‘Do you know Christian? Why are you asking me questions about him? It was many years ago that he lived here. I hope nothing has happened to him.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ said Erica, assuming the role that she’d decided on during the drive to the city. ‘Christian is an author now, and I’m writing a big article about him, so I’m trying to find out a little about his background.’
‘Christian is an author? How about that! He always did have a book in his hand. And one whole wall in the flat was covered with books.’
‘Do you know what he did when he lived here? Where he worked?’
Janos Kovacs shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know. And I never asked. It’s important to respect a neighbour’s privacy. Not get too nosy. If someone wants to talk about himself, he will.’
That sounded like a healthy philosophy, and Erica wished that more people in Fjallbacka shared his attitude.
‘Did he have a lot of visitors?’
‘Never. I actually felt a little sorry for him. He was always alone. That’s not good for people. We all need company.’
He’s certainly right about that, thought Erica, hoping that Janos Kovacs himself had someone who came to visit now and then.
‘Did he leave anything behind when he moved? Maybe in the storage room?’
‘No, the flat was empty when I moved in. There was nothing.’
Erica decided to give up. Janos Kovacs didn’t seem to have any more information about Christian’s life. She thanked him and then politely but firmly refused his offer to take a sack of cakes home with her.
She was just stepping out the door when Kovacs stopped her.
‘Wait! I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Maybe I’m starting to get a little senile.’ He tapped his finger on his temple, then turned around and went into the main room of the flat. After a moment he came back, holding something in his hand.
‘When you see Christian, could you give these to him? Tell him that I did as he said and threw out all the post that came for him. But these… Well, I thought it seemed a bit odd to toss them in the bin. Considering that one or two have arrived every year since he moved out, it seems clear that someone is really trying to get hold of him. I never did get Christian’s new address, so I just put them aside. So if you wouldn’t mind giving them to him with my greetings.’ He smiled cheerfully and handed her a bundle of white envelopes.
Erica felt her hands start to shake as she took them from Janos.
There was suddenly an echoing silence in the house. Christian sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands. His temples were throbbing, and the itching had started up again. His whole body was burning, and he felt a stinging sensation when he began rubbing the cuts on the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, laying his cheek against the tabletop. He tried to sink into the silence and push away the feeling that something was trying to crawl out of his skin.
A blue dress. It fluttered past under his eyelids. Disappeared and then came back. The child in her arms. Why didn’t he ever see the child’s face? It was blank and featureless. Had he ever been able to picture it properly? Or had the child always been overshadowed by his enormous love for her? He couldn’t remember. It was so long ago.
He began to weep quietly, his tears slowly making a little puddle on the table. Then the sobs came, rising up from his chest and pouring out until his whole body was shaking. Christian raised his head. He had to make the images go away, make her go away. Otherwise he would burst and fall apart. He let his head sink heavily back on to the table, letting his cheek strike the surface full force. He felt the wood against his skin, and he raised his head again and again, pounding it against the hard tabletop. Compared with the itching and the burning inside his body, the pain almost felt good. But it did nothing to get rid of the images. She stood there just as clearly, large as life, right in front of him. She smiled and held out her hand towards him, so close that she could have touched him if only she reached a bit further.
Was that a sound from upstairs? Abruptly he stopped moving, with his head only centimetres from the table, as if someone had suddenly pressed the pause button on the film of his life. He listened, not moving a muscle. Yes, he did hear something overhead. It sounded like faint footsteps.
Christian slowly sat up. His entire body was tensed, on high alert. Then he got up from his chair and as quietly as possible made his way to the stairs. Holding on to the banister, he started up, keeping close to the wall where the creaking would be less. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something fluttering, quickly slipping past upstairs in the hall. Or was he imagining things? It was gone now, and the house was again silent.
A step creaked underfoot, and he held his breath. If she was up there, she would know that he was coming. Was she waiting for him? He felt a strange calm settle over him. His family was gone now. She couldn’t harm them any more. He was the only one here; it was between the two of them, just as it had been from the beginning.
A child whimpered. Was it really a child? He heard it again, but now it was more like one of the many sounds that an old house makes. Christian slowly climbed a few more steps to reach the next floor. The hallway was empty. The only sound was his own breathing.
The door to the boys’ room stood open. It was a mess inside. The techs from the police had made things even worse, with black spots from the fingerprint powder now covering the whole room. He sat down in the middle of the floor, facing the words written on the wall. At first glance, the paint still looked like blood.
He knew that she was right. He didn’t deserve them. Christian kept on staring at the words, letting the message sink into his consciousness. He needed to put everything right. Only he could make everything right. In silence he read the words again. He was the one she was after. And he knew where she wanted him to go. He would give her what she wanted.
‘This is going to be a short meeting.’ Patrik reached for a paper towel from the kitchen roll on the counter to wipe his forehead. He was sweating like crazy. He must be in much worse shape than he thought. ‘Here’s the situation: Kenneth Bengtsson is in the hospital. Gosta and Martin will tell us more about that in a minute.’ He gave them a nod. ‘And someone broke into Christian Thydell’s house last night. Whoever it was didn’t physically harm anyone, but they wrote a message in red paint on the wall in the children’s room. Obviously, the whole family is in shock. We have to assume that we’re dealing with someone who has a screw loose, and that means they’re dangerous.’
‘Of course I would have liked to come along this morning when you were called out.’ Mellberg cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately, I was not informed about what was happening.’
Patrik chose to ignore him and went on, turning to look at Annika.
‘Have you found out anything more about Christian’s background?’
Annika hesitated. ‘Possibly, but I’d like to double-check a few things first.’
‘Do that,’ said Patrik, and then turned to Gosta and Martin. ‘What did you find out when you talked to Kenneth? And how is he, by the way?’
Martin glanced at Gosta, who motioned for him to start.
‘His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but according to his doctors, it’s pure luck that he’s still alive. The pieces of glass really cut up his arms and legs badly. If any of the glass had punctured a major artery, he would have died out there on the jogging trail.’
‘The question is: what did the perpetrator intend? Did he, or she, merely want to injure Kenneth? Or was it attempted murder?’
No one even tried to answer Patrik’s question, so Martin continued:
‘Kenneth said that it was generally known that he took the same route every morning, and at exactly the same time. So in that sense, we can treat everyone in Fjallbacka as suspects.’
‘But we shouldn’t assume that whoever did this is from here. It could be someone who happens to be visiting,’ Gosta interjected.
‘How would a visitor to the area know about Kenneth’s morning routines? Doesn’t it seem more likely that the perpetrator lives here?’ asked Martin.
Patrik thought for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t think we can rule out someone who doesn’t live here. They may
