‘That curry smells delicious.’
The hours on the treadmill in the gym at Police Headquarters. Bench-presses, Johan Jakobsson standing above her: ‘Come on, Malin. Come on, you can do better than that.’
Sweating. Straining. Everything becoming sharp and clear. There’s nothing like physical exercise to give her new energy.
‘What about you, Mum? How’s work been? Are you working tonight?’
‘Not as far as I know. Anyway, I’ve made dinner.’
‘What is it?’
‘Can’t you tell from the smell?’
‘Curry. Chicken?’
Tove can’t hide her enthusiasm.
Janne with drooping shoulders.
‘Okay, I’d better be off,’ he says. ‘Speak to you during the week.’
‘Okay, speak to you then,’ Malin says.
Janne opens the door.
Just as he is about to go, Malin says, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to stay and have some curry, Janne? There’s enough for you as well.’
14
Malin rubs the sleep from her eyes.
Wants to kick-start the day.
Muesli, fruit, soured milk. Coffee, coffee, coffee.
‘Bye, Mum.’
Tove, all wrapped up in the hall, earlier than usual, Malin later. They stayed indoors all day yesterday, baking, reading. Malin had to suppress the impulse to go down to the station even though Tove said she could go to work if she wanted to.
‘Bye. Will you be at home when I get back tonight?’
‘Maybe.’
A door closing. The weather girl on TV4 last night: ‘. . . and it’s going to get even colder. Yes, that’s right, even colder air from the Barents Sea, settling over the whole country, right down to Skane. Put on plenty of warm clothes if you absolutely have to go out.’
Have to go out?
Want to go out. Want to get on with this.
Ball-Bengt.
Who were you really?
Sjoman’s voice on her mobile, Malin holding on to the cold steering-wheel with one hand.
Monday people on their way to work, shivering in the bus shelters by Tradgardstorget, breath rising from their mouths and winding into the air towards the haphazard collection of buildings round the square: the 1930s buildings with their sought-after apartments, the 1950s blocks with shops on the ground floor, and the ornate house from the 1910s on the corner where for decades there was a record shop, now closed down.
‘We had a call from an old people’s home in Ljungsbro, Vretaliden, and they’ve got a ninety-six-year-old man there who evidently told one of the carers a whole load of things about Ball-Bengt and his family. She was reading the paper to him, because his eyes aren’t good, and he suddenly started talking. The ward sister called, says she thinks we ought to talk to him ourselves. You may as well start off with that.’
‘Does the old man want to see us?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gottfrid Karlsson. The nurse’s name is Hermansson.’
‘First name?’
‘She just said Sister Hermansson. It’s probably best to go through her.’
‘Did you say Vretaliden? I’m on my way.’
‘Aren’t you going to take Zeke with you?’
‘No, I’ll go on my own.’
Malin brakes, does a U-turn, just completing it ahead of the 211 bus on its way to the University Hospital. The driver honks his horn and shakes his fist.
