In Stockholm.
In Linkoping.
In Ljungsbro, Blasvadret.
It’s no more complicated than that, Malin thinks. Look after those who are small, those who are weak. Show them love. There is no innate evil. Evil is created. But I still believe that there is such a thing as innate goodness. But not now, not in this forest; goodness fled from here long ago. Here there is only survival.
Aching fingers in gloves that can’t be made thick enough.
‘Fuck, it’s cold,’ Zeke says, and it feels as if Malin’s heard him say that a thousand times in the past month.
Her legs are becoming less and less willing the more darkness descends, the more the cold seeps into her body. Her toes have vanished, as well as her fingers. Not even pain is left.
The Murvall cabin lies cold and deserted. The snowfall has erased any trace of ski tracks.
Malin and Zeke stand still in front of the cabin.
Listening, but there is nothing to hear, only an odourless, silent winter forest around them.
But I feel it, I feel it, you’re close now.
I must have nodded off, the stove is cold, no burning lumps of wood. I’m freezing, have to get the fire going again, so it’s warm when they come to let me in.
My hole is my home.
Has always been my only home. The flat on Tanneforsvagen was never home. It was just rooms where I slept and thought and tried to understand.
I get the wood ready, light a match, but my fingers slip.
I’m freezing.
But it has to be warm when they come to let me in, when I’m to receive her love.
‘There’s nothing here, Fors. Listen to me.’
The clearing in front of the cabin: a completely soundless place, encircled by trees, by the forest, and an impenetrable darkness.
‘You’re wrong, Zeke.’
‘It’s going to be completely dark in five minutes. I’m going back now.’
‘Just a bit further,’ Malin says, and starts walking.
They walk perhaps four hundred metres into the dense forest before Zeke says, ‘Okay, we’re going back.’
‘Just a bit further.’
‘No.’
And Malin turns round, walks back, never sees the clump of trees fifty metres further on, where grey smoke is starting to seep out of a narrow chimney in the roof of an earthen cellar.
The engine roars as the car gets going properly, just as they are passing the golf course at Vreta Kloster.
Peculiar, Malin thinks. They leave the flags out over the winter. I’ve never noticed them before. It’s like they’ve hung them out in someone’s honour.
Then she says, ‘Let’s go and see Rakel Murvall. She knows where he is.’
‘You’re mad, Malin. You’re not going within five hundred metres of the old woman. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘She knows where he is.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘No. She’s reported you for harassment. Turning up there now would be career suicide.’
‘Shit.’ Malin bangs the dashboard. ‘Take me back to my car. It’s in the multistorey near McDonald’s.’
‘You look energetic, Mum,’ Tove says from her place on the sofa, looking up from the paperback she’s reading.
‘What are you reading?’
‘
‘Isn’t it a bit odd, reading a play? Aren’t you supposed to watch them?’
‘It works if you’ve got a bit of imagination, Mum.’
The television is on:
How can Tove read proper literature with that on in the background?
‘Have you been out, Mum?’
‘Yep, in the forest, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Zeke and I were looking for something.’
Tove nods, not worried about whether they found what they were looking for, and returns to her book.
He murdered Bengt Andersson. Tried to murder Rebecka Stenlundh.
Who is Karl Murvall? Where is he?
Damn Rakel Murvall.
Her sons.
A social science book is open on the table in front of Tove. The section heading is ‘The Constitution’, and it is illustrated with pictures of Goran Persson and an imam Malin has never seen before. People can be turned into anything at all. That’s it.
‘Tove. Grandad called today. You’d both be welcome to go. You and Markus, to Tenerife.’
Tove looks away from the television.
‘I don’t really want to go any more,’ she says. ‘And it would be hard to explain to Grandad that he has to play along with our lie that they were supposed to have other guests.’
‘Good grief,’ Malin says. ‘How can something so simple get so complicated?’
‘I don’t want to go, Mum. Do I really have to tell Markus that Grandad’s changed his mind?’
‘No.’
‘But what if we go some other time, and Grandad suddenly starts talking about how we didn’t want to go last time even though we’d been asked?’
Malin sighs. ‘Why not tell Markus how it really is?’
‘But how is it, though?’
‘That Grandad’s changed his mind but you don’t want to go.’
‘What about the lie? Doesn’t that matter?’
‘I don’t know, Tove. A little lie like that can’t cause too much trouble, can it?’
‘Well, in that case we could go then.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to go.’
‘No, but I could if I wanted to. It’s better for Grandad to be disappointed. Then maybe he’ll learn his lesson.’
‘So you’re going to Are?’
‘Mmm.’
Tove turns away from Malin and reaches for the remote.
When Tove has gone to bed Malin sits alone on the sofa for a while before getting up and going into the hall, pulling on her holster and pistol, and then her jacket. Before leaving the flat she hunts through the top drawer of the chest in the hall. She finds what she’s looking for and puts it in the front pocket of her jeans.
74
Linkoping at midnight, on the night between Thursday and Friday, in the depths of February. The illuminated signs on the buildings in the centre struggle to match the streetlamps and lend a bit of apparent warmth to the
