mechanism, but we’re working on it.’
‘Let’s hope there are some secrets in there,’ Zeke said, and Malin could hear that his voice concealed the fervent wish that this whole thing would soon be over.
Then they stumbled about together. Tried to find the investigation’s voice, the common, cohesive thread. But no matter how they tried, they kept coming back to the start: the man in the tree and the people around him, the Murvalls, Maria, Rakel, Rebecka; the ritual, the heathen faith, Valkyria Karlsson, Rickard Skoglof; and the vanishingly small chance that Jimmy Kalmvik and Joakim Svensson might have done something really stupid during the few hours when only they could provide alibis for each other.
‘We know all that,’ Sven Sjoman said. ‘The question is, can we do much more with any of it? Are there any other paths that might be more productive? Can we see any other paths?’
Silence in the room, a long, painful silence.
Then Malin said, ‘Maybe we could tell the brothers that Bengt Andersson wasn’t the person who raped their sister? Maybe they’d have something else to say if they knew that?’
‘Doubtful, Malin. Do you think they would?’ Sven said.
Malin shrugged.
‘And they’ve been released,’ Karim Akbar said. ‘We can’t bring them in again just for that, and if we go out and talk to them now without anything more concrete, they’d doubtless make allegations that we’re harassing the whole family. The last thing we need is more bad publicity.’
‘No new tip-offs from the public?’ Johan tried.
‘Nothing,’ Sven said. ‘Total silence.’
‘We could make a new request,’ Johan said. ‘Someone must know something.’
‘The media are chewing us up already,’ Karim said. ‘We’ll have to manage without another request for information at the moment. It would only lead to more bad press.’
‘The National Criminal Investigation Department?’ Sven suggested. ‘Maybe it’s time to call them in. We have to admit that we’re not making any progress.’
‘Not yet, not yet.’ Karim sounding self-confident, in spite of everything.
They had left the meeting room with a general feeling that they were all waiting for something to happen, that they could really only follow developments, wait for whoever had hung Bengt Andersson in the tree somehow to make themselves visible again.
But what if he, she or they remained invisible? If the whole thing was a one-off?
Then they were stuck.
All the voices of the investigation had fallen silent.
But Malin remembered how she had felt out by the tree: that there was something left unfinished, that something was in motion out in the forests and the snow-swept plain.
And now the clock on the brick wall is almost at twelve. As it hits, Malin says, ‘Lunch?’
‘No,’ Zeke says. ‘I’ve got choir practice.’
‘You have? At lunchtime?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a concert in the cathedral in a few weeks’ time, so we’re squeezing in some extra practice.’
‘A concert? You haven’t mentioned it. Extra practice? You sound like a hockey player.’
‘God forbid,’ Zeke says.
‘Can I tag along?’
‘To choir practice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure,’ Zeke says, nonplussed. ‘Sure, Malin.’
The assembly hall of the city museum smells musty, but the members of the choir seem happy enough in the large space. There are twenty-two of them today. Malin has counted them, thirteen women, nine men. Most of them are over fifty and they’re all well dressed and well ironed in typical provincial style. Coloured shirts and blouses, jackets and skirts.
The members have crowded together, standing in three rows on the stage. Behind them hangs a large tapestry with embroidered birds that seem to want to take off and drift around the room, up to the vaulted ceiling.
Malin is sitting in the back row, by the oak panelling, listening to the members tune up, giggle, chatter and laugh. Zeke is talking animatedly to a woman the same age as him, tall, with blonde hair and wearing a blue dress.
Nice, Malin thinks. Both her and the dress.
Then one woman raises her voice and says, ‘Okay, then, let’s get to work. We’ll start with “People Get Ready”.’
As if on command the members line up neatly, clear their throats one last time, and adopt the same look of concentration.
‘One, two, three.’
And then the singing, a harmonious sound, fills the hall and Malin is surprised at its gentle strength, and how beautiful it sounds when the twenty-two voices sing together as one single voice: ‘. . . you don’t need no ticket, you
