‘You look energetic, Mum,’ Tove says from her place on the sofa, looking up from the paperback she’s reading.
‘What are you reading?’
‘
‘Isn’t it a bit odd, reading a play? Aren’t you supposed to watch them?’
‘It works if you’ve got a bit of imagination, Mum.’
The television is on:
How can Tove read proper literature with that on in the background?
‘Have you been out, Mum?’
‘Yep, in the forest, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Zeke and I were looking for something.’
Tove nods, not worried about whether they found what they were looking for, and returns to her book.
He murdered Bengt Andersson. Tried to murder Rebecka Stenlundh.
Who is Karl Murvall? Where is he?
Damn Rakel Murvall.
Her sons.
A social science book is open on the table in front of Tove. The section heading is ‘The Constitution’, and it is illustrated with pictures of Goran Persson and an imam Malin has never seen before. People can be turned into anything at all. That’s it.
‘Tove. Grandad called today. You’d both be welcome to go. You and Markus, to Tenerife.’
Tove looks away from the television.
‘I don’t really want to go any more,’ she says. ‘And it would be hard to explain to Grandad that he has to play along with our lie that they were supposed to have other guests.’
‘Good grief,’ Malin says. ‘How can something so simple get so complicated?’
‘I don’t want to go, Mum. Do I really have to tell Markus that Grandad’s changed his mind?’
‘No.’
‘But what if we go some other time, and Grandad suddenly starts talking about how we didn’t want to go last time even though we’d been asked?’
Malin sighs. ‘Why not tell Markus how it really is?’
‘But how is it, though?’
‘That Grandad’s changed his mind but you don’t want to go.’
‘What about the lie? Doesn’t that matter?’
‘I don’t know, Tove. A little lie like that can’t cause too much trouble, can it?’
‘Well, in that case we could go then.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to go.’
‘No, but I could if I wanted to. It’s better for Grandad to be disappointed. Then maybe he’ll learn his lesson.’
‘So you’re going to Are?’
‘Mmm.’
Tove turns away from Malin and reaches for the remote.
When Tove has gone to bed Malin sits alone on the sofa for a while before getting up and going into the hall, pulling on her holster and pistol, and then her jacket. Before leaving the flat she hunts through the top drawer of the chest in the hall. She finds what she’s looking for and puts it in the front pocket of her jeans.
74
Linkoping at midnight, on the night between Thursday and Friday, in the depths of February. The illuminated signs on the buildings in the centre struggle to match the streetlamps and lend a bit of apparent warmth to the streets where the thirsty and the lonely and the pleasure-seekers hurry between different restaurants and bars, clumsy polar explorers hunting for company.
No queues anywhere.
Too cold for that.
Malin’s hands on the wheel.
