Midwinter Sacrifice

rhythm.

Zeke goes on: ‘Five years each. Minimum. Breaking and entering, theft of weapons, possession of illegal firearms, poaching, and if we find traces of human blood then you’ll be charged with murder as well. If we find his blood.’

‘Breaking and entering? What breaking and entering?’ Elias Murvall says.

His mother: ‘Shh, not a word.’

‘You don’t think we can get you on the machine guns?’

‘Never,’ Elias whispers. ‘Never.’

Malin can see how something in Elias Murvall’s tone of voice pushes Zeke over the edge; she’s seen it before, how his floodgates seem to open and his entire being turns to action, a mix of muscles, adrenalin and the here and now. He flies round the table in a single movement. Grabs Elias Murvall by the neck and forces his head down on to the wooden tabletop, pressing so hard that his cheek turns white.

‘You fucking primitive,’ Zeke whispers. ‘I’m going to pluck the feathers from your arse and shove them right down your throat.’

‘Keep calm, Jakob,’ the mother says. ‘Keep calm.’

‘Did you kill him, you bastard, did you do it? Out there in the workshop? Like some fucking dog, then you strung him up in the tree for all to see, to show the whole of this fucking plain what happens if you mess with the Murvall family, is that how it was?’

‘Let go of me,’ Elias Murvall snarls, and Zeke presses harder. ‘Let go of me,’ he whimpers, and Zeke lets go, pulls his arms away.

That iron core, Malin thinks. You’d take the brothers on one by one or together if need be, wouldn’t you?

‘I understand,’ Malin says calmly when Zeke has returned to their side of the table. ‘If you couldn’t let go of the thought that Bengt might have raped your sister, if you wanted to do something about it, just because. People will understand.’

‘What do we care what people think?’ Jakob Murvall says.

Their mother leans back in her chair, folds her arms over her chest.

‘Not at all, Mother,’ Elias Murvall says.

‘Hasn’t it gone far enough now?’ Zeke says. ‘We’re bound to find Bengt’s blood in the pick-up and then we’ll have enough to charge you.’

‘You won’t find any of his blood there.’

‘You must have been so angry. Did you give in to it last Thursday? Was it time for revenge?’ Malin says in her gentlest voice, with her most sympathetic look in her eyes.

‘Take the boys for poaching and possession of firearms,’ the mother suddenly says. ‘But they don’t know anything about the rest of it.’

But you know, don’t you? Malin thinks.

‘But you know, don’t you?’

‘Me? I don’t know anything. But tell her about the hunting, boys, about the cabin by the lake, tell her so we can put an end to this nonsense.’

39

The cabin, Malin.

The forest.

Things crawling between the tree trunks out there in the cold.

The brothers and the mother.

Were they the ones who hurt me, Malin? Who shot through my window, who strung me up in a tree? Who gave my body all its injuries?

They’re resisting. Trying to keep what’s theirs.

Or was it the young lads?

The believers?

The questions never stop.

Talk to the young boys’ parents, Malin, I know that’s what you’re going to do now, you and Zacharias. Find clarity. Come closer to the truth that you think you seek.

Somewhere out there is the answer.

Somewhere, Malin.

Follow the plan.

Move according to the prearranged plan. Don’t let go of anything until you know for sure.

Without preconceptions, Malin.

Sven Sjoman’s favourite words.