have happened, of the events leading up to this point. She noticed them getting even more tired from what she told them, that the fact that they had only just woken up was getting in the way of her words, and that they weren’t really absorbing what she was saying, even if Sven was nodding as if to agree that this must be the truth.
‘Bloody hell,’ Zeke says, turning to Malin. She’s sitting on the chair by the desk, longing for a cup of coffee.
‘Where do you think he is now?’
‘I think he’s in the forest. Somewhere out near the hunting cabin.’
‘We didn’t find him.’
‘He could be anywhere.’
‘He’s wounded. We know that. Rebecka Stenlundh said she hit him.’
‘We’ve put out a national alert,’ Sven says. ‘There’s also the possibility that he’s killed himself.’
‘Are we going to send dog-teams into the forest?’ Malin asks.
‘We’ll hold off until first thing in the morning. It’s too dark now. But the dogs can’t pick up scent in this cold, so maybe it isn’t such a great idea. The dog-handlers will know,’ Sven says. ‘We’ve got all our cars looking for him. And the only thing that suggests he’s in the forest are the marks on the maps in that notebook.’
‘That’s quite a lot,’ Malin says.
‘He wasn’t in the cabin late yesterday afternoon. If he’s injured he would have found his way somewhere at once where he can lie low. Which means that it’s highly unlikely that he’s in the cabin now.’
‘But he could be nearby.’
‘It will have to wait, Fors.’
‘Malin,’ Zeke says, ‘I agree with Sven. It’s five in the morning, and he wasn’t in the cottage as recently as early yesterday evening.’
‘Fors,’ Sven says, ‘go home and get some sleep. It would be best for everyone if you got some rest before tomorrow, and then we’ll take a thorough look at where he might be then.’
‘No, I—’
‘Malin,’ Sven says. ‘You’ve already gone too far, you have to get some rest.’
‘We’ve got to find him. I think . . .’
Malin lets the sentence die; they wouldn’t understand the way she’s thinking.
Instead she gets up and leaves the room.
On her way downstairs Malin bumps into Daniel Hogfeldt.
‘Is Karl Murvall suspected of murdering Bengt Andersson and attacking Rebecka Stenlundh?’ As if nothing had happened.
Malin doesn’t answer.
Pushes past him down the stairs.
She’s tired and stressed, Daniel thinks, as he climbs the last steps up to the flat where two uniformed officers are on guard outside the front door.
Might be tricky getting in. But if you don’t try . . .
Malin didn’t seem bothered that I turned down
But was I expecting her to be? We’re nothing more than fuck-buddies, are we? Something for the body, not the soul.
But you looked beautiful just now, Malin, when you pushed past me. So fucking beautiful and tired and exhausted.
The last step.
Daniel smiles at the uniformed officers.
‘Not a chance in hell, Hogfeldt,’ the taller one says with a smile.
Sometimes when Malin thinks that sleep will be elusive it comes to her in just a minute or two.
The bed is warm beneath her in her dream.
The bed is the soft floor of a white room with transparent walls that are swaying in a warm breeze.
Outside the walls she sees them all as naked shadows: Mum, Dad, Tove, Janne. Zeke is there, and Sven Sjoman and Johan Jakobsson, Karim Akbar and Karin Johannison and Borje Svard and his wife Anna. The Murvall brothers, Rebecka and Maria, and a fat figure lumbering with a football in his hands. Markus pops up, and Biggan and Hasse and the security guard at Collins, and Gottfrid Karlsson, Weine Andersson and Sister Hermansson, and the Ljungsbro bullies, Margaretha Svensson, Goran Kalmvik and Niklas Nyren and lots, lots more; they’re all in the dream, like fuel for her memories, as navigation points for her consciousness. The people in the events of recent weeks are buoys anchored in an illuminated space that could be anything. And in the middle of that space beams Rakel Murvall, a black light radiating from her shadow.
The alarm clock on the bedside table rings.
A harsh, loud, digital noise.
The time is 7.35.
