The rain that’s been falling on the way out stops when she arrives. The house in the forest looks abandoned, no light from the windows in the clearing containing the main building and workshop. The little clearing is actually a meadow, surrounded by dense mixed forest, and the whole site is reminiscent of a miniature Skogsa, but with the pomp and power replaced by subordination and a palpable fear of the horrors that could be lurking in the darkness of the forest.
Anders Dalstrom isn’t home, Malin thinks. Probably at work, in the old people’s home. But doesn’t he work nights?
She gets out of the car. Does up her black GORE-TEX jacket.
Anders Dalstrom’s red Golf is missing from the drive.
Malin goes over the gravel and up the steps to the porch, where she peers inside the house and looks at the posters on the walls.
Quiet out here in the forest.
He probably wishes he had a girlfriend, or a family. The failed folk singer, what must it have been like, having to watch Lars Winnerback’s success? Forty years old and working in an old people’s home. Not much of a career. Does composing music out here in the forest give you peace? Was that why you moved here? Or are you bitter about other people?
But where are you now? Malin thinks. I only want to ask you some simple questions.
She knocks on the front door, rings the bell, but there’s no sign of him.
She tries to look in through the other windows, but the curtains are drawn.
Oh well. The car’s not there, after all.
She turns around and looks out at the forest, wondering where Anders Dalstrom might be. In the workshop? She walks over, but the doors are closed. Open them? No. Or should I? No, that would be too intrusive.
She looks over at the forest again.
He’s watching her from the edge of the forest. The woman, the female detective. She’s on her own. Why? He thought they always travelled in pairs, for security. Why did she go over to the workshop? Does she think the Golf’s in there? It’s at the garage. Is she looking for another vehicle?
Should I rush over to her?
What’s she doing here, now? She ought to be looking elsewhere. But she’s probably just here to ask some questions?
Now she’s looking towards the forest, in his direction, and he ducks down, feels the wet fir needles and fallen twigs embrace him as long locks of hair fall over his eyes.
Did she see me? She can’t have seen me. And what’s she doing now? She seems to be taking a photograph of the sign on my door with her mobile.
Was that someone over there at the edge of the forest?
Malin isn’t sure, as she puts her mobile away. Anders Dalstrom could have been out in the forest hunting or picking mushrooms or something like that, and might now be on his way home. But he’s seen me and doesn’t want to talk to me.
Her pistol.
She’s got it with her. She showed it at the talk that morning, aware that the sight of a real gun always arouses the interest of teenagers.
Something green amidst all that grey.
She sets off towards the edge of the forest, crossing the waterlogged meadow, feeling her boots getting wet, but she wants to know what it was she saw.
Then a movement, something sliding away through the forest.
A person. A fox?
Impossible to tell. Malin pulls her pistol from its holster under her shoulder. Heads towards the forest, towards the darkness among the trees.
Anders Dalstrom is snaking through the forest, his long hair wet with rain.
She mustn’t see me. What’s she doing here? How could I explain why I’m trying to hide?
But he knows where he can go. There’s a fallen tree just twenty metres in, and its exposed roots have left a hole, invisible if you don’t know it’s there.
I’m slithering like the young snakes inside me now.
Soaking wet. And cold, but none of that matters. Down into the hole. Hope the roots don’t rock back into it. Into the hole, pull fallen branches over it. Stop breathing.
Where is he? Or whatever that was?
Malin checks the floor of the forest for tracks, but can’t make out anything; the rain has beaten all the vegetation on the ground into a pulp.
The forest is silent and empty, except for the sound of her own breathing and the wind blowing through the treetops.
A fallen tree ahead of her.
She walks towards it.
Has someone been there? Is someone there? Then some heavy raindrops hit the back of her neck. She looks up. An owl is flying between the fir trees high above.
I must have been wrong.
No one here.
When Anders Dalstrom hears Malin’s car start up and drive off, he carefully crawls out of his hiding place, hurries over to the edge of the forest and reassures himself that he’s alone again.
Then he runs over to the house.
He’s weighed up his options, trying to understand what’s happening, wishing it could still all be stopped, but at the same time wanting it all to be over, once and for all, for the snakes to be forced from his blood, to feel the calm that follows a raised hand.
The key in the lock.
Trembling hands.
It creaks and he thinks about oiling the lock, ought to have done so long ago.
The door opens and he runs into the living room and over to the gun cabinet.
He looks at the shotgun that he’s keeping here for Dad, the one Dad hasn’t been able to use for years, but which it would never occur to him to let his son use.
Malin is holding the wheel with one hand, and with the other she sends the photograph of the handwritten sign on Anders Dalstrom’s door to Karin Johannison.
‘Compare handwriting with blackmail letter. Asap. Call me when you know. MF.’
The rain fills the windscreen in front of her.
Soon she sees the silhouette of Linkoping ahead of her. The city seems to be sinking into its own sewers, a place that even the rats have abandoned.
63
Zeke is at his desk. His head slightly stubbly, black bristles sticking out in all directions like sharp quills.
‘Did you get anywhere?’ he asks as Malin sits down in her chair.
‘I don’t know,’ Malin replies. ‘Can you bear to hear what I’m thinking?’
‘I think so.’
Malin’s mobile buzzes. Karin? So soon.
The message on the screen glows up at Malin: ‘I’ll check at once. Karin.’
Zeke smiles.
‘From Karin?’
Malin smiles back.
‘How could you know that?’
‘Mysterious ways, Malin.’
