Midwinter Sacrifice

Then he came home one day with a letter from the Rescue Services Agency, saying that he had to report to Arlanda Airport the next day for a flight to Sarajevo.

I was so angry with him, your dad. I told him that if he went, then we wouldn’t be there when he got back. I said that you don’t abandon your family for anything.

So, my question to you, Tove: Can you understand why your father and I couldn’t manage back then?

We knew too much and too little at the same time.

12

No children in the nursery on a Saturday.

Empty swings. No sledges, no balls. The lights through the windows turned off. No games today.

‘Are you okay with this, Malin? You look worn out.’

Stop going on, Sven. I’m at work, aren’t I?

Zeke pulls a face from where he is sitting opposite her. Borje Svard and Johan Jakobsson don’t look exactly happy, but then you’re not supposed to if you’re at work just after eight on a Saturday morning.

‘I’m okay. Just a bit of a party last night, that’s all.’

‘Well, I got to party with cheese puffs, crisps and a Pippi Longstocking DVD,’ Johan says.

Borje doesn’t say anything.

‘I’ve got a list here,’ Sven says, waving a sheet of paper in the air. He isn’t standing at the end of the table today. He’s sitting down. ‘These are the people who phoned to identify Bengt Andersson, Ball-Bengt. We can start by questioning them. See what they have to say about him. There are nine names on the list, all in Ljungsbro or close by. Borje and Johan, you take the first five. Malin and Zeke can take the other four.’

‘And the flat? His flat?’

‘Forensics are already there. As far as we could make out, none of the violence happened there. They’ll be done some time this afternoon. You can take a look after that if you like. Not before. When you’re finished with the names on the list, try his neighbours. He was on benefits, so there must be a social worker somewhere who knows about his case. But we probably won’t be able to get hold of them until Monday.’

‘Can’t we get it sorted any quicker?’ Zeke’s voice, impatient.

‘Bengt Andersson hasn’t been declared dead, or even officially identified yet,’ Sven says. ‘And until those two things happen, we have no authority to get access to any registers and databases containing the names of his doctor or social worker. But all the formalities ought to be sorted out on Monday.’

‘Okay, let’s get going,’ Johan says, standing up.

I want to sleep, Malin thinks. Sleep as deep as is humanly possible.

My room is black, closed. But I can still see everything.

It’s cold in here, but not as cold as in the tree out on the plain. But what do I care about the cold? And there is no wind here, no storm, no snow. I might miss the wind and snow, but I prefer the clarity that comes with a condition like mine. How much I know, how much I can do. Like finding words in a way that I never used to be able to.

And isn’t it funny that everyone is suddenly concerned about me? How they all see my face and want to demonstrate that they knew me? Before they would turn away when I showed my face in public, they would cross the street to avoid my gaze, to avoid coming close to my body, my – as they thought – dirty clothes, which they thought stank of sweat, of urine.

Depressing and repulsive.

And the kids who would never leave me alone. Who would plague me, tease me, bully me. Their mums and dads truly had let a thousand evil flowers bloom in their children.

I was hardly even good enough to laugh at. Even when I was alive I was a tragedy.

The chimney of the Cloetta chocolate factory.

You can’t see it from the roundabout beside the ancient abbey of Vreta Kloster, but you can see the smoke, whiter than white, as it climbs into a pretend-blue sky. The low morning clouds have drifted away and winter is getting bluer, the mercury sinks still further, the price you have to pay for the light.

‘Do we turn off here?’

There are signs to Ljungsbro in both directions.

‘Don’t know,’ Malin says.

‘Okay, we’re turning,’ Zeke says, twisting the wheel. ‘We’ll have to check the GPS when we get closer.’

Malin and Zeke drive through Vreta Kloster. Past the dormant sluice-gates and empty locks. Bars closed for winter. Villas with people moving behind the windows, trees that have been left to grow in peace. An ICA supermarket. There’s no music in the car. Zeke didn’t insist and Malin appreciates the relative silence.

They pass a bus stop and the village spreads out to their left, the houses disappearing down a slope, and in the distance Lake Roxen opens out. The car heads down past a piece of woodland, then a field opens up on their right and a few hundred metres on more houses cling to the side of a steep incline.

‘Millionaires’ row,’ Zeke says. ‘Doctors’ houses.’

‘Jealous?’