Five names.
Ten minutes later the girl hands them a list. ‘There you go. I hope it’s useful.’
Before they leave Malin and Zeke do up their jackets and pull on their hats, gloves and scarves.
Malin looks at the clock on the wall. The institutional sort, black hands on a greyish-white background: 15.15.
Zeke’s mobile rings.
‘Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes.’
With the phone still in his hand Zeke says, ‘That was Sjoman. He wants us back for a group meeting at quarter to five.’
‘Has anything happened?’
‘Yes, some old boy from the history department at the university phoned. He evidently has some theory about what might have inspired the murder.’
18
Sven Sjoman takes a deep breath as he casts a quick glance at Karim Akbar, who is standing next to him in front of the whiteboard in the meeting room.
‘Midwinter sacrifice,’ he says, leaving a long pause before going on: ‘According to Johannes Soderkvist, Professor of History at the university, that was evidently some sort of ritual where people long ago sacrificed animals to the gods. And the sacrifices were hung in trees, hence the clear connection to our case.’
‘But this was a human being,’ Johan Jakobsson says.
‘I was coming to that. There were human sacrifices as well.’
‘So we may be dealing with a ritual murder, carried out by some sort of latter-day heathen sect,’ Karim says. ‘We’ll have to consider it as one of our theories.’
One of what theories? Malin thinks. She can see the headlines before her: SECT KILLING! HEATHEN GROUP REVEALED.
‘What did I say?’ Johan says. ‘It’s got ritual written all over it.’ No triumph in his voice, just a blunt statement of fact.
‘Do we know of any sects of that sort? Heathen sects?’ Borje Svard throws the question across the room.
Zeke leans back. Malin can see scepticism spreading through his body.
‘We aren’t aware of any sects of that nature right now,’ Sven says. ‘But that isn’t to say that there aren’t any.’
‘If there are,’ Johan says, ‘they’ll be on the net.’
‘But going to such lengths,’ Borje says. ‘I mean, it’s pretty far-fetched.’
‘There are things in our society that we’d rather not think are possible,’ Karim says. ‘It feels like I’ve seen most of them.’
‘Johan and Borje,’ Sven says, ‘you start looking into this business of sacrifices and sects on the net, while Malin and Zeke talk to Professor Soderkvist and see what he’s got to say for himself. He’ll be expecting you this evening in the faculty.’
‘Okay,’ Johan says. ‘I can do this at home this evening. I think we can get a long way just by surfing around the net. If there’s anything out there. But that means we’ll have to drop the stolen painting.’
‘Drop it,’ Karim says. ‘This is bigger.’
‘It’s best not to have any preconceptions at all as far as this is concerned,’ Sven says.
‘Okay, what else?’ Karim, encouraging, almost parodically so.
‘We’ve sent the window-pane from his flat to the Laboratory of Forensic Science for analysis,’ Malin says. ‘If possible, we want to know what made those holes. According to Karin Johannison, the edge of the holes might be able to give us an answer.’
Karim nods. ‘Good. We can’t leave any stone unturned. What else?’
Malin tells them what she and Zeke have found out during the day, concluding with the fact that she spent the drive back from social services in Ljungsbro calling three of the numbers on the list, without getting any answer.
‘We ought to talk to his sister as well; she’s now known as Rebecka Stenlundh.’
‘Drive down to Jonkoping tomorrow and try to get hold of her.’
‘But don’t expect too much,’ Sven says. ‘Considering the bloody awful start she got in life, anything could have happened to her.’
‘You’re not fucking trying.’
Johan Jakobsson is standing over her with his hands round the bar.
Seventy kilos.
The same as she weighs. Her back is pressed hard against the bench, the bar pushing down, down, down, as she fades away beneath the weight.
Sweat.
