Sorry, Malin thinks.
‘Have they found anything in the archive?’
‘They’ve only just started, Malin. You know he isn’t on the computer. So now we’re looking elsewhere. We’ll see if anything turns up during the day. Call as soon as you can if you find out anything.’
Farewell pleasantries, then silence in the car, just the engine revving when Malin changes gear.
Vretaliden.
An old people’s home and sheltered housing in one, extended and modified over the years, strict 1950s architecture jammed together with 1980s postmodernism. The whole complex is in a hollow a hundred metres away from a school, just a few culs-de-sac and some red-roofed council houses between the two institutions. To the south is a field of strawberries belonging to Wester Horticulture, ending abruptly in a couple of glasshouses.
But everything is white now.
Winter has no smell, Malin thinks as she jogs across the home’s car park towards the main entrance, a glass box with a gently revolving door. Malin pauses. She worked at Aleryd nursing home one summer when she was sixteen, the year before she met Janne. She didn’t like it, and afterwards she explained it by thinking that she was too young to appreciate the old people’s weakness and helplessness, too inexperienced to look after them. And most of the practical work was off-putting. But she liked talking to the old folk. Playing at being a society lady when there was time, listening to them talk about their lives. A lot of them wanted to talk, to delve into their memories, those who could still speak. A question to get them started, and they were off, then just a few comments to keep the story going.
A white reception desk.
Some old men in wheelchairs that look like armchairs. Strokes? Late-stage Alzheimer’s? ‘You’ll water the plants, won’t you?’
‘Hello, I’m from Linkoping Police, I’m looking for a Sister Hermansson.’
Old age smells strongly of chemicals and unperfumed cleaning products.
The young carer, with greasy skin and newly washed, rat-coloured hair, glances up at Malin with a look of sympathy.
‘Ward three. The lifts are over there. She should be at the nurses’ station.’
‘Thanks.’
While Malin is waiting for the lift she looks at the old men in the wheelchairs. One of them is drooling from the corner of his mouth. Are they supposed to be sitting there like that?
Malin goes across to the wheelchairs, takes out a tissue from the inside pocket of her jacket. She leans over towards the old man, wipes the saliva from his mouth and chin.
The nurse behind the desk stares, not in a hostile way, then smiles.
The lift pings.
‘There,’ Malin whispers in the old man’s ear. ‘That’s better.’
He gurgles quietly, as if in response.
She puts her arm round his shoulder. Then she dashes over to the lift. The door is closing; damn, now I’ll have to wait for it to come down again.
Sister Hermansson has short, permed hair which looks like crumpled wire-wool on her angular head. Her eyes are hard behind thick, black-rimmed glasses.
Maybe fifty-five, sixty years old?
She is standing in a white coat at the nurses’ station, a small space situated between two corridors of hospital rooms. She is standing legs apart, arms crossed: my territory.
‘Gottfrid Karlsson?’
‘I’m really not in favour of this. He’s old. In this sort of extreme cold, it doesn’t take much to stir up anxiety on the ward. And that’s not good for our old folk.’
‘We’re grateful for any help we receive. And he evidently has something to tell us?’
‘I doubt it. But the carer who was reading today’s
Hermansson pushes past Malin and starts walking down the corridor. Malin follows, until Hermansson stops at a door, so abruptly that the soles of her Birkenstock sandals squeak.
‘Here we are.’
Then Hermansson knocks on the door.
A faint but crystal-clear: ‘Come in.’
Hermansson gestures towards the door. ‘Welcome to Karlsson’s territory.’
‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘No, Karlsson and I don’t get on particularly well. And this is his business. Not mine.’
15
