Reformed junkies and thugs, thought Anna-Maria.
She had written down the names and ID numbers of a few people she thought were worth following up.
Just when she had decided to ring Robert, her eye caught a note on a murder case. The verdict had been returned by the court in Gavle. Twelve years ago. Sentence: placed in a secure psychiatric unit. Nothing since then.
I wonder, she thought. Is he out on parole, or has he been discharged? I must check up on him.
She picked up the phone and rang home. Marcus answered. Sounded disappointed when it was only his mother.
“Tell Dad I’ll be late,” she said.
Rebecka went down to the kitchen. Sivving was just laying the table for dinner. He was putting out the same Duralex glasses, the cutlery with the black Bakelite handles and the everyday china with the yellow flowers that she remembered from when she was little. She’d often sat here in the kitchen talking to Maj- Lis and Sivving.
“It’s meatballs,” he said.
“I’m absolutely starving,” said Rebecka. “It smells terrific.”
“Two-thirds elk mince and one-third beef.”
“Where are the girls?”
He nodded toward the big room.
“Sivving,” said Rebecka, “can I borrow your snowmobile and the sledge trailer? I’m going up to the cabin in Jiekajarvi with the girls this evening.”
Sivving put the cast-iron pan on the table. He used a folded tea towel with Maj-Lis’s initials embroidered on it in red cross-stitch as a table mat.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
Rebecka nodded.
“We’re not in any danger,” she said. “But we can’t stay here. If Sanna’s parents come here asking for us, you don’t know where we are.”
“I see,” said Sivving. “There are padded scooter overalls here for both you and the children. And I’ll give you some food and dry wood to take with you. Bella and I will follow you up early tomorrow morning. But I’m not letting you go without some food inside you.”
Rebecka went into the other room. Lova and Sara had spread a newspaper out on the folding table and were painting stones with intense concentration. In the middle of the table lay a finished stone as an example. It was slightly bigger than a man’s clenched fist, and on it was painted a curled-up cat with big turquoise eyes.
“My grandchildren enjoyed doing that last summer,” said Sivving from the kitchen. “I thought it might be fun for Lova and Sara.”
From the kitchen Bella gave a warning bark.
“Quiet!” growled Sivving.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” he said to Rebecka. “Half an hour ago she set off barking just like that. It must be a fox or something. She didn’t wake you?”
Rebecka shook her head.
“Look, Rebecka, I’m painting Virku!” shouted Lova.
“Mmm, lovely,” replied Rebecka absently. “You can take the stones and the paints with you, because we’re going off on the snowmobile tonight-we’re going to sleep in my grandmother’s cabin.”
At quarter past six in the evening Rebecka drove the snowmobile across the road from Sivving’s on her way down to the river. She was wearing a balaclava and a fur hat, but she still had to blink fiercely to keep out the snow that was being whipped up against her face. The headlights were reflected back at her by the whirling snow, and she couldn’t see more than a meter or so in front of her. Sara and Lova were tucked up in the sledge trailer under rugs and reindeer skins, along with all their packages. You could just about see the tips of their noses.
She crossed her grandmother’s yard and stopped outside the house. She really ought to run upstairs and fetch the children’s pajamas. But there was every chance Sanna’s parents would turn up at that very moment. No, it was best not to linger. If she could just keep the girls out of the way until the next day, then the psychiatrist would talk to them. Then Social Services could take over, or whoever the hell it might be. At least she would have done what she could for them.
She put her foot down and drove down toward the river. The darkness closed behind her like a curtain. And the wind immediately covered their tracks with snow.
Curt Backstrom is standing like a shadow in her grandmother’s kitchen. He leans against the wall by the window and watches the headlights disappearing down toward the river. In his right hand he is holding a knife. He runs his forefinger cautiously along the blade to feel its sharpness. In one pocket of his snowsuit lie three black plastic sacks. In the other is the house key that he took out of Rebecka’s coat pocket. He has been standing here in the darkness for a long time, waiting. Now he allows his eyes to close for a little while. It feels good. His eyes are dry and burning.
The fox has her lair and the birds of the air have their nests, but the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.
Anna-Maria Mella was driving along Osterleden down toward Lombolo. It was quarter past ten at night. She was driving too fast. With a reflex action, Sven-Erik grabbed at the top of the glove compartment as the car skidded over the fresh snow on the road. His hand in its thick glove found nothing to hang on to.
The Obs department store on the right, a few pinpricks of light behind the curtain of snow. Stop at the roundabout, wheels spinning as she put her foot down. On the left the Space House, like a stranded silver alien spaceship. The signs glowing red. The residential area-Stenvagen, Klippvagen, Blockvagen, with their tenaciously cleared driveways and their well-stocked bird tables.
“His name is Curt Backstrom,” said Anna-Maria. “Convicted of murder twelve years ago, then sent to a secure psychiatric unit, as they used to call it. No notes since then.”
“Right. So tell me about the murder.”
“He stabbed his stepfather. Several times. His mother was watching and testified against her son. In the witness box she admitted she was scared of the boy.”
“Boy?”
“He was only nineteen. And he’s not here as a visitor at the conference. He lives here, down in Lompis. Tallplan 5B. Somebody down at the station in Gavle knew somebody in the court office. She went there after work and faxed everything over to me. Some people are easy to deal with.”
She pulled into the car park. Long rows of garages. Two-story wooden apartment blocks built in the late sixties. They got out of the car and started walking. Not a soul in sight, despite the fact that it was Friday night.
“The county court discharged him two years ago,” Anna-Maria went on. “He was still in contact with a community care unit in Gavle. Had regular shots, held down a job. But according to the records he moved to Kiruna in January last year. And according to the duty doctor at the psychiatric unit in Gallivare, he hasn’t had any contact with community care in Kiruna.”
“So…”
“So I don’t know, but presumably he hasn’t had the medication he needs for a year. And is that so odd? I mean, you’ve seen those tapes from the church. ‘Throw away your pills! God is your doctor!’ ”
They stood for a while outside the door. Two of the apartments were in darkness. Sven-Erik had his hand on the door handle. Anna-Maria lowered her voice.
“I asked the duty doctor what he thought might happen to a person who stopped their injections.”
“And…”
“And you know what they’re like… can’t comment on this particular case… varies from one individual to another… but in the end he admitted that it was perhaps possibly likely that he might get worse. Bad, even. Do you know what he said when I told him there was a church that thought people should throw away all their medication?”
Sven-Erik shook his head.
“He said: ‘Weak people are often drawn to the church. And people who want power over weak people are
