The voice as soft and sexy over the phone as on the radio.
‘Can you talk?’
‘We’ve got three minutes and twenty-two seconds until this track is over. But I can give us twice as long if I don’t bother to talk before the next one.’
‘I’ll get straight to the point, then. Did you know three brothers by the name of Murvall, who grew up out in Vreta Kloster?’
‘The Murvall brothers. Sure. Everyone knew them.’
‘Infamous?’
‘You could say that. They were always known as “the crazy Murvall brothers”. They were pretty nasty. But all the same . . . there was something tragic about them. You know, they were the ones who everyone knew would never turn into anything, but who rage and rebel against the system. You know, the ones who are sort of on the periphery right from the start. Who are, I don’t know, maybe doomed always to be outside normal society, knocking to get in. They were branded, somehow. They lived in Blasvadret. The worst, most windswept hellhole on the whole plain. That was Murvall family territory. I wouldn’t be surprised if they still live there.’
‘Do you remember Maria Murvall?’
‘Yes. She was the one who was going to make something of herself. She was in the parallel class to me.’
‘Did you hang out with her?’
‘No, she was sort of on the sidelines as well, somehow. As if she were branded the same way, like her good grades were almost, I don’t know, it sounds awful, but a meaningless attempt to break free. Her brothers protected her. There was one boy who tried to bully her about something, I forget what, and they sandpapered his cheeks. Two horrible wounds, but he didn’t dare tell anyone who did it.’
‘And the father?’
‘He did odd jobs. Blackie, that was his name. He was actually quite fair, but everyone called him Blackie. He had some sort of accident, broke his back and ended up in a wheelchair. Then he drank himself to death, although I think he’d already made a start on that. I’m pretty sure he broke his neck when he rolled down the stairs in their house.’
‘Mother?’
‘There were rumours that she was some sort of witch. But I dare say she was just an ordinary housewife.’
‘A witch?’
‘Gossip, Malin. A shitty little rural dump like Ljungsbro lives off rumour and gossip.’
The voice on the radio.
‘And this next track is for my good friend Malin Fors, the brightest star of Linkoping Police.’
Zeke chortles.
‘Carry on the good work, Malin. Soon you’ll be world-famous. Right now she’s investigating the case of Bengt Andersson, which everyone in the city has such an interest in. If you know anything about the case, call Malin Fors at Linkoping Police. Anything at all could help them.’
Zeke is chuckling louder now. ‘You’re going to get such a torrent of calls.’
The music starts.
‘Country Boy’ by Eldkvarn.
‘This is my love song. This is my time on earth . . .’
Plura Jonsson’s voice, tremulous with longing and sentimentality.
‘. . . I am what I am . . . a country boy, call me a country boy . . .’
What am I? Malin thinks.
A country girl?
Not out of love. Maybe out of obligation.
30
As the song on the radio ends, the phone on Malin’s desk rings.
‘That’s a bit quick,’ Zeke says.
‘Could be anything,’ Malin says. ‘Doesn’t have to be about the case.’
The phone seems to vibrate on its next ring, demanding to be taken seriously.
‘Malin Fors, Linkoping Police.’
Silence on the line.
Breathing.
Malin makes a quick gesture to Zeke, holding up her hand.
Then a gruff voice that’s only recently broken: ‘I was the one with the computer game.’
Computer game? Malin ransacks her memory.
