Midwinter Sacrifice

‘What was he like?’ Malin asks.

‘What he was like? I don’t know. The few times he was here he seemed distant. He was on antidepressants. Didn’t say much. Seemed withdrawn. We tried to get him to register for invalidity benefit, but he was strongly opposed to that. I suppose he still thought there was a place for him somewhere. You know, hope is the last thing that people let go of.’

‘Nothing else? Any enemies? People who didn’t like him?’

‘No, nothing like that. He didn’t seem to have any friends or enemies. As I said—’

‘Are you sure? Please, try to remember.’ Zeke’s voice, forceful.

‘Well, he did want to know about his sister. But that wasn’t part of our job. I mean, helping him to keep tabs on his family. I don’t think he dared contact her himself.’

‘Where does his sister live now?’

Rita Santesson points to the file. ‘It’s all in there.’

Then she gets up and gestures towards the door.

‘I’m seeing a client in a couple of minutes. The staffroom is at the end of the corridor. If you don’t have any more questions?’

Malin looks at Zeke. He shakes his head.

‘In that case . . .’

Malin gets up. ‘Are you certain there’s nothing else we ought to know?’

‘Nothing that I want to go into.’

Rita Santesson seems suddenly energised, the sickly tiger master of its cage.

‘Nothing you want to go into?’ Zeke bursts out. ‘He was murdered. Hung up in a tree like a lynched nigger. And you “don’t want to go into” something.’

‘Please don’t use that word.’ Rita Santesson purses her lips tight and shrugs, the movement making her whole body shake.

You hate men, don’t you? Malin thinks. Then she asks, ‘Who did he used to see before you?’

‘I don’t know, it should be in the records. There are three of us in this office. None of us has been here longer than a year.’

‘Can you give us the numbers of the people who used to work here?’

‘Ask in reception. They should be able to help.’

A sour smell of burned coffee and microwaved food. A flowery waxed cloth on an oval table.

Sombre reading. They pass the pages between them, taking turns to read, make notes.

Bengt Andersson. In and out of mental hospitals, depression, a loner, different contact names, a transit station for social workers on the way up.

Then something happens in 1977.

The tone of the notes changes.

Words like ‘lonely, isolated, in need of contact’ start to appear.

The same social worker throughout this period: Maria Murvall.

Now the sister appears in the notes. Maria Murvall writes: Bengt is asking after his sister. I checked the archive. His sister, Lotta, was first placed in a foster home, then adopted by a family in Jonkoping. New name, Rebecka Stenlundh.

So Lotta had to become a Rebecka, Malin thinks, Andersson became Stenlundh. Rebecka Stenlundh, her name changed like a cat with new owners after the old ones got tired of it.

Nothing else about the sister, except: Bengt is worried about contacting his sister, a phone number, an address in Jonkoping, jotted down in the margin. Then an unthinkable reflection: Why am I so concerned?

Maria Murvall.

I recognise that name. I’ve heard that name before.

‘Zeke. Maria Murvall. Don’t you think it sounds familiar?’

‘Yes, it does. Definitely.’

New words. In a good mood. After all my visits and constant nagging, I’ve sorted out his hygiene and cleaning. Now exemplary.

Then an abrupt end.

Maria Murvall replaced first by a Sofia Svensson, then an Inga Kylborn, then Rita Santesson.

They all form the same judgement: Shut off, tired, difficult to get through to.

The last meeting three months ago. Nothing odd about that.

They leave the folder with reception. A young girl with a nose-ring and jet-black hair smiles at them, and says, ‘Of course,’ when they ask for the phone numbers of Bengt Andersson’s social workers.