I took the shoe and showed it to Rune. I wanted him to see.
And then?
Then she was lying there.
Where?
On the ground. Under the tree. And I could see that she was destroyed.
Destroyed?
That she wasn't whole. I saw it and Rune did too. She had been destroyed.
She was lying on the ground, you say. Did you touch her?
Why should we? She was dead.
I have to ask you these things.
I can't cope any more now.
Just a few more questions.
I can't.
Did you see anyone here?
The girl. She was lying there, looking at me. All destroyed.
I meant someone else. Someone except you and Rune?
No. We had seen that policeman. And his dog.
No one else?
I can't any more. Rune, tell him I can't.
The pathologist was looking in his plastic folder for a third sheet of paper, but couldn't find it. He left the trolley to search for it on a shelf.
'Here,' he said. 'I've got something else for you that links this case with the past.'
He came back, pulled the cover into place and Sven could look again.
'We noted straight away that the soles of her feet were perfectly clean. The rest of her body was torn and bloody and dirty. We investigated and found traces of-'
'Of saliva? Am I right?'
Errfors nodded.
'Yes, you are. Saliva, just like last time.'
Ewert looked at her face. She wasn't there. Her body was, but she wasn't.
'That's Lund's idea of foreplay. Licking their feet. And their shoes.'
'Not this time.'
'But you just said…'
'Not foreplay, that is. He licked the soles of this girl's feet after death.'
He hadn't seen her for months. They had talked practically every day, but on the phone and only about Marie, things like what time she got up that morning, what she had for breakfast and what new words she had used. Had she played something different, had she cried, laughed, lived? Every moment of her growth was stolen from the parent Marie wasn't with and they compensated as best they could by talking about her. Marie, and only Marie, brought them together without bitterness or accusations or regret about love lost.
Agnes' beautiful face, he knew it, and he also knew what it looked like when she cried; it swelled until her features blurred. He put his hand on her cheek; she smiled, held him more tightly.
A policeman came to the door to let them in. It was one of the senior ones who had come to The Dove, an older man with a slight limp.
'How do you do? I'm Detective Chief Inspector Ewert Grens. We met yesterday.'
'Hello. Fredrik Steffansson. I recognise you. This is Agnes Steffansson, Marie's mother.'
They went down a flight of stairs and along a short hospital-type corridor. The other policeman, the one who'd led the interrogations yesterday, was waiting in a doorway, and behind him, a white-coated doctor with tired eyes.
'Good afternoon. We didn't get introduced yesterday. I'm Sven Sundkvist, Detective Inspector. And this is Dr Ludvig Errfors from the Forensic Science Service. He is responsible for Marie's autopsy. '
Marie's autopsy.
The phrase was a howled obscenity. It cut to the quick, was hateful, final.
The last twenty-four hours ached inside them, hours of hell hope hell hope hell. Yesterday, sometime after midday, Fredrik had said goodbye to the human being that they both lived and breathed for. Now, in a sterile forensic mortuary, they were to look at her destroyed body and admit it was hers. They clung to each other.
Sometimes people cling to each other until they break.
Summer was at a standstill.
The stagnant air was too heavy to breathe, but Sven didn't notice.
He was crying.
He had concentrated on hanging on; soon it would be over, soon air, soon life, soon soon soon, he mustn't break down now as the two people in front of him had done, two parents who had held on tightly to each other as they stood by the mortuary trolley, nodding confirmation when they were shown her face. The father had kissed his little girl's cheek and the mother had leaned over the child's body and collapsed, her head resting on the cover, then they had both wailed, screams that were unlike anything he had ever heard; these two had died in front of his eyes. He had tried to fix his gaze somewhere else, on the wall somewhere; soon he'd get away from here, from the trolley and this whole fucking awful place, soon he'd be running upstairs towards air that was not heavy with death.
They had been clutching each other when they left.
He had been running, corridor, stairs, door, crying as if he would never stop.
Ewert left too. Walking past Sven, he patted the younger man's shoulder.
'I'll be in the car. Take your time, take all the time you need.'
How much time had passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? He had no idea. He had wept until he felt empty, until no more tears came. He wept with them and for them, as if they did not have enough room for the grief, as if their sadness had to be shared out.
When he climbed into the car Ewert touched his cheek lightly.
'I've been sitting here listening to the piss-poor radio. News on every fucking channel and they're pumping out stuff about Bernt Lund and the murder of Marie. They've got what they needed, a summer murder, and from now on they'll be snapping at our heels all day long.'
Sven had put his hands on the steering wheel. Now he gestured at it, then at Ewert.
'What about you driving?'
'Nope.'
'Only just now, for a while. I don't feel up to it.'
'I'll wait until you're ready to start the engine. We're in no more hurry than that.'
Sven sat back. A minute or two passed. The radio changed from one pop hit that sounded identical to all the rest of them, and started on another one just the same.
Sven turned to look at the rear window shelf.
'Do you fancy some cake?'
He reached for his bags, first the birthday gateau, then the wine, and put the would-be feast in his lap.
'Princess Gateau. Jonas said it was his favourite. Two roses on top, one for me and one for him.'
He opened the box and sniffed tentatively.
'Christ, it's off. Twenty-four hours in this heat. It's far gone.'
Ewert shuddered at the sudden wave of rancid smell, made a disgusted face and pushed the whole carton as far away as possible. Then he started fiddling with the radio dial. The mantra was the same, in newscast after newscast.
Little Girl Murdered. Escaped Sex Killer. Bernt Lund. Aspsas Prison. Police Hunt. The Grief. The Fear.
'I can't bear listening to this shit any more. Can't stand having it shoved down my throat. Turn it off, please, Ewert.'
