‘And what do you think Janne thinks?’ Viveka had asked.
‘About what?’
‘Well, about the way you talk to him, for instance?’
‘I’ve never given it much thought.’
Viveka’s country cottage is in Svartmåla, a sought-after, middle-class village some ten kilometres south of the city.
Malin had trouble finding the house, meandering around the idyllic cottages in the Volvo, unwilling to stop and ask the way.
Then she came to a little turning down towards the lake, its shimmering water ice-white and fiery pink beyond pines and firs.
A simple green mailbox bearing the name ‘Crafoord’ in the shade of some tall maples.
Malin turned off, and couldn’t help smiling as she pulled up in front of the obviously bespoke, architect-designed house with its two irregular floors, lots of glass, grey-stained wood. The house looked like a prototype for the sort of tasteful, costly but restrained architecture that people who are used to having money love. Viveka’s house must be the most exclusive in the area. And with the best location, right on the water, presumably with its own jetty and beach.
‘A microclimate,’ Viveka says, leaning back in the teak bench. ‘Don’t ask me how it happens.’
They’re sitting at the back of the house, on an airy terrace with a view of the lake, Stora Rängen. Perennials and rhododendrons are crowding in on Viveka’s husband, Hjalmar, as he stands at the barbecue with his broad back to them some ten metres away, on green-stained decking laid over grey Öland stone. It’s undeniably cooler on the terrace, maybe five degrees lower than anywhere else, as if the greenery and water in the vicinity somehow magically lowered the temperature.
Just like the summerhouse in the Horticultural Society Park, Malin thinks.
But in there it was hotter.
Malin was right, below a granite outcrop is a motorboat tied up at a jetty, and two aluminium designer sun-loungers on a man-made beach. Malin breathes in the smell of marinated pork sizzling on the hot grill. Bean salad on the table in front of them. She runs her arm over the teak armrest of her chair, its oiled, polished finish making her feel calm.
What does your husband do? Malin wonders. But she doesn’t ask Viveka.
She just thinks how nice this huge man with the gentle face is. Then she looks into Viveka’s face, hardly any wrinkles even though she must be fifty-five or so, no traces of grief, the signs of a good life. And Malin is struck by how little she actually knows about her. Do they have children? Then there is the fact that she has been welcomed out here in spite of the reason for her visit.
‘So what do you think about what I said on the phone?’
She had explained about the case she was working on, and of course Viveka had read the paper, seen the news on television. ‘I’d like to hear your thoughts about the perpetrator.’
‘Let’s eat first.’
And shortly after that a dish of plump sausages and pork chops appears on the table, and they talk about the heat and drink a robust, sweet red wine that suits the meat perfectly. Just one glass for Malin, and Hjalmar becomes nicer with every word, and he explains that he works as a management consultant, freelance after many years with McKinsey in Stockholm.
And then the meal is over as quickly as it began and Hjalmar withdraws: ‘There’s a match on.’ And Viveka throws out her arms, saying: ‘He’s mad about football.’
And Malin realises that darkness has fallen over the terrace and that the only light over the lake is the glow of the moon, and the hopeful lights of a few houses on the far shore.
The approach of night seems to whisper to them, and Malin lets Viveka talk.
‘I’m sorry, Malin. From what little I know, it’s impossible for me to say anything specific. I did a course on profiling when we lived in Seattle, and I’d guess you’re dealing with something of a loner who has a complicated relationship with his mother. But that’s almost always the case. He lives in Linköping, probably grew up here, seeing as he seems to feel safe in the places where he commits these acts and leaves his victims. And he’s obsessed with cleanliness and making his victims appear pure. But you’ve already worked that out for yourself. But why this obsession with cleanliness? Something to do with virginity? Who knows? Maybe this individual feels sullied somehow. Violated. Sexually. Or some other way. Maybe he’s trying to recreate a form of innocence.’
‘Anything else? You say he, but could it be a woman?’
‘Possibly. But it’s probably a man, or a masculine woman. Maybe themselves the victim of abuse. There’s always that possibility.’
‘And the wounds?’
‘The fact that they’re different might suggest that the perpetrator is finding his way by trial and error. As if he or she wants to come up with some sort of formula.’
‘That thought had occurred to me as well.’
‘If I were you, I’d start looking into the histories of people who’ve cropped up since things started to heat up. The key to this is in the past. As to why this is happening now, only they can know that. That’s if they even know.’
Malin’s mobile rings.
She looks at the display. Wants to take the call, but leaves it, brushes it aside. Viveka doesn’t comment on her behaviour, and merely says: ‘He probably has a job, but few friends.’
‘Thanks, Viveka,’ Malin says.
Then she brings up the real reason she’s there.
‘If I wanted to question a witness under hypnosis, would you be prepared to be responsible for it?’
‘Of course I would, Malin.’
For the first time Malin sees Viveka look excited, expectant.
‘As long as the witness agrees, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.’
They sit in silence.
Some broken laughter across the water, and the sound of splashing.
‘Take a swim,’ Viveka says. ‘You can borrow a costume from me. You can stay the night. In the guest cottage. Hjalmar makes really good scrambled eggs for breakfast.’
Malin thinks for a moment.
The number on her phone.
‘I’d love a swim. But then I have to get home.’
And the memory of the warm water of Stora Rängen courses through her as one hour later she is lying in Daniel Högfeldt’s bed and feeling his hard, heavy, rhythmic body above hers, how he thrusts, groans, thrusts, thrusts hard and deep inside her, how she becomes water, no feelings, memories or future, directionless drops, a body that is a still night of dreams worth dreaming, an explosion that is sometimes the only thing a human being’s trillions of cells needs.
If only to be able to put up with themselves.
41
Wednesday, 21 July
His skin.
It’s glowing as if it’s been oiled in the thin dawn light forcing its way in through the gap at the bottom of the roller-blind. When she came to him last night she didn’t say a word, silently pushing him towards the bedroom, and now she is leaving just as soundlessly, getting dressed in his hallway, silently so as not to wake him.
Because what would she say to him?
That was nice?