‘Possibly. But it’s probably a man, or a masculine woman. Maybe themselves the victim of abuse. There’s always that possibility.’
‘And the wounds?’
‘The fact that they’re different might suggest that the perpetrator is finding his way by trial and error. As if he or she wants to come up with some sort of formula.’
‘That thought had occurred to me as well.’
‘If I were you, I’d start looking into the histories of people who’ve cropped up since things started to heat up. The key to this is in the past. As to why this is happening now, only they can know that. That’s if they even know.’
Malin’s mobile rings.
She looks at the display. Wants to take the call, but leaves it, brushes it aside. Viveka doesn’t comment on her behaviour, and merely says: ‘He probably has a job, but few friends.’
‘Thanks, Viveka,’ Malin says.
Then she brings up the real reason she’s there.
‘If I wanted to question a witness under hypnosis, would you be prepared to be responsible for it?’
‘Of course I would, Malin.’
For the first time Malin sees Viveka look excited, expectant.
‘As long as the witness agrees, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.’
They sit in silence.
Some broken laughter across the water, and the sound of splashing.
‘Take a swim,’ Viveka says. ‘You can borrow a costume from me. You can stay the night. In the guest cottage. Hjalmar makes really good scrambled eggs for breakfast.’
Malin thinks for a moment.
The number on her phone.
‘I’d love a swim. But then I have to get home.’
And the memory of the warm water of Stora Rangen courses through her as one hour later she is lying in Daniel Hogfeldt’s bed and feeling his hard, heavy, rhythmic body above hers, how he thrusts, groans, thrusts, thrusts hard and deep inside her, how she becomes water, no feelings, memories or future, directionless drops, a body that is a still night of dreams worth dreaming, an explosion that is sometimes the only thing a human being’s trillions of cells needs.
If only to be able to put up with themselves.
41
His skin.
It’s glowing as if it’s been oiled in the thin dawn light forcing its way in through the gap at the bottom of the roller-blind. When she came to him last night she didn’t say a word, silently pushing him towards the bedroom, and now she is leaving just as soundlessly, getting dressed in his hallway, silently so as not to wake him.
Because what would she say to him?
That was nice?
Do you want to go to the cinema?
A romantic dinner, just the two of us?
He’s lying there, just a few metres away, but he’s still present within her as a feeling, a closeness, yet also distance.
A dildo.
A double distance. It must be like being filled with something that has nothing to do with human life, it must be the perfect tool for someone who wants movement, yet who also wants to stay where they are.
Malin leaves Daniel Hogfeldt’s flat, creeping through the hall, convinced he’s awake somewhere behind her.
I hear you leave, Malin. Let you leave.
The bedroom is hot and the damp of our bodies is still in the sheets, the sweat under me both yours and mine.
Trying to get you to stay would be impossible. What could I say? Would I even be able to sound like I meant what I said? You’re too complicated for me, Malin. Too many contradictions, far too smart.
Obvious and straightforward.
Like a pane of glass on a summer’s day.
And a bit stupid, but with a good heart. That’s the kind of woman I want. Unless the truth is the exact opposite. That I want you. But I don’t know how to say it. Either to you, or to myself.
Home, shower, drink coffee, change clothes, miss Tove, Janne, enough regret to make her sick, and before she knows what’s happened Karim is standing by a whiteboard summarising the state of the investigation into the attack of Josefin Davidsson and the murders of Theresa Eckeved and Sofia Freden.
Tove’s coming home tonight.
I want to focus on that, Malin thinks. But it will have to wait.
The morning meeting, nine o’clock as usual.
The detectives in the room tired, their faces somehow furrowed by the summer heat and the violence, the human actions that it’s their job to get to grips with. If not to understand, then to make reasonably manageable, and contextualise them for both the public and themselves.
‘The press are going crazy,’ Karim says. ‘They’re crying out for information about the case, but we can’t let ourselves be influenced by that. So, where shall we start? How are things going with the various lines of inquiry?’
‘We questioned Behzad Karami and his parents yesterday,’ Waldemar Ekenberg says. ‘The anonymous tip-off was right. They were lying about the family party. Behzad claims he was standing guard over his blackberry canes in an allotment down by the river, and I think he’s telling the truth, even if there are no witnesses who can state categorically that he was there. But they’ve seen lights on in the small cottage on the allotment on the nights in question.’
‘What about you, Sundsten?’
Sven Sjoman pants as he says the words, his face deep red.
‘It seems to make sense.’
‘Seems?’
‘We can’t be absolutely certain. But the likelihood is that it’s the truth. We’re waiting to hear who made the call claiming that Behzad was involved. We really need to talk to them.’
‘So how are we going to get hold of them?’
‘With difficulty. But Telia are trying to give us the location the call was made from. It was on their network, and we might be able to draw some conclusions based on people we know who are acquainted with Behzad. They’re pretty familiar faces to you here in Linkoping, after all.’
‘Good. What about the list of known sex offenders?’
‘We got hold of three more of them yesterday. All in the clear.’
‘And nothing new about the person who called in about Josefin Davidsson?’
‘No,’ Malin says. ‘That feels like a thousand years ago now.’
‘In all likelihood it was just a passer-by who didn’t want anything to do with us,’ Sven says, before going on. ‘OK. Well, the news from Mjolby is that the interviews with Sofia Freden’s parents and close friends haven’t turned up anything. Sofia seems to have been an ambitious young woman, good at school, never involved in anything stupid. And Forensics haven’t come up with anything from the crime scene. But we’d guessed as much, hadn’t we? Whoever is doing this is obsessively clean and careful. There were traces of bleach on Sofia Freden’s body. And the
