‘You sack of shit. There isn’t a woman in this city who’d touch you even with gloves on. Get it?’
Ekenberg was already on his way out.
Grinning to himself, Malin thinks.
Don’t let yourself be provoked, we’ve got more important things to deal with.
But he was right.
She could still feel Daniel Hogfeldt inside her.
Would like to suppress the smile spreading over her lips.
42
‘That’s absolutely out of the question.’
Josefin Davidsson’s father, Ulf, is sitting on the burgundy sofa in the living room of the row-house in Lambohov, moving his toes anxiously back and forth over the mainly pink rug. His suntanned face is round, his hair starting to thin and his wide nose is peeling.
‘Hypnosis,’ he goes on. ‘You read about people getting stuck like that. And Josefin needs to rest.’
His wife Birgitta, sitting beside him on the sofa, is more hesitant, Malin thinks. She’s evidently trying to read the situation, trying to follow her husband so as not to annoy him. Their roles are clearer now than the first time she met them at the hospital. They declined the offer of protection for Josefin, saying she needed peace and quiet more than anything else. Birgitta Davidsson is a neat little woman in a blue floral dress. So neat that she dissolves in your khaki-clad presence, Ulf. Doesn’t she?
Zeke from his seat beside Malin: ‘The psychoanalyst who would conduct the hypnosis, Viveka Crafoord, is very experienced.’
‘But do we really want Josefin to remember?’
Ulf Davidsson’s words less adamant now.
Malin pauses, answers no in her mind, it would be just as well for your daughter if she didn’t remember, she’ll be fine without any conscious memory of what happened. But she says: ‘It’s vitally important for the investigation. Two girls have been murdered, and we have no witnesses. We need all the help we can get.’
‘And you’re sure it’s the same man?’
‘Absolutely certain,’ Zeke replies.
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ Ulf Davidsson says. ‘Too risky.’
‘You’re right, darling,’ Birgitta Davidsson says. ‘Who knows how she might feel if she could remember?’
‘We have no idea when the murderer is going to strike again,’ Zeke says. ‘But sooner or later it will happen. So asking these questions under hypnosis is absolutely . . .’
Zeke is interrupted by a thin but clear voice from upstairs.
‘Isn’t anyone going to ask me? Ask me what I want?’
A look of irritation crosses Ulf Davidsson’s face.
‘We’re your parents. We’ll decide what’s best for you.’
‘So you’d like to be questioned under hypnosis?’
Josefin Davidsson comes downstairs and sits in an armchair, the white bandages covering her wounds a sharp contrast to her bright red summer dress.
‘I would.’
‘You . . .’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘But Dad, I . . .’
‘Be quiet.’
And the room falls still, the only sound the vibration of a bumblebee’s wings as it tries to get out through an open window, but keeps missing, again and again, flying into the glass instead with a short bumping sound each time.
‘We’re trying to find . . .’
‘I know what you’re trying to find. The devil himself could be out there for all I care, because you’ll have to find him without upsetting my daughter more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘You’re such a damn hypocrite, Dad,’ Josefin says. ‘When I told you that you could probably get compassionate leave to be here with me, you both took it. And went straight off to the golf course.’
‘Josefin!’ her mother cries. ‘That’s enough!’
‘I’m begging you,’ Malin says.
‘Me too, Dad. I’m going to do it, no matter what you want.’
In the space of a second Ulf Davidsson suddenly looks fifteen years older, as if he’s staked out any number of principles and opinions over the years, but has always had to back down in the end.
‘It’s the right thing to do, Dad. And if I remember something that helps them catch the killer, you’ll be a big hero.’
‘You don’t know what you’re asking for,’ Ulf Davidsson says to his daughter. The look in his eyes is clear, but sad. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for. But OK. If hypnosis is what you want, hypnosis is what you’ll get.’
On the way back to the car park.
The sun like the ice-blue core of a gas flame in the sky, the sort of light that sunglasses have no effect against. The ground seems to be sweating, even though it’s so dry Malin imagines it could spontaneously combust. There’s also the smell of the forest fires, tickling her nose and making her whole being feel slightly anxious. Phrases of gratitude in the house they’ve just left.
‘Thanks. You’re doing the right thing.’
Reassurance: ‘It isn’t dangerous. It will be good for her to remember.’
Practicalities: ‘We’ll be in touch when I’ve spoken to Viveka Crafoord. Hopefully this evening. Tomorrow at the latest. We’ll be in touch, make sure we can contact you.’
And now Viveka on the other end of the line, in her house out in Svartmala.
‘I’m just back from a dip in the lake.’
Daniel Hogfeldt’s body.
The waters of Stora Rangen.
‘She’s agreed to be hypnotised. And her parents have given their consent.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever suits you.’
‘Where?’
‘Same thing.’
‘How about seven o’clock this evening in my clinic?’
‘Perfect. As long as nothing else comes up.’
Nathalie Falck is standing with a rake in her hand, its spray of teeth like a dying treetop against the blue summer sky, almost white with the heat.
They’re standing among the graves at the far end of the cemetery, from where they can see the roof of the supermarket in Valla, and hear the cars out on the main road, forcing their way through the dense air.
‘I use a grass rake for the gravel,’ Nathalie says. ‘It’s easier than using the other sort.’
‘It’s looking good,’ Malin said, gesturing at the gravel path up towards the chapel where they hold the burial services. ‘You’re very conscientious.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s unusual to be conscientious.’
Zeke silent by Malin’s side, in the shade of an old oak, the flowers on most of the graves scorched and crisp, prematurely withered in the cruel heat.
‘I can see you looking at the flowers. But we can’t water them fast enough. Not in this heat.’
Malin nods.
‘It is hot,’ she says. Then she asks: ‘You haven’t told us everything, have you?’
‘How can you know that?’
