They went into the consulting room together.
“It’s for her own good,” the doctor explained to Mans. “When she woke up she pulled the cannula out of her arm. We’ve given her a mild sedative, but-”
“Is she being held for questioning?” asked Mans. “Or has she been arrested?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Has any decision been taken about compulsory care? Is there a care order?”
“No.”
“Shit, it’s like the Wild West up here,” said Mans contemptuously. “You’ve got her lying here, tied up, with no order from the police, the prosecutor or the chief medical officer. That’s illegal curtailment of liberty. Prosecution, fines and a slap on the wrist from the authorities for you. But I’m not here to cause trouble. Tell me what’s happened, the police must have told you, untie her and get me a cup of coffee. In return I’ll sit quietly in her room and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid when she wakes up. And I won’t make trouble for the hospital either.”
“But the information the police passed on to me is classified,” said the doctor halfheartedly.
“Give some, get some,” Mans replied laconically.
A little while later Mans was leaning back on the uncomfortable chair next to Rebecka’s bed. His left hand was gently clasping her fingers, and in the other hand he had a cup of scalding coffee in a plastic cup in a brown holder.
“Bloody girl,” he muttered. “Wake up so I can tell you off.”
Darkness. Then darkness and pain. Rebecka opens her eyes carefully. On the wall above the door is a large clock. The minute hand quivers each time it jumps to the next mark. She screws up her eyes, but can’t make out what it says, or if it’s day or night. The light stabs at her eyes like knives. Burns a hole of pain into her head. It explodes in a thousand pieces. Every breath is pain and agony. Her tongue is stuck fast to the top of her mouth. She closes her eyes again and sees Vesa Larsson’s terrified face before her. “Don’t do it, Rebecka. You won’t be able to live with yourself.”
Back into the darkness. Down. Deeper. Downward. Away. The pain recedes. And she is dreaming. It’s summer. The sun is blazing down from a blue sky. The bumblebees weave about drunkenly between the midsummer flowers and the yarrow. Her grandmother is kneeling on the jetty down by the river, scrubbing rag rugs. She has made the soap herself from lye and fat. The scrubbing brush moves back and forth over the stripes on the rug. The faint breeze from the river keeps the mosquitoes away. On the edge of the jetty sits a child with her feet in the water. She has caught a water boatman in a jam jar with a hole in the lid. She is fascinated, watching the large beetle swimming around inside the jar. Rebecka begins to walk down to the water. She is strangely aware that she is dreaming, and mumbles quietly to herself: “Let me see her face. Let me see what she looks like.” Then Johanna turns and catches sight of her. She holds the jam jar triumphantly up to show Rebecka as her lips form the word “Mummy.”
It was almost a Christmas card. But not really. Three wise men looking down at the sleeping child. But the child was Rebecka Martinsson and the men Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post, the lawyer Mans Wenngren and Inspector Sven-Erik Stalnacke.
“She’s killed three people,” said von Post. “I can’t just let her go.”
“It’s a textbook example of self-defense,” said Mans Wenngren. “Surely you can see that? Besides which, she’s the hero of the hour. Believe me, the newspapers are already busy cooking up a real Modesty Blaise story. Saved two children, killed all the bad guys… You need to ask yourself what role you want to play. The heap of shit who goes after her and tries to put her behind bars? Or the nice guy who gets to join in and share the glory?”
The assistant chief prosecutor’s gaze flickered away. Flew to Sven-Erik, where there was no support to be had, not even the smallest stick to lean on. Wandered back to the yellow hospital blanket, neatly tucked in under Rebecka’s mattress.
“We had thought we’d try to keep the media out of it,” he said tentatively. “I mean, the dead pastors had families. A certain amount of consideration…”
Beneath his moustache Sven-Erik Stalnacke sucked air in through his teeth.
“It’s going to be difficult to keep the press and TV out of it,” said Mans casually. “The truth has a way of leaking out somehow.”
Von Post fastened his coat.
“All right, but she’s got to be interrogated. She’s going nowhere until then.”
“Of course. As soon as the doctors say she’s up to it. Anything else?”
“Call me when she’s ready to be interviewed,” said von Post to Sven-Erik, and disappeared through the door.
Sven-Erik Stalnacke took off his padded jacket.
“I’ll go and sit in the corridor,” he said. “Let me know when she wakes up. There’s something I want to say to her. I was thinking of getting a coffee and a snack from the machine. Can I get you anything?”
Rebecka woke up. In less than a minute a doctor was leaning over her. Big nose and big hands. Broad back. Looked like a black-smith in disguise in his white coat. He asked how she was feeling. She didn’t reply. Behind him stood a nurse with a caring and not too broad smile on her face. Mans by the window. Looking out, although he couldn’t possibly see anything other than a reflection of himself and the room behind him. Fiddled with the blind. Closed, opened. Closed, opened.
“You’ve gone through quite an ordeal,” said the doctor. “Both physically and mentally. Sister Marie here is going to give you something to calm you down, and a little more pain relief if you need it.”
The last remark was a question, but she didn’t answer. The doctor got up, nodding to the nurse.
The injection worked after a while. She could breathe normally without it hurting.
Mans sat down by the bed and looked at her in silence.
“Thirsty,” she whispered.
“You’re not allowed to drink properly yet. You’re getting what you need through the drip, but just wait a while.”
He got up. She brushed his hand.
“Don’t be angry,” she croaked.
“Don’t start,” he said as he walked toward the door. “I’m bloody furious.”
After a while he came back with two white plastic cups. In one of them was water so that she could rinse her mouth. In the other two ice cubes.
“You’re allowed to suck these,” he said, rattling the ice cubes. “There’s a policeman here who wants to talk to you. Are you up to it?”
She nodded.
Mans waved Sven-Erik in, and he sat down by her bed.
“The girls?” she asked.
“They’re fine,” said Sven-Erik. “We got to the cabin quite soon after… after it was all over.”
“How?”
“We went into Curt Backstrom’s apartment and realized we had to find you. We can talk about all that later, but we found a number of rather unpleasant things. In his refrigerator and freezer, among other places. So we went to the house in Kurravaara, the address you’d given the police. But there was nobody there. We actually broke in. Then we went to the nearest neighbor.”
“Sivving.”
“He was able to lead us to the cabin. The eldest girl told us what happened.”
'But the girls are all right?'
“Definitely. Sara’s cheek was frostbitten. She’d been outside trying to start the snowmobile.”
Rebecka whimpered. “But I told her.”
“It’s nothing serious. They’re here in the hospital with their mother.”
Rebecka closed her eyes.
“I want to see the girls.”
Sven-Erik rubbed his chin and looked at Mans. Mans shrugged his shoulders.
“She did save their lives after all.”
