Autumn Killing

I can see both you and him clearly, you’re lying in your bed, and you’ve fallen asleep and are sleeping a dreamless sleep, a well-deserved rest after all that work trying to keep your impulses under control.

Axel is sitting at his kitchen table on Drottninggatan. He’s taken his beloved shotgun out of the gun cabinet in the bedroom.

He smells the gun, I’ve seen him do that before, and I don’t know why he does it. Now he’s locking the gun away in the cabinet again.

I don’t actually know what happened to me, Malin. I don’t remember anything. That seems to be unusual, from what I’ve been able to gather from talking to other people up here where I am.

But that doesn’t matter.

Because I’ve got you.

You’ll be able to tell me what my fate was.

You talk of your fate, Fredrik, but what do you know, my silver-spoon boy, about fate?

There’s no such thing as fate, just events that are the result of conscious actions.

When I ended up in the moat it was my own fault, no one else’s.

In the most fundamental sense, I caused that event myself.

You imagine, Malin, that you’re going to give me some sort of justice, reparation after death. As if I could have any use for that?

I don’t need anything from any of you.

I am already everything.

On Sunday a hard rain is lashing the ground, the people.

Malin stands in the window of her flat looking at the church tower, the way even the crows seem to be suffering in this wind.

She wants to hear Tove’s voice, meet her, they could have spent the whole day together now that Sven has forced her to take the day off.

But she doesn’t call her daughter, she does what Janne said, or at least what she thought he meant. She keeps her distance. Avoids her own reflection. If she were fourteen years old, she’d be slashing her wrists.

Instead she puts on her jogging clothes and runs twenty kilometres on various routes through Linkoping. She sweats under the tight fabric, the city disappears before her eyes and she feels her heart, feels that she can still trust its power.

Back home again, she calls the station. Waldemar Ekenberg tells her that nothing new has happened in the case.

She leafs through her papers about Maria Murvall. She prepares her talk at the kitchen table. The evening darkness settles outside the window.

Malin looks around the kitchen, thinking: I have nothing, I can’t even handle Tove. And will I ever get the chance again?

61

Monday, 3 November

There must be four hundred eyes, Malin thinks. And they’re all staring at me. I hope the collar of my beige blouse is sitting as it should under this pale blue lambswool sweater, and why the hell am I bothered what this lot think of the way I look?

The hall of Sturefors School is full, pupils tapping at their mobile phones. Malin is standing behind a lectern looking out over them, out at the hall she once sat in.

The headteacher, Birgitta Svensson, a woman in her fifties, wrinkled by smoking, and dressed in grey, is standing beside Malin, takes a deep breath and taps gently on a little black microphone with the fingers of one hand.

‘OK, let’s turn off our mobiles now.’

And to Malin’s surprise they listen to her.

With a chorus of bleeps the phones are switched off, and the voices fall to a murmur until there is silence in the hall.

The smell of damp cloth. Of teenagers’ sweet breath, of flaking plaster.

‘Standing beside me up here is Malin Fors, a detective inspector with the police. She’s going to talk to us about what the police do. Let’s make her very welcome.’

Wolf whistles. They all applaud and when silence settles once more Malin loses her train of thought and isn’t sure where to start, feeling a wave of withdrawal sickness course through her body, and she tries to focus on the clock on the wall.

09.09.

She’s supposed to talk for an hour, but about what?

The adolescents in front of her seem to know everything about the world, yet nothing at the same time. Calling them innocent would be a serious exaggeration, yet what do they know of violence? About human excess? Though a fair number must have seen more adult frustrations than they should have in their own homes.

Like Tove. My hand hitting Janne’s mouth. How could I?

Silence.

No words seem willing to cross Malin’s lips. A minute passes, then two.

The students are starting to squirm on their chairs.

‘Violence,’ Malin says. ‘I work with what we usually call violent crimes. Rapes, and abuse.’

She pauses again.

Sits it out.

‘And murder. And as I’m sure you’re aware, things like that do still happen in a peaceful city like Linkoping.’

Then the words flow by themselves, and she explains how a typical abuse case might be dealt with, about a few real cases, but none of the worst ones.

‘We do our best,’ Malin says. ‘Let’s just hope it’s enough.’

Her nausea remains subdued while she is talking, the adrenalin and concentration making her feel OK, but once the students start asking about the murders they are currently investigating, all the air goes out of her.

‘Well, I think that’s enough from me. Thank you,’ she says, stepping down from the stage before anyone has a chance to ask another question.

The whistling and applause start up again.

There’s something ritualistic about the whole situation.

They would have applauded and whistled even if I’d been talking about the Holocaust, Malin thinks.

Outside the hall the headteacher comes up to Malin.

‘That went well,’ she says. ‘You even got a few questions. That never usually happens. But I suppose they’re excited about what’s going on at the moment.’

‘It felt like they were listening,’ Malin says. ‘But as to whether they learned anything, what do I know?’

The headteacher takes Malin’s arm.

‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’

Malin wants to pull away, but the look in the woman’s eyes is strangely intense as she looks into Malin’s eyes and says: ‘I’m sure they learned a good deal, and we’re very grateful to you. Would you like a cup of coffee in the staffroom?’

To her own surprise, Malin hears herself say yes.

Lovisa Segerberg is alone in paperwork Hades.

Waldemar and Johan have gone out for coffee.

She wonders whether to switch on Fredrik Fagelsjo’s computer or look through one of the hundreds of folders