. At this time of year? Maybe a cat? But don’t they stay indoors in this sort of cold?

She turns round and that’s when she sees it, the black shadow racing towards her, taking one two three four steps before it is on her and she flails with her arms, screaming but nothing comes out; something that tastes chemical pressed into her mouth and she tears and hits but the gloves on her hands turn her blows into caresses.

Look out of your windows.

Look at what’s happening.

He – because it must be a he? – is wearing a black balaclava and she sees the dark brown eyes, the rage and pain in his gaze, and the chemical smell is in her brain now, it’s soft and clear yet it still makes her disappear, her muscles relax and she can no longer feel her body.

She can see. But she is seeing double.

She sees the person, people standing over her. Are there several of you?

No, stop it, not like this.

But there’s no point fighting. As if everything has already happened. As if she is defeated.

The eyes.