'Yes, we did that last night when we confirmed that it was indeed arsenic poisoning. No visitors are allowed at all, except the relevant medical personnel. His stepdaughter was just here and asked after him. I told her only that his condition was stable and that they couldn't see him yet.'
'Good,' said Patrik.
'Do you know who did it?' the doctor asked cautiously.
Patrik thought for a moment before he replied. 'We have our suspicions. Hopefully we'll have them confirmed today.'
'I hope so. Anyone capable of something like this shouldn't be on the loose. Arsenic poisoning causes particularly painful symptoms before the onset of death. The victim goes through terrible suffering.'
'So I understand,' said Patrik grimly. 'I hear there's a disease that can be mistaken for arsenic poisoning.'
The doctor nodded. 'Guillain-Barre, yes. The body's own immune system begins to attack the nerves and destroys the myelin sheath. That produces very similar symptoms to arsenic poisoning. If you hadn't phoned us it's not too far-fetched to believe that we might have come up with that diagnosis.'
Patrik smiled. 'Well, it's nice to get lucky sometimes.' Then he turned serious again. 'But as I said, make sure that no one is allowed in his room. Then we'll do our job as best we can this afternoon.'
They shook hands, and Patrik went back out to the corridor. He thought for a moment that he glimpsed Charlotte in the distance. Then the door closed behind him.
GOTEBORG 1958
It was on a Tuesday when her life reached its absolute nadir. A cold, grey, foggy Tuesday in November that would be eternally imprinted in her memory. Although actually she didn't remember very many details. She mostly recalled that friends of her father came and told her that Mother had done something terrible and that Mary would have to go with the lady from social welfare. She had seen in their faces that they felt qualms of conscience that they couldn't take her home with them at least for a few days. But none of Father's snooty friends probably wanted to have such a disgustingly fat girl like herself in their homes. So in the absence of any relatives, she'd had to pack a bag with the bare necessities and go with the little old lady who came to collect her.
The years that followed she later remembered only in her dreams. Not really nightmares; she actually had no reason to complain about the three foster homes where she ended up until she turned eighteen. But they left her with an all-consuming feeling that she meant nothing to anyone, other than as a curiosity. For that was what a girl became if she was fourteen, obscenely fat, and the daughter of a murderess. Her various foster parents had neither the desire nor the energy to get to know the girl who had been assigned to them by social welfare. On the other hand, they had nothing against gossiping about her mother when their curiosity- seeking friends and acquaintances came to visit to gawk at Mary. She hated every last one of them.
Most of all she hated Mother. Hated her because she had abandoned her only daughter. Hated her because Mary had meant so little to her compared with a man; she was prepared to sacrifice everything for him, but nothing for her daughter. When she thought about what she'd sacrificed for Mother, the humiliation felt even greater. Mother had merely been using her, she saw that now. During her fourteenth year she also understood what she should have realized long ago. That Mother had never loved her. She had tried to convince herself that what Mother said was true. That she did what she did because she loved Mary. The beatings, the cellar, and the spoonfuls of Humility. But it wasn't true. Mother had enjoyed hurting Mary because she really despised her and laughed at her behind her back.
That's why Mary had chosen to take only one thing with her from home. They had let her go around the flat for an hour to select a few things; the rest would be sold, just like the flat. She had wandered through the rooms as the memories passed through her mind: Father in his easy chair with his glasses on the tip of his nose, deeply engrossed in a newspaper; Mother at her dressing table, busy getting ready for a party; herself, sneaking down to the kitchen to try and find something to stuff in her mouth. All the images came over Mary as if in a crazy kaleidoscope, and she felt her stomach turn over. The next second she rushed to the toilet and vomited up a foul-smelling mess that brought tears to her eyes. Sniffling she wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand, sat down with her back to the wall and cried with her head between her knees.
When she left the flat she only took along a single thing. The blue wooden spoon. Full of Humility.
No one had voiced any objections to Niclas taking a day off. Aina had even muttered something to the effect that it was about time, and then cancelled all his appointments for the day.
Niclas crawled about on the floor chasing Albin, who was running around like mad among all the things scattered on the floor. He was still dressed in pyjamas although it was past noon. But it didn't matter. It was going to be one of those days; even Niclas was still dressed in the same T-shirt and jogging trousers he'd slept in. Albin laughed heartily in a way Niclas had never heard him do before, which made him crawl even faster after him and roughhouse even more.
With a pang in his chest he realized that he had no memory of himself playing with Sara the same way. He had always been so busy. So full of his own importance and everything he wanted to do and achieve. Feeling a little superior, he had left all that playing and fooling around with the kids to Charlotte, who did it so well. But for the first time he wondered whether he wasn't the one who'd drawn the blank lot. Something suddenly occurred to him that made him stop short and take a quick breath. He didn't know what Sara's favourite game had been. Or what kids' show she most liked to watch on TV, or if she liked colouring with a blue or red crayon. Or what was her favourite subject in school, or which book she most liked for Charlotte to read to her at bedtime. He knew nothing of importance about his daughter. Absolutely nothing. She could just as well have been the neighbours' daughter, judging by how little he knew about her. The only thing he thought he'd known was that she was difficult, obstinate and aggressive. That she hurt her little brother, destroyed things in their home, and attacked her schoolmates. But none of those things had been Sara – they were just things she did.
The realization made him curl up on the floor in torment. Now it was too late to get to know her. She was gone.
Albin seemed to feel that something was wrong. He stopped his wild hooting, crept close to Niclas and curled up like a little animal against his body. Then they lay there, next to each other.
Several minutes later the doorbell rang. Niclas gave a start and Albin looked around nervously.
'Don't worry,' said Niclas to him. 'It's probably just some stranger selling something.'
He picked the boy up and went to open the door. Outside stood Patrik with some unfamiliar men behind him.
'What it is now?' said Niclas wearily.
'We have a warrant to search the house,' said Patrik, holding out a document as proof.
'But you've already been here once,' said Niclas, bewildered, as he scanned the document. When he was halfway through his eyes grew wide and he gave Patrik a confused look. 'What the hell is this? Attempted murder of Stig Florin? You've got to be kidding.'
But Patrik wasn't laughing. 'I'm afraid not. He's being treated right now for arsenic poisoning. He barely made it through the night.'
'Arsenic poisoning?' said Niclas in surprise. 'But how…?' He still couldn't grasp
