I’ve been feeling my way.
Fumbling in the darkness for the light.
You’re sleeping again, my summer angel.
You’re a long way down now, deep down in the darkness of dreams.
You’re hanging in the bathroom, sister.
I’m the one to find you, shake you, cry over you.
I’m the one who’s going to put everything right.
And then we can ride our bikes together, we can go skinny-dipping together in water that no one else knows about.
Rabbits, splayed open, nailed to the walls, their claws pulled out, red trickles of blood dripping from the paws, some of the animals still alive, their little lungs rising and falling frenetically, whimpering, then others that have been hanging for a long time, the shreds of their rotting bodies slipping down towards the polished pine floor.
A bed in one corner, discarded white surgical gloves, a bunk in the middle of the floor, and then rows of bottles of chemicals along the walls, pots of paint that must have been used to paint the flowers on the walls. Splashes of blood on the floor, bloody scalpels and a stench that is making Zeke giddy, he lowers his gun and goes over to the window, undoes the catch and opens it wide onto the leafy inner courtyard, and breathes, breathes, breathes.
He turns back to the room.
Bloody hell.
Like a picture by what’s-his-name, Francis Bacon.
But no Vera Folkman.
No Tove.
Janne fell fast asleep just after Zeke called them. Malin could see how he was trying to stay awake on the short drive from the Abisko roundabout to Sturegatan, but his body’s need of sleep got the better of him.
He’s asleep down in the car now.
His head leaning against the window.
What are you dreaming about now, Janne?
About when we were young?
When Tove came to us?
We’re a family. Why have we never been able to see it?
Instead we’ve rushed off in different directions. Yet still not far from each other.
They’re standing in the stairwell outside the flat, drinking coffee Per Sundsten picked up at the Statoil petrol station in Stangebro. Karin Johannison inside, searching for evidence, securing material.
Sven Sjoman’s breathing is heavy, his face furrowed with tiredness, Per and Waldemar Ekenberg are quiet, watchful, sleepy too. Karim Akbar is in the background, scratching his cheek.
It’s already three o’clock.
Soon dawn will be stroking Linkoping’s rooftops, whispering: a new day is here, wake up people, come out into the heat.
Zeke tired, but still alert and keen. He is explaining for the third time: ‘I broke in. The smell was so awful that I suspected some sort of criminal activity had taken place in the flat.’
‘Don’t worry, Zeke,’ Sven repeats once more. ‘It’s fine. Those pool chemicals in there. We’re dealing with one and the same person.’
‘Now we just have to find Vera Folkman,’ Per says, and no one in the group of detectives wants to give voice to the obvious subtext: we have to find Vera Folkman, because then we’ll find Tove, Tove, our colleague Malin’s only daughter.
‘Any ideas?’
Malin shakes her head, not a no, but to shake off her drowsiness and she looks at the others, sees in their eyes how they’re screaming for rest, that none of them can think clearly, that they might miss the most obvious things, that they can’t let it all become too late just because of tiredness.
‘Anyone who wants to can get some sleep,’ Sven says. ‘We’re not being terribly constructive here.’
No one replies.
They slowly drink their coffee. Feeling valuable time slip by.
‘Fuck!’ Malin says, and Sven puts his arm around her shoulder.
‘We’ll sort this, Malin. It’s going to be OK,’ and at that moment Karin appears from inside the flat, holding up one of the chemical containers in one hand, and pointing at a label with the other.
‘This can, and several of the others, were delivered by Torsson’s DIY down on Tanneforsvagen. Maybe you should have a word with them? They might know something?’
I’m dreaming now.
Processions of people dressed in colourful clothes, gifts in their hands, they’re on the way to the temple to honour the dead. The incense is thick and they’re singing, and their song is full of sun and light.
I dream about you, Mum.
That you’ll be there when I wake up.
That you and Dad will be there.
Now I’m running across an open field, then through a forest and I can sense that there’s something you haven’t told me, Mum, and it’s something you should say now.
The room around me from when I was last awake is in the dream.
It isn’t a nice room.
Shutters, concrete walls, cages, walls painted with flowers and fear and I want to run through a forest now, a burning forest, and the vegetation is chasing me, wants to tear me to pieces, Mum, and I want to wake up, but something’s keeping me in the dream, a tickly smell is pushing me down into dreamlessness, Mum.
The home number of the owner of the DIY store is listed by directory inquiries.
Sometimes you get lucky, Malin thinks.
Her colleagues are staring at her, the stairwell fading around them and everything is focused on Malin and her conversation.
A sleepy, thick voice on the other end.
‘Yes, Palle Torsson?’
‘This is Malin Fors from Linkoping Police.’
‘Say again?’
Malin repeats her name.
‘Has the shop been broken into?’
‘No, we need some information about a customer. Linkoping Water Technicians. You’ve delivered supplies to them on Sturegatan.’
The sleepiness is gone from the voice now.
‘The pool girl,’ Palle Torsson says. ‘You don’t get many words out of her. But she always pays cash.’
‘Do you know anything about her? Have you ever delivered supplies anywhere apart from Sturegatan?’
‘Not that I know of. I can check the computer in the store tomorrow.’
‘Now,’ Malin says. ‘I’ll meet you at the shop and check. If you’re not there in ten minutes I’ll personally shove a paintbrush up your arse.’
Janne wakes up as they pull up outside the store.
The clock on the dashboard says 03.20 and daylight is starting to flicker, the hint of relief from the heat offered by night has gone and it must already be thirty degrees outside the car.
‘Where are we?’ Janne asks.
‘Wait here,’ Malin says.
