This time he needs to save himself. No one else, and he looks tired standing there in the heat, in the light of a streetlamp in Skaggetorp, his cheeks still smeared with soot, his frame somehow diminished by lack of sleep.
‘You need to sleep,’ Malin says.
‘How could I possibly sleep now?’
‘I can drive you home.’
‘Malin, leave it. Let’s carry on.’
Waldemar Ekenberg pushes open the door of Behzad Karami’s allotment cottage and Behzad Karami leaps up from the bed when he sees who his visitor is.
Waldemar raises a hand.
‘Calm down. I just wanted to see if you were alone.’
Behzad Karami sits down again.
‘Do you want some?’
He points at the bottle of vodka on the floor.
‘Thanks,’ Waldemar says.
Behzad Karami pours out two glasses of vodka.
‘Well, cheers.’
‘I didn’t think your sort drank.’
‘I drink.’
‘The fucker’s taken the daughter of one of our colleagues now. Can you imagine?’
‘Did you come to apologise?’
Waldemar downs the vodka before putting the glass back on the floor.
‘There’s no room for apologies in this world, lad. Never forget that.’
The person carrying something heavy has stopped outside Vera Folkman’s door. Panting, trying to revert to more regular breathing.
Zeke has his pistol in his hand, the safety catch is off, he moves down, the sound of the other person’s breathing loud enough to hide his footsteps.
Wait?
Or go now?
The stairwell is dark.
Why don’t they turn the lamp on again?
The jangle of keys?
And Zeke leaps down two steps, presses the illuminated red button and the landing outside Vera Folkman’s flat is bathed in light.
Zeke holds his gun in front of him.
‘Police! Don’t move! OK, down on your knees!’
The man on the landing looks scared and surprised, and next to him is a box with the Sony logo and a picture of a flat-screen television.
Shit, Zeke thinks as he lowers his weapon.
The Horticultural Society Park is completely deserted and Janne and Malin meet a patrol car on its way into the park as they are coming out.
They called home to the flat a moment ago.
No answer.
They drive out onto Hamngatan, past McDonald’s, and Malin asks Janne if he’s hungry.
‘I couldn’t keep anything down.’
His eyelids are practically hanging on his cheeks, how much sleep has he been getting? Two hours per night? Three?
‘You said she worked on pool maintenance?’
‘Yes, at least that’s what we think,’ Malin replies.
‘Well, you’d have to buy chemicals somewhere. Wouldn’t you?’
‘And?’
‘You get them from DIY stores. In large quantities. Maybe some DIY store has delivered stuff to her? To an address you don’t know about? To that company of hers?’
They glide past St Lars church.
Malin looks up at the flat. The windows are still black.
Zeke helped the man to carry the television. He lived on the fourth floor, and now the sweat is literally pouring from Zeke’s brow.
The man, a pensioner named Lennart Thornkvist, had never even seen his neighbour, but commented on the smell: ‘That’s what dead bodies smell like in hot weather.’
And now Zeke is standing in front of Vera Folkman’s door again.
He looks at his watch.
Just a few minutes before midnight.
He gets set.
Kicks the door as hard as he can, but it doesn’t give way, nothing happens.
He takes out his pistol again.
Aims at the lock and fires.
A deafening echo. Zeke’s ears are ringing as he pushes the door open and the stench that hits him is unbearable.
A switch. Light.
An empty hall and scratching noises from inside the kitchen and what must be the only other room of the small flat.
He heads towards the room with his weapon drawn, glancing into the kitchen where he sees three rabbit cages stacked on top of each other, living creatures behind the bars.
Inside the room.
On the walls.
A sight that Zacharias Martinsson will never forget.
65
I’m busy with my bag.
I’m going to kill you. You can be resurrected. I am packing up, unpacking, the blue nothing, worms, rabbits’ claws, my white spiders’ legs and all the things that are me.
Incense and painted flowers.
Sacrificial offerings in my temple.
How it started? It’s always gone on. It’s been the meaning and purpose of my life. To the far side of the planet, to the parched interior of Australia, the beaches of Bali. Looking after pools for people with money.
But there is no escape from unlove.
Then one day I was driving my van through the city, along Hamngatan, and I saw a taxi. It was only a few weeks ago, actually. And there you were, sitting in the front seat, Dad. Old, but your eyes, and the fingers against the windscreen were the same, you were probably on your way to the hospital for some sort of tests.
And when I saw you, I knew.
Wisdom and innocence swept through my body and I was forced to begin, just so that what must be conquered could be conquered.
