murder.
Anders Dalstrom, Andreas Ekstrom’s friend. Could he have found out who was driving and murdered him for the sake of his lost friendship?
Fredrik Fagelsjo. How does all this fit together? The threads of different lives singing in the darkness. Black birds squawking at them through the rain.
The bed, the world, spins around and around. What is it I’m missing? she thinks. What is it I’m not seeing?
How much wine have I drunk? Two glasses? Five? I’m probably OK to drive. Of course I can drive. There won’t be any patrols out at this time of night, will there?
The doors to the castle are locked.
Malin has brought with her the bottle of vodka she bought at the same time as the wine box, drinking straight from the bottle as she walks around the castle towards the chapel.
The raindrops seem to be leaping from the skies as if from a burning building.
Her cotton jacket, the thin one that she for some reason put on, is soon wet through and cold, and she coughs, stumbling along the edge of the dark forest towards the building.
A son murdered and laid out naked upon the family vault. The upstart in the moat. Privilege. Denial. Degeneration, and a party one cold New Year’s Eve. History like a pressure cooker for people’s souls.
The door to the chapel is locked. She doesn’t have a key, so she stands in the archway by the door looking in at the icons, or the place where the body lay. She drinks from the bottle, two warming mouthfuls, missing the sweet, nuanced taste of tequila.
But the rawness of the vodka matches this moment better.
The forest behind the chapel seems to be moving. Evil is on the move, slithering, and all the windows of the castle seem to be lit up, skulls grinning in the recesses, laughing at all her shortcomings, well aware that the dead, and death, always win.
What am I doing here?
I’m searching for a truth. Fleeing from another.
She throws the bottle of vodka in the moat.
Full again.
The black water greedily swallows the bottle. No fish now.
There’s a green glow from the cracks between the stones. Where does the light come from?
She can feel how she’s losing her grip on the world, but the rain anchors her to reality, and she walks around the castle a few times to clear her head before getting back in the car to wait, listening to ‘non-stop music’, a numbing racket that almost makes her fall asleep. She looks over towards the forest. Between the trees, scarcely visible in the darkness, the young snakes are there again. The shapes are there, but she can’t hear their collective voice, if it’s actually there at all. Maybe they’ve said all they wanted to say?
‘I’m not scared of you,’ Malin shouts towards the forest. ‘Fucking bastard snakes.’
She blinks, and the snakes are gone. All that’s left is darkness, and she almost misses the slithering creatures, doesn’t want to be without them. Then she hears the sound of a lawnmower, of feet trying to escape the blades.
She puts her hands over her ears and the sound disappears.
She feels almost sober a few hours later, as she turns the key in the ignition and leaves the castle and the spirits and souls behind her.
She drives past the field where the accident must have happened. Stops, but doesn’t get out.
The darkness and rain seem to shake figures out from the past, black souls that are still moving over the grass, the moss and the rocks, trying to escape what they are.
She drives on.
Increases her speed.
On the approach to Sturefors she passes a warning triangle by the side of the road. A hundred metres further on she sees a police patrol car, its lights on.
A uniformed officer she doesn’t recognise waves at her to pull over.
She wants to put her foot down.
Follow Fredrik Fagelsjo’s example.
Get away, but she stops.
The uniform raises an eyebrow when she winds down the window, an anxious look in his eyes.
‘Detective Inspector Fors,’ he says. ‘What are you doing out at this time of day?’
He is a mask, Malin thinks. A talking mask, with thin skin stretched over his cheekbones.
The uniform frowns.
‘I’m afraid I must ask you to blow into this.’
56
An implacable Sven Sjoman is standing inside the door of his office, having just closed it hard behind him once he’d fetched Malin from her desk, where she had been sitting in her most respectable white blouse, which she had even managed to iron that morning. She doesn’t know where Tove got to last night, she probably got the first bus out to Malmslatt. She hasn’t checked with her or Janne yet, didn’t want to wake them on a Saturday morning or answer any difficult questions, and if she hadn’t got home, Janne would have called. There was never any question of her staying over, even if Malin would have liked her to. Or was there? She hadn’t spoken to Janne before Tove arrived, she took it for granted that they had talked to each other. I ought to call Tove, Janne — what if she didn’t get home?
The look in Sven’s eyes.
Have to deal with this first.
He knows I got caught.
And when she thinks about how Tove left yesterday she feels sick with herself, wants to disappear far away and never come back.
The clock on the wall of Sven’s office says just after ten o’clock, no case meeting this morning seeing as they had one yesterday afternoon. Besides, it’s Saturday. But obviously a working Saturday, what with two fresh, unsolved murders.
Sven looks at Malin for a long time before saying in a loud voice: ‘I hope you appreciate what a fucking mess you’ve got us all into. Got yourself into.’
Malin wants to get up and shout at him that she couldn’t care less, that she isn’t asking for special treatment, but she stops herself, thinks better of it. Right now she just wants to cling on to what she still has.
‘I don’t know what got into me.’
‘One and a half parts per thousand, Malin. Drink-driving. The most obvious sign of an alcoholic. What the hell were you doing out there?’
‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘You don’t know what you are. Or what you’re doing.’
‘So charge me, then. Report me.’
