out.
And then the voice of the flames: So you think you can destroy us? Pride, vanity, avarice, a bonfire of all of those, Malin.
And she wakes up and screams at the voice of the flames, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, and she’s still drunk and can feel the beer and tequila dancing through her body, remembering how she wove her way across the square down towards St Lars’ Church, trying to read the inscription above the side door, and the way the words disappeared before her eyes, but she still knew what they said:
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they shall see God
Then what?
Awake all night, thinking about Tove, longing for Tove, daydreaming about Janne’s familiar body, their original love, and completely wet down there when she finally got to thinking about Daniel Hogfeldt.
Horny.
In the way you only get from alcohol, and she caressed herself and came without a sound once she’d disentangled herself from the sheet covering her body.
Can I sleep now?
But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead it was as if the orgasm lingered within her, making her heart race, and she pulled the sheet over her again, up over her face, and as the morning light gradually dawned beyond the blinds she played dead, turning herself into Theresa Eckeved, trying to feel her fear and despair, trying to feel her way towards what had happened, what had caused the volcano to erupt this time.
Her body felt alive.
Her blood was magma in her veins.
She was longing for more alcohol.
Then she thought about Maria Murvall. Lying in her room in Vadstena Hospital. About the evil that had put her there.
The same evil?
Her brain felt pickled.
The threads of the case spinning around.
A dildo? Blue?
A lesbian? Lollo Svensson. A sex offender? A damaged man? The football team? Prejudice, prejudice, prejudice. Peter Skold. Nathalie Falck. The person who made the call about Josefin Davidsson?
Silence. Possibilities, prejudices.
But what else are we supposed to go on? And what about Behzad Karami and Ali Shakbari out in Berga? Sodding bloody family alibis. One of the boys, or more than one, could have crossed a boundary and worked out that you liked it. The owner of the ice cream kiosk?
A thousand possibilities.
Drifting dust thrown into the air, needing to be gathered together to form a clear, black jewel.
The city demands it.
The papers.
The victims and their families.
And me.
But is there only one truth?
And with that thought her consciousness succumbed to sleep, and she slept dreamlessly for an hour before she woke up and a new day of the investigation into the tragic girls of Linkoping could start.
29
The last remnants of the previous evening’s alcohol seem to disappear as Malin’s body pierces the water of the Tinnerback pool.
Cooler.
The water ought to be cooler, but it would probably cost too much to keep the temperature lower in a summer as hot as this one. Four lengths will have to do, she can feel her body complaining at the effort, how it wants to rest but at the same time enjoy the relative cool.
Better than the boiling hot gym at the station.
Her body wakes up.
You could go mad not being able to go swimming in a summer like this. A couple of lifeguards with long- handled nets are fishing out prematurely fallen leaves from the pool. Malin looks at the lifeguards as she dries herself with her worn pink towel.
She skimmed the
Six pages about the murder of Theresa Eckeved, statements from Karim Akbar, pictures of the scene of the murder, of her parents’ house, but no statement from them. Photos of Theresa, her body wrapped in plastic, her passport, private pictures. Daniel Hogfeldt had had help with the articles from wily old Harry Laven.
The headline on the front page:
Beneath it:
She was convinced Daniel had written the headlines himself. He must have worked like a madman yesterday, not wanting to take her call, realising that she wouldn’t want to talk about the case, but wanted something else instead.
Cock.
How harsh even the thought of the word sounds.
Malin gathers her things and heads off towards the changing room, feeling the clear, almost scarily blunt smell of chlorine, somehow cleaner than everything else.
You’re right, Daniel, she thinks. It’s come to the city.
Summertime death.
Reporters from what seems like every newsroom of any significance in the country have come to the city, flocking outside the entrance of the police station, journalists clutching notepads, tape recorders, photographers with their extra eyes, cars from Swedish Television and TV4, summertime death a summertime dream for those with papers to sell.
Malin forces her way through the sweaty huddle of reporters, sweaty herself after the bike ride up here, avoiding Daniel Hogfeldt as he throws her a longing look and waves, calling: ‘Have you got anything for me, Malin? Have you got anything to go on?’
But Malin ignores him, ignores all of them, some faces familiar from previous cases.
In the entrance she is met by Karim Akbar, dressed in an immaculately pressed beige linen suit and a pale blue shirt that contrasts neatly with the slightly darker tone his skin has turned after all that sunbathing in Vastervik.
Malin isn’t surprised to see him, but nor is she pleased. She knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away when there was a top-drawer media storm in the offing.
‘Malin,’ he says. ‘Good that you’re here. I felt I had to come in and manage the press conference, and keep an eye on the investigation.’
‘Welcome home,’ Malin says. ‘But the investigation’s under control. You know that Sven’s one of the force’s most experienced preliminary investigators. Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book over the summer?’
‘Forget the book, Fors. The press conference is at nine o’clock. They’ll have to wait outside until then.’
‘Do you know what you’re going to say, Karim?’
‘It’s quarter past eight. We’ll have to have a meeting right away. Martinsson and Sjoman are already here. Why are you . . .’
