Feels exhausted and thirsty: Dad keeps his drink in the cupboard above the fridge in the kitchen.
Twist the soul.
Fine furniture that isn’t really that fine.
‘You’ll water the plants, won’t you?’
I’ve already watered them.
The plants. Smells. The smell of cabbage bake.
Of lies. Even here? Just like in Rakel Murvall’s house in Blasvadret. Just weaker, vaguer here. Have to go out there again, Malin thinks, have to go there and squeeze the secrets from the floorboards and walls.
Her mobile rings out in the hall.
It’s in her jacket pocket, and she gets up from the sofa, runs out, fumbles.
International call.
‘Hello, Malin.’
‘Malin, Dad here.’
‘Hello, I’m in the apartment, I’ve just watered the plants.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But that’s not why I’m ringing.’
He wants something, but doesn’t dare say, the same feeling as last time. Then her father takes a deep breath, and lets the air out before he starts to speak.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘we’ve been talking about Tove coming out here, and it must be her half-term break soon? Perhaps that would be a good time?’
Malin takes the phone from her ear and holds it out in front of her, and shakes her head.
Then she pulls herself together. Puts the phone to her ear.
‘In two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘Yes, it’s half-term in two weeks. There’s just one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We haven’t got the money for a flight. I don’t have any spare and Janne had to pay for a new boiler just before Christmas.’
‘Yes, we talked about that, your mum and I. We can pay for her ticket. We went to a travel agent today, and there are cheap flights via London. Maybe you could get some time off as well?’
‘Impossible,’ Malin says. ‘Not at such short notice. And we’ve got a difficult case right now.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘It sounds like a great idea. But of course you’ll have to talk to Tove first.’
‘She can go swimming here, go horse-riding.’
‘She knows what she wants to do and what she doesn’t. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Will you talk to her?’
‘Call her yourself. She’s at the cinema right now, but she should be home by ten.’
‘Malin, can’t you talk—’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her, then I’ll call you back. Tomorrow.’
‘Don’t wait too long. Those tickets won’t last.’
52
The voices.
Let them fly.
Listen to them all in the investigation.
Let them have their say. Then they’ll lead you to your goal.
The hall of Niklas Nyren’s flat is full of transparent packs of biscuits, round, beige raspberry dreams, chocolate tops, chocolate balls that used to be called nigger-balls, and the green rug is covered in biscuit crumbs. There was a dark blue Volvo estate outside in the drive, parked far too close to a letterbox.
Be careful, Malin thought as she rang the doorbell. If the boys did it, he could have helped them with the body.
Niklas Nyren leads her into the flat, into the tidy living room which is entirely dominated by a big red sofa in front of a wall-mounted flat-screen television.
There’s nothing in the flat to suggest that Niklas Nyren is anything but a completely ordinary middle-aged man.
He’s wearing jeans and a green polo-neck sweater, his face is round and his stomach bulges out above his belt.
