moment before accelerating forward. Left into Backavagen, then left again up Sundsliden.
Ylva knew there was no point, but still screamed in loud desperation when she saw the top of the car pass by outside.
They’d gone out. What did that mean? Who had Mike contacted? What did he think?
It was quite easy to imagine what he was thinking. Maybe he couldn’t stand waiting. Or he was driving Sanna over to his mother’s as a precautionary measure. So that she wasn’t there for the fight that Mike thought was in the offing.
Why didn’t he ring the police? Or had he phoned them and been told to wait?
The officer on duty that he’d spoken to would then put down the phone and roll his eyes at a colleague and pour another cup of coffee.
Sanna had skipped down to the car as usual. She had no idea.
It was harder to guess what Mike was feeling. One of his most distinguishing traits was the fear of losing control, even though at heart he was a crybaby. Mike was far more a victim of his gender than Ylva had ever been.
He must at least have phoned the hospital. She would have done that. If nothing else, for tactical reasons, a means of reproach.
A double martyr. Considerate and betrayed.
‘Why do you keep looking at your mobile?’
Sanna sent her dad an accusing look.
‘I don’t.’ He smiled sheepishly.
‘You do, all the time.’
‘I’m just checking to see if Mummy’s called.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘Don’t you know where she is?’
Sanna found that hard to understand and Mike felt the tears well up in his eyes.
‘All I know is that she’s out with her friends. That is to say, she was. They went out together yesterday. They were probably out late, so she stayed over with one of them.’
‘But she hasn’t phoned?’
‘Look!’ Mike said, and pointed out to the right.
Sanna turned around and Mike swiftly wiped the corners of his eyes.
‘What?’ Sanna asked.
‘The bird, the big bird over there.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, it’s flown away.’
‘I didn’t see a bird.’
‘Didn’t you? It was a big one, maybe an eagle. Have you ever seen an eagle? They look like a flying door. Mummy will be home soon. I’m sure she’ll be there waiting for us, when we get back from Vala.’
‘I still think she could phone,’ Sanna said.
16
I can’t say that I’m sorry.
Jorgen’s words had engraved themselves in Calle Collin’s mind. The worst thing was that they were spontaneous. Jorgen hadn’t said it to be mean, it was an instinctive reaction to the news that Anders Egerbladh had been murdered.
Calle looked up the hammer murder on the Internet. After surfing for half an hour, he had the basic facts. Anders Egerbladh, who all the articles stated was thirty-six, had been beaten to death on Sista Styverns Trapp, a flight of wooden steps that went from Fjallgatan up to Stigbergsgatan. The murder weapon, a hammer, had been left at the scene of the crime, but had no fingerprints on it.
The murder was described as bestial. The level of violence indicated an intense hate for the victim, and the police were working on the hypothesis that the victim and the killer knew each other. A bunch of flowers had been found at the scene, which was assumed to indicate that the thirty-six-year-old had been on his way to visit a woman. And reading between the lines, a married woman.
The best articles were written by a crime reporter from an evening paper where Calle Collin had once wasted six months of his professional life. He got the feeling that the reporter knew more than he was sharing with his readers. Calle didn’t know the journalist personally, but he did know one of the editors. If she put a word in for him, he might be able to talk to the reporter.
Calle had worked as a temp on the paper’s women’s page, where all the articles were based on the first commandment of McCarthy feminism: that there was no difference between men and women, except that men are by nature evil and women are by nature good.
Headlines and angles were pre-set and the editorial work consisted simply of putting together arguments that backed the claim and eliminating anything that might oppose it. Without so much as batting an eye, journalists on the page took to task anyone who dared to question their machinations in the name of the cause.
The fact that many of those who were hounded, and whose lives and actions were scorned, were in fact good role models for equality was neither here nor there if they so much as hinted, in even a subclause, that they may have a different opinion.
All in all, this meant that what were essentially important questions were often ridiculed, and those six months working at the supplement had instilled in Calle Collin a permanent distrust of public debate. The only positive thing about his time there was that he had got to know one of the editors, a wise woman with a big heart. When Calle had had enough after six months, she asked whether he would perhaps prefer to go down to the news desk.
‘If I was interested in news, I would’ve gone to a newspaper,’ Calle had replied.
For a long time after, he was frequently quoted by the editorial team. Most people laughed, even agreed with him, but the arts editor was furious and had sworn that, as far as he could, he would make sure that Calle never set foot in the place again.
Calle picked up the receiver and dialled the wise woman with the big heart.
17
The uglier a place was, the more people thronged there. The national parks were almost deserted, but every revolting shopping centre in the country was full to bursting with people with no taste, empty eyes and a fat wallet.
And nowhere was worse or more repulsive than Vala shopping centre. And yet Mike went there at least once a week. Because you could get everything there, even free parking. Just load the car and drive home.
Ylva was happy to wander round the same shops, weekend in and weekend out, and with a keen eye pick out
