Truths need to be stifled. No doubts must be sown. It isn’t too late. I can see a chance.
She, Rebecka, was found wandering the fields, naked, like Maria.
‘Well done, Malin.’
Karim Akbar applauds her as she walks into Police Headquarters.
Malin smiles. Thinks, Well done? What do you mean, well done? This isn’t over yet.
She sits down at her desk. Checks the
They have a short piece about the raid at Karl Murvall’s flat, and the fact that a national alert has gone out. They don’t draw any conclusions, but mention the connections to the ongoing murder investigation, and the fact that his mother has complained about police harassment.
‘Great work, Malin.’
Karim stops beside her. Malin looks up.
‘Not quite according to the rulebook. But, between the two of us: it’s results that count, and if we’re ever going to get anywhere, we have to apply our own rules sometimes.’
‘We have to find him,’ Malin says.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I want to harass Rakel Murvall.’
Karim stares at Malin, who looks back into the police chief’s eyes with all the seriousness she can muster.
‘Go,’ he says. ‘I’ll take responsibility for any repercussions. But take Zeke with you.’
Malin looks across the office. Sven Sjoman hasn’t come in yet. But Zeke is hovering restlessly over at his desk.
76
Silence in the car.
Zeke hasn’t said he wants music, and Malin likes hearing the monotonous sound of the engine.
The city outside the car windows is the same as it was two weeks ago, just as greedy as ever: Skaggetorp full of rigid life, the retail boxes at Tornby just as blunt, the snow-covered Lake Roxen just as compact, and the houses on the slopes of Vreta Kloster just as inviting with their radiant sense of wellbeing.
Nothing has changed, Malin thinks. Not even the weather. But then it occurs to her that Tove has probably changed. Tove and Markus. A new note has emerged from Tove, less contrary and inward, more outward and open, confident. It suits you, Tove, Malin thinks, you’re going to make a really great grown-up.
And maybe I should give Daniel Hogfeldt the chance to prove that he’s more than just a shag-machine.
There are lights on in the houses of Blasvadret. The brothers’ families are at home in their respective houses. Rakel Murvall’s white wooden home looms at the end of the road, isolated at the point where the road stops.
Clouds of snow are drifting to and fro around the house, and behind the pale veils of winter there are still secrets hidden, Malin thinks. You’d do anything to protect your secrets, wouldn’t you, Rakel?
Child benefit.
A child that you only kept for the money. A few meagre coins. But maybe not so meagre for you. Enough to live off, almost.
And why did you hate him so? What did Cornerhouse-Kalle do to you? Did he do something to you in the forest, just like someone did to Maria? To Rebecka? Did Cornerhouse-Kalle take you by force? Was that how you got pregnant? And so you hated the child when he arrived. And maybe you wanted to have him adopted? But then you had your brilliant idea and invented the story about the sailor and got child benefit. That must have been it. That he took you by force. And the child you had as a result had to pay.
Why else would you have hated your son so? The pattern runs through modern history. Malin has read about German women, raped towards the end of the war by Russian soldiers, who rejected their children. The same thing in Bosnia. And apparently also in Sweden.
Unless you loved Cornerhouse-Kalle and he treated you just like all the rest of his women? Like nothing? And that was enough to make you hate your son.
But I’m guessing the first explanation is the right one.
Unless you were tainted with evil, Rakel?
From the start.
Does such evil exist?
And money. The desire for money like a black sun over all life on this desolate, windy road.
The boy should have been allowed to have a different family, Rakel.
Then the anger and hate might have had an end; maybe your other boys could have been different. Maybe you too.
‘What an awful fucking place,’ Zeke says as they’re standing on the drive beside the house. ‘Can you see him standing here among the apple trees in the snow as a child? Freezing?’
Malin nods. ‘If there is a hell…’ she says.
Half a minute later they are knocking on the door of Rakel Murvall’s house.
They can see her in the kitchen, see her disappear into the living room.
‘She’s not going to open the door,’ Malin says.
Zeke knocks again.
‘Just a moment,’ they hear from inside the house.
The door opens and Rakel Murvall smiles at them.
‘Ah, the detectives. To what do I owe this honour?’
‘We have some questions, if you don’t mind-’
Rakel Murvall interrupts Zeke. ‘Come in, detectives. If you’re worried about my complaint, forget it. Forgive an old woman’s ill temper. Coffee?’
‘No thank you,’ Malin says.
Zeke shakes his head.
‘But do sit down.’ Rakel Murvall gestures towards the kitchen table.
They sit.
‘Where’s Karl?’ Malin says.
Rakel Murvall ignores her question.
‘He isn’t in his flat, or at Collins. And he’s been fired from his job,’ Zeke says.
‘Is he mixed up in any funny business, my son?’
Her son. She hasn’t used that word of Karl before, Malin thinks.
‘You’ve read the paper,’ Malin says, putting her hand on the copy of the
The old woman smiles, but doesn’t answer. Then she says, ‘I’ve no idea where the lad might be.’
Malin looks out of the kitchen window. Sees a little boy standing naked in the snow and the cold, screaming with cheeks red with crying, sees him fall in the snow, waving his arms and legs, a frozen angel on the snow-draped ground.
Malin clenches her teeth.
Feels like telling Rakel Murvall that she deserves to burn in hell, that there are some things that can’t be forgiven.
In the official sense, her crimes fell under the statute of limitations long ago, but in the human, social, sense? In those terms, some things are never forgiven.
Rape.
Paedophilia.
Child abuse.
Withholding love from children.
The punishment for such things is a lifetime of shame.
