Stina Ekstrom looks at her.
‘Are you all right?’
Malin coughs, says: ‘I think it must be an allergic reaction.’
‘I’ve got two other children,’ Stina Ekstrom says, and Malin smiles as she wipes the tears from her eyes.
‘Did you feel any hatred towards the lad who was driving?’
‘It was an accident.’
Malin sits in silence for a few moments, then leans forward.
‘We’ve received information that suggests that Jerry Petersson was behind the wheel that night, and that he was drunk.’
Stina Ekstrom says nothing, nor does the look in her eyes change.
‘He’s supposed to have persuaded Jonas Karlsson to say. .’
‘I understand,’ Stina Ekstrom says. ‘I’m not stupid. And now you’re wondering if I knew, or found out about it, and decided to go and murder. .’
‘We don’t think anything of the sort.’
‘But you’re here.’
Malin looks into Stina Ekstrom’s eyes.
‘I lost a lot that night. My husband and I got divorced a few years later. We couldn’t talk about Andreas, and in the end it was like there was nothing left except silence. But regardless of who was driving, there’s no anger left, no hatred. The grief is still here, but it’s just one of the many background notes that make up a life.’
‘Was there anyone else who was particularly upset?’
‘Everyone was upset. But it’s a long time ago now.’
‘Andreas’s dad?’
‘He can answer that himself.’
Zeke is with him now, out in Malmslatt.
‘What about the Fagelsjo family? Did they pass on their sympathies?’
‘No. I got the impression they were trying to pretend it never happened. Not on their land, and not after a party organised by their son.’
Malin closes her eyes. Feels bloated and nauseous.
‘Can I ask what you do for a living?’ she goes on. ‘Or are you retired?’
‘Not for another four years. I work part-time at a day centre for people with learning difficulties. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, really,’ Malin says, getting up and holding out her hand over the table. ‘Thanks for seeing me. And for the coffee.’
‘Take a bun with you.’
Malin reaches for the plate, takes a bun and soon the soft dough is filling her mouth.
Cinnamon. Cardamom.
‘Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing on the night between Thursday and Friday last week?’
Malin swallows and smiles.
‘What were you doing?’
‘I was here at home. I spent half the night chatting on the Internet. You can check my log if you need to.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Malin says.
Stina Ekstrom gets up and leaves the room. She comes back with a pack of chewing-gum.
‘Take a couple,’ she says amiably. ‘Before you meet your colleagues.’
Malin parks the car outside Folkunga School.
She switches off the engine, hears the rain almost trying to force its way through the bodywork, puts her hands on the wheel and breathes in and out, in and out, pretending that Tove is sitting next to her, that she can throw her arms around her and hug her hard, so hard.
Malin stares at the entrance, the broad steps leading up to the castle-like building with doors that are three times the height of the pupils themselves. The mature oak trees around the school are trying desperately to cling onto the last of their sunset-coloured leaves, and seem to think that the world will end if their leaves go.
You’re in there somewhere, Tove. Malin doesn’t know her timetable. What lesson would she have now? Swedish, maths? All she has to do is go in and ask at reception, then find the classroom and take Tove out for coffee and a hug. But I reek of drink, don’t I? Unless the chewing-gum has helped?
I hope Tove comes out during her break. Then I can see her, run up to her, maybe say sorry, or just look at her from here in the car. Maybe she’ll come over if I manage to see her. But she probably won’t come out in the rain.
I’m going in.
Malin opens the car door and puts one foot on the ground, sees a few students cross the school yard, their shadowless motion framed by the windswept oaks, as old as the school itself.
She pulls her foot back. Closes the door. Puts her shaking hands on the wheel, willing them to stop, but they won’t obey. She takes deep breaths. Needs a drink. But she manages to hold the thought at bay, with all her strength.
There. Now the shaking has stopped.
She pulls out her mobile, dials Tove’s number. The message-service clicks in.
‘Tove, it’s Mum. I just wanted to let you know I’m home again. I thought maybe we could have dinner together this evening. Can you call me back?’
Malin turns the key in the ignition, and the car’s engine drowns out the rain.
She closes her eyes.
Inside her she sees a huge stone castle towering up through thick autumn fog.
Not Skogsa.
Another castle. A building she doesn’t recognise.
She lets her gaze settle over the moat.
Full of swollen, naked, white corpses, and small silvery fish gasping in the air. And a pulsating sense of fear.
42
Zeke runs across the car park towards the entrance to the police station. The damp is running down the old ochre-coloured barracks, which has been given a new lease of life as the home of the city’s police, courts and the National Forensic Laboratory.
He swears to himself about this fucking bastard weather, but knows there’s no point in cursing the forces of nature, it’s utterly pointless and gets you nowhere.
In the rain his thoughts go to Martin.
In the NHL. The lad already has enough money to be able to relax in the sun until his dying day.
And the grandchild I’ve hardly seen.
What am I up to?
Andreas Ekstrom’s father, Hans.
Only fifteen minutes since I left.
An angry old man in an old, run-down house. All hell broke loose when Zeke said that Jerry Petersson had probably been driving the car when his son died.
Hans Ekstrom got up from the chair where he was sitting in the kitchen and shouted at Zeke that that was all crap, and he wasn’t about to let some bastard show up and stir that all up again now that he’d finally managed to put it behind him.
Hans Ekstrom had refused to answer any questions after that, but to judge from his reaction, what Zeke told him came as a complete shock.
Which meant he had no reason to murder Jerry Petersson. Unless Hans Ekstrom was a really good actor. A
