The Darkest Room

cottages?”

“Breaking and entering is one of the key targets for the local police force,” said Holmblad. “We will be making it a priority to solve these cases and to bring the perpetrators to justice.”

Tilda was standing behind her boss like a dummy, her back stiff and her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was the only woman present, but would have preferred to be anywhere but Marnas on this particular day. She would also have preferred to be someone else-not a police officer, at any rate. The uniform was too thick and too tight; it was suffocating her.

And she didn’t want to stand so close to her new colleague, Hans Majner.

The father of the family over on Eel Point, Joakim Westin, had written a critical letter to Olands- Posten three days ago, about the police mix-up between his dead wife and his living daughter. He hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular by name, but after the letter had appeared Tilda thought that people on the streets of Marnas had begun to stare at her in a different way, scrutinizing and judging her. And last night Holmblad had called her to say that she had to go out to Eel Point with him-to apologize.

“… and finally I have a couple of items for our new local police team, Hans Majner and Tilda Davidsson. The keys to the station and this…” Inspector Holmblad picked up a rectangular brown parcel that had been leaning against a desk. He opened it and took out an oil painting of a sailing ship, a three-masted ship out at sea in the middle of a violent storm. “This is a gift from Borgholm… a symbolic way of showing that we are all in the same boat.”

Holmblad handed over the painting and a bunch of keys each to Majner and Tilda with great ceremony. Majner unlocked the station door and invited everyone in with a sweeping gesture.

Tilda stepped to one side and let the men go in first.

The office had recently been cleaned, and the floor was spotless. On the walls were maps of Oland and the Baltic. Holmblad had ordered open-faced prawn sandwiches, which were laid out on a coffee table between Majner’s and Tilda’s workstations.

There were already several piles of paper on Tilda’s desk. She picked up one of the plastic folders and went over to her colleague.

Majner was standing by his own desk tucking into the sandwiches. He was talking to two male colleagues from Borgholm, who were laughing at something he’d just said.

“Hans, could you spare a moment?”

“Absolutely, Tilda.” Majner smiled at his colleagues and turned to her. “What is it?”

“I’d really like to talk about your message.”

“What message?”

“The message about the death at Eel Point.” Tilda moved to one side and Majner followed her. “You recognize this, I presume?”

She held up the piece of paper she had placed in the folder the day after she had received it from Majner. This was her proof.

Three names were written in ink on the note. The first was Livia Westin. The second was Katrine Westin. The third was Gabriel Westin.

Next to Livia’s name was a cross: †

“So?” said Majner, nodding. “Those were the names I got from the emergency call center.”

“Exactly,” said Tilda. “And you were supposed to mark the name of the person who drowned. That’s what I asked you to do.”

Majner was no longer smiling.

“And?”

“You put the cross in front of Livia Westin’s name.”

“Yes?”

“But that was wrong. It was the mother, Katrine Westin, who had drowned.”

Majner speared a few prawns with his fork and stuffed them in his mouth. He seemed completely uninterested in the conversation.

“Okay,” he said, munching on his prawns. “A mistake. Even the police make a mistake sometimes.”

“Yes, but it was your mistake,” said Tilda. “Not mine.”

Majner looked up at her.

“So you don’t trust me?” he said.

“Well, yes, but…”

“Good,” said Majner. “And just remember…”

“Are you two getting to know each other?” a voice interrupted them.

Inspector Holmblad had come to join them. Tilda nodded.

“We’re trying,” she said.

“Good. Don’t forget we’re going out after this, Tilda.”

Holmblad nodded and smiled and moved on, over to the reporter and photographer from the local paper.

Majner patted Tilda on the shoulder.

“It’s important to be able to rely on a colleague, Davidsson,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”

She nodded.

“Good,” said Majner. “Right or wrong… a police officer must be sure that he or she will always have backup. If anything happens.”

Then he turned his back on her and returned to his colleagues.

Tilda stood there, still wishing she was somewhere else.

“Right, Davidsson,” said Gote Holmblad half an hour later, when three quarters of the sandwiches had been eaten and the rest put away in the refrigerator. “We’d better get to our little meeting. We’ll take my car.”

At this point Tilda and the inspector were alone in the newly opened police station. Hans Majner had been one of the first to leave.

By this stage Tilda had decided she wasn’t even going to try to like him.

She put on her uniform cap, locked the station door, and went out to the car with Holmblad.

“We’re under no obligation to make a visit like this,” Holmblad explained when they were sitting in the car. “But Westin has called Kalmar a couple of times wanting to speak to me or someone else in authority, so I thought it would be a good idea to have a conversation with him face-to-face.” He started the car, pulled away from the sidewalk, and went on: “The important thing is to avoid official complaints and investigations. A visit like this isn’t an official gesture, but it usually clears up most misunderstandings.”

“I contacted Westin a few days after his wife’s death,” said Tilda, “but he wasn’t interested in talking at the time.”

“I can try to reason with him on this occasion,” said Holmblad. “That might work better. I mean, it isn’t a question of apologizing, but rather-”

“I have nothing to apologize for,” said Tilda. “I wasn’t the one who supplied the wrong information.”

“No?”

“It was a colleague who gave me a note with a mark next to the wrong name. I just read it out.”

“Oh? But as you know, it’s best not to inform relatives of a death over the telephone. I think we all have to accept responsibility for the fact that routine procedure wasn’t followed on this occasion.”

“That’s what my colleague said,” said Tilda.

They left Marnas and drove along the coast road, south toward Eel Point. The road was completely deserted this afternoon.

“I’ve been thinking about buying myself a house on the island for a long time,” said Holmblad, glancing across at the meadows along the shoreline. “Here on the eastern side.”

“Oh yes?”

“It really is beautiful here.”

“Yes,” said Tilda. “This is where my family comes from, the villages around Marnas. My father’s side of the family.”

“I see. Was that why you came back?”

“One of the reasons,” said Tilda. “The job was attractive too.”

“The job, yes,” said Holmblad. “Today it begins in earnest.”