Summertime Death

Malin has never seen him so physically tired as he has been over the past few days. The heat is tearing the soul from his heavy body. Just let his heart hold out, Sven’s good heart.

Per Sundsten. It’s impossible to get a grip on him, who he is, what he wants, what he thinks. A good detective ought to know that sort of thing, Malin thinks, because if you’re sure of who you are and what you want, then your intuition can fly free, can’t it?

What do I want?

Who cares?

No, actually. I have to know.

Waldemar Ekenberg is more obvious than almost everyone else, his masculinity almost comically exaggerated. God knows what he’s got up to over the past few days, how much he has allowed the ends to justify the means. At some point time will catch up even with him.

And Zeke. The way they work together is possibly simpler and clearer now than ever, no nonsense about each of them going off and doing their own thing, a wordless trust in each other. It’s as if Zeke is holding back his tendency towards violence now that Ekenberg is part of the team, as if there has to be a constant balance between violence and empathy, as if this balance is essential if they are to twist the truth out of the clues.

And me.

I know what I’m doing.

Am I learning anything?

I’m slowly getting closer to the girls, that much is clear. If I can feel and understand their fear, maybe I can understand the person who harmed them.

The immigrant lads.

Karin Johannison not yet done with her examination of the dildo. But there’s a high probability that it matches the one used in the crimes, so maybe they’ll be able to take the day off tomorrow.

The lesbian line of inquiry.

A wicked man in Finspang. Where does this woman to woman love lead?

Slavenca Visnic. The kiosks. And the water.

The water.

Tomorrow will bring with it the hypnosis of Josefin Davidsson. Malin called Viveka Crafoord on her way home from their meeting with Svea Svensson, told her that they’d have to put it off, and Viveka had sounded disappointed, saying: ‘I think I can get something out of her, get her to talk.’

The road signs with numbers saying how great the distance between grief and longing is, how far it is until the distance is wiped out and only time remains.

Nykoping thirty-two.

Seventeen.

Skavsta.

Should I have brought Markus?

It didn’t even occur to me.

And Malin parks, goes into the arrivals hall, white beams seeming to float high up under a curved ceiling, a bare room full of peculiar dreams.

The clock on the wall says quarter past ten.

The plane is due in on time.

In two and a half hours the presence of love will replace grief, longing.

She’ll soon be there, Malin, your Tove.

We were up with her and Janne just now, and they were both asleep, exhausted by the long journey, by everything they have experienced.

They were both smiling.

It was a happy moment, just like you will be experiencing soon.

And us?

Sofia and I. We’re drifting somewhere below the ceiling of the arrivals hall, watching you and thinking that maybe it would be better if you were concentrating on us, on what has happened, instead of concentrating on your own nearest and dearest.

At least that’s what we’d like.

Worrying about your own concerns doesn’t disappear where we are. But it’s different, it encompasses more, it’s as if it encompasses everything that is or has been or ever will be.

Worrying about your own concerns becomes consideration for everyone.

Sofia and I are one and the same here. We are Josefin, Tove, and you. We are all girls and all who have been girls. But we’re boys as well.

Does that sound odd?

I can understand that, Malin. It’s all very strange, actually.

Where should you start?

Start with your nearest and dearest.

But who wouldn’t choose love, if the choice were between it and violence?

Can you hear me, Malin?

This is Sofia Freden.

My mum and dad are sad, so sad, their sadness can never even be replaced by longing. Unless it can, if only time is allowed to pass? Now they’re sitting on the sofa in their flat in Mjolby. The television is on but they can’t see what’s on the screen.

Their eyes are full of tears.

And they’re crying for me, Malin.

You can do so much, Malin.

You can make their tears stop. Or at least take a different path.

Just take a brief moment to catch your breath before pressing on.

Tove is holding her dad’s hand, the pressure in her ears is giving her a headache as, metre by metre, the plane descends towards the runway, the lights of the houses in the forests outside the windows are growing, a strip of brightness is still lingering on the horizon and Tove wonders if the world is disappearing over there, but knows that it carries on for an eternity, that life on this planet is a vast cyclical motion, no matter what anyone might say.

Mum.

I’ve missed her.

A vibration in the plane as the wheels touch the tarmac. Lights from the hangars.

Dad squeezing my hand.

I wonder if she brought Markus?

I haven’t really missed him much. What does that mean?

‘Back on Swedish soil!’ Dad says, and he looks happy. ‘Now to see if your mum’s made it on time, or if she’s still at work.’

Their bags.

Janne hates this part of travelling.

But there they are. Almost the first ones to appear, nothing got held up in the transfer between Heathrow and Stansted.

Their baggage.

Everything as it should be.

‘Come on, Tove.’

It’s nice to come home.

Malin stares at the automatic doors.