Rebecka sat in silence, waiting.
He took an almost empty packet of biscuits out of his breast pocket. Rustled the packet as he unfolded it, took out a biscuit and broke it into pieces.
And then a little mouse came scampering across the floor. It ran over to Nalle following an S-shaped route, stopped by his knees, reared up on its hind legs. It was brownish gray, no more than four or five centimeters long. Nalle held out half a biscuit. The mouse tried to take it from him, but as Nalle didn’t let go, it stayed and ate. The only sound was small nibbling noises.
Nalle turned to Rebecka.
“Mouse,” he said loudly. “Little.”
Rebecka thought it would be frightened away when he spoke so loudly, but it stayed where it was and kept right on nibbling. She nodded at him and gave him a big smile. It was a strange sight. Great big Nalle and the tiny mouse. She wondered how it had come about. How he’d managed to get it to overcome its fear. Could he have been patient enough to sit quietly down here, waiting for it? Maybe.
You’re a very special boy, she thought.
Nalle reached out his forefinger and tried to pat the mouse on the back, but then fear overcame hunger. It shot away like a gray streak and disappeared among all the rubbish standing by the wall.
Rebecka watched it.
Time to go. Couldn’t leave the car parked like that indefinitely.
Nalle was saying something.
She looked at him.
“Mouse,” he said. “Little!”
A feeling of sorrow came over her. She was standing here in an old cellar with a mentally handicapped boy. She felt closer to him than she’d been to another human being for a long, long time.
Why can’t I? she thought. Can’t like people. Don’t trust them. But you can trust Nalle. He can’t pretend to be what he’s not.
“Bye then, Nalle,” she said.
“Bye then,” he said, without the least trace of sorrow in his voice.
She went up the green stone staircase. She didn’t hear the car pull up outside. Didn’t hear the footsteps on the porch. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, the outside door was opened. Lars-Gunnar’s enormous bulk filled the doorway. Like a mountain blocking her path. Something shriveled up inside her. And she looked into his eyes. He looked at her.
“What the hell,” was all he said.
The scene of crime team found a rifle bullet at nine thirty in the morning. They dug it out of the ground by the shore of the lake. Caliber 30-06.
By quarter past ten the police had matched the firearms register with the motor vehicle database. All those who owned a diesel car and were registered as owning a gun.
Anna-Maria Mella leaned back in her office chair. It really was a luxury item. You could recline the back so you were almost lying down, just like in a bed. Like a dentist’s chair, but without the dentist.
Four hundred and seventy-three people matched. She glanced through the names.
Then she caught sight of one name she recognized. Lars-Gunnar Vinsa.
He owned a diesel Merc. She checked in the firearms register. He was registered for three weapons. Two rifles and one shotgun. One of the rifles was a Tikka. Caliber 30-06.
What they really ought to do was take in all the guns of the right caliber for testing. But maybe they ought to talk to him first. Although that wasn’t likely to be particularly pleasant when it was a former colleague.
She checked the time. Half ten. She could drive out there with Sven-Erik after lunch.
Lars-Gunnar Vinsa looks at Rebecka Martinsson. Halfway to town he’d remembered that he’d forgotten his wallet, and turned back.
What kind of bloody conspiracy was this? He’d told Mimmi he was going out. Had she phoned that lawyer? He can hardly believe it. But that’s what must have happened. And she’s come dashing down here to snoop around.
The cell phone in the woman’s hand rings. She doesn’t answer it. He stares doggedly at her ringing phone. They stand there motionless. The phone goes on ringing and ringing.
Rebecka thinks she ought to answer. It’s probably Maria Taube. But she can’t. And when she doesn’t answer, it’s suddenly written in his eyes. And she knows. And he knows that she knows.
The paralysis passes. The phone ends up on the floor. Did he knock it out of her hand? Did she throw it down?
He’s standing in her way. She can’t get out. A feeling of absolute terror seizes her.
She turns and runs up the staircase to the top floor. It’s narrow and steep. The wallpaper dirty with age. A flowery pattern. The varnish on the stairs is like thick glass. She scrabbles rapidly on all fours, like a crab. Mustn’t slip now.
She can hear Lars-Gunnar. Heavy behind her.
It’s like running into a trap. Where will she go?
The bathroom door in front of her. She dashes inside.
Somehow she manages to shut the door and makes her fingers turn the lock.
The handle is pressed down from the outside.
There’s a window, but there’s nothing left inside her that can manage to try and escape. The only thing that exists is fear. She can’t stand up. Sinks down on the toilet seat. Then she begins to shake. Her body is jerking and shuddering. Her elbows are pressed against her stomach. Her hands are in front of her face, they’re shaking so violently that she involuntarily hits herself on the mouth, the nose, the chin. Her fingers are bent like claws.
A heavy thud, a crash against the outside of the door. She screws her eyes tight shut. Tears pour out. She wants to press her hands against her ears, but they won’t obey, they just keep shaking and shaking.
“Mummy!” she sobs as the door flies open with a bang. It hits her knees. It hurts. Someone is lifting her up by her clothes. She refuses to open her eyes.
He lifts her by the collar. She’s whimpering.
“Mummy, Mummy!”
He can hear himself whimpering. Aiti, aiti! It’s more than sixty years ago, and his father is throwing his mother around the kitchen like a glove. She’s locked Lars-Gunnar and his brother and sisters in the bedroom. He’s the eldest. The little girls are sitting on the sofa, ashen-faced and silent. He and his brother are hammering on the door. His mother sobbing and pleading. Things falling on the floor. His father wanting the key. He’ll get it soon. Soon it will be Lars-Gunnar’s and his brother’s turn, while the girls watch. His mother will be locked in the bedroom. The strap will come into play. For something. He can’t remember what. There were always so many reasons.
He slams her head against the hand basin. She shuts up. The child’s tears and his mother’s “Ala lyo! Ala lyo!” also fall silent in his head. He lets go of her. She falls down onto the floor.
When he turns her over she looks at him with big, silent eyes. Blood is pouring from her forehead. It’s just like that time he hit a reindeer on the way to Gallivare. The same big eyes. And the shaking.
He grabs hold of her feet. Drags her out into the hallway.
Nalle is standing on the stairs. He catches sight of Rebecka.
“What?” he shouts.
A loud, anxious cry. He sounds like a long-tailed skua.
“What?”
“It’s nothing, Nalle!” shouts Lars-Gunnar. “Out you go.”
But Nalle is terrified. Not listening. Takes a few more steps up the stairs. Looks at Rebecka lying there. Shouts again, “What?”
