Midwinter Sacrifice

Cowboy Junkies. Before they got boring.

The abandoned woman alone, longing, but in the last verse triumphant: ‘. . . kinda like the few extra feet in my bed . . .’

Malin pulls out the earplugs, fumbles for the phone, dials Janne’s number and he answers on the fourth ring.

Silence.

‘I know it’s you, Malin.’

Silence.

‘Malin, I know it’s you.’

His voice is the only voice she needs, gentle and calm and safe. His voice is an embrace.

‘Did I wake you?’

‘No worries. You know I don’t sleep well.’

‘Same here.’

‘Cold night tonight, isn’t it? Maybe the coldest so far.’

‘Yes.’

‘Luckily the new boiler seems to be working.’

‘That’s good. Tove’s asleep. Nothing came of that plan with Markus and Tenerife.’

‘He got angry?’

‘Yes.’

‘They never learn.’

‘What about us, do we?’

But those aren’t the words that pass her lips. Instead: ‘You must be getting through a lot of oil this winter.’

Janne sighs down the line. Then he says, ‘Time to sleep, Malin. Goodnight.’

61

Wednesday, 15 February

Somehow the church seems to have grown accustomed to the cold. Got used to having its greying plaster covered by a thin layer of frost. But the trees are still protesting, and the pictures over in the travel agent’s windows, the ones of beaches and clear blue skies, are just as mocking.

There’s a smell of fresh baking. Malin was up early and had time to put some half-baked little baguettes in the oven. She’s already eaten two, with apricot jam and Vasterbotten cheese, and now she’s sitting by the window in the flat.

Behind her on the kitchen table lies the Correspondent. She hasn’t even bothered to open the paper. It’s all there on the front page.

POLICE REPORTED FOR HARASSMENT IN MURDER CASE.

The headline is a joke, Malin thinks as she sips her coffee and looks down towards Ahlens, with its window displays of padded jackets and hats.

But if the headline is a joke, the article itself is a very bad one, an outright lie.

. . . even though the police have no evidence at all that the Murvall family is involved in the murder of Bengt Andersson, they have visited 72-year-old Rakel Murvall’s home to interview her on no fewer than seven occasions. Only a year ago Rakel Murvall suffered a minor stroke . . . this looks very much like a clear case of harassment from the police . . .

Attributed to Daniel Hogfeldt. So he’s hitting back. In full form. Hard. Where has he been?

A short article alongside, about the fact that the shots fired into Bengt Andersson’s flat have been cleared up, and that police are not linking them to the murder itself. A quote from Karim Akbar: It is highly improbable that there is any connection.

Malin sits down at the kitchen table.

Opens the paper.

Rakel Murvall identifies her and Zeke in one quote.

They’ve been here seven times and forced their way in. The police show no respect, even to an old woman . . . But at least my boys are home again now . . .

The boys Mrs Murvall refers to are her sons, Elias, Adam and Jakob, who were released from custody yesterday when the accusations against them were found not to be sufficient to justify holding them any longer . . .

A picture of Karim.

His face captured in a slightly distorted pose. His eyes staring into the camera: Naturally, we are treating this complaint very seriously.