‘You don’t know what you’re asking for,’ Ulf Davidsson says to his daughter. The look in his eyes is clear, but sad. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for. But OK. If hypnosis is what you want, hypnosis is what you’ll get.’
On the way back to the car park.
The sun like the ice-blue core of a gas flame in the sky, the sort of light that sunglasses have no effect against. The ground seems to be sweating, even though it’s so dry Malin imagines it could spontaneously combust. There’s also the smell of the forest fires, tickling her nose and making her whole being feel slightly anxious. Phrases of gratitude in the house they’ve just left.
‘Thanks. You’re doing the right thing.’
Reassurance: ‘It isn’t dangerous. It will be good for her to remember.’
Practicalities: ‘We’ll be in touch when I’ve spoken to Viveka Crafoord. Hopefully this evening. Tomorrow at the latest. We’ll be in touch, make sure we can contact you.’
And now Viveka on the other end of the line, in her house out in Svartmåla.
‘I’m just back from a dip in the lake.’
Daniel Högfeldt’s body.
The waters of Stora Rängen.
The key is in the past.
‘She’s agreed to be hypnotised. And her parents have given their consent.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever suits you.’
‘Where?’
‘Same thing.’
‘How about seven o’clock this evening in my clinic?’
‘Perfect. As long as nothing else comes up.’
Nathalie Falck is standing with a rake in her hand, its spray of teeth like a dying treetop against the blue summer sky, almost white with the heat.
They’re standing among the graves at the far end of the cemetery, from where they can see the roof of the supermarket in Valla, and hear the cars out on the main road, forcing their way through the dense air.
‘I use a grass rake for the gravel,’ Nathalie says. ‘It’s easier than using the other sort.’
‘It’s looking good,’ Malin said, gesturing at the gravel path up towards the chapel where they hold the burial services. ‘You’re very conscientious.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s unusual to be conscientious.’
Zeke silent by Malin’s side, in the shade of an old oak, the flowers on most of the graves scorched and crisp, prematurely withered in the cruel heat.
‘I can see you looking at the flowers. But we can’t water them fast enough. Not in this heat.’
Malin nods.
‘It is hot,’ she says. Then she asks: ‘You haven’t told us everything, have you?’
‘How can you know that?’
‘Just a gut instinct. Two girls of your age are dead, murdered, so it’s time to talk.’
‘I haven’t got anything to tell you.’
‘Yes you have,’ Malin says. ‘We both know that.’
Nathalie Falck shakes her head lightly.
‘No.’
‘OK,’ Zeke says. ‘What were you doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday?’
‘I was at home. Mum and Dad can tell you.’
‘Two girls,’ Malin says. ‘Theresa. Aren’t you upset that she’s dead?’
Nathalie Falck shrugs her shoulders, but Malin can see her eyes slowly fill with tears. Then she pulls herself together.
‘OK,’ she says.
‘OK, what?’ Zeke says, and Malin can feel him trying not to sound angry and aggressive.
‘Calm down, Zeke. Let her tell us.’
Nathalie Falck takes a few steps into the shade before sitting down on the grass by the oak tree.
‘I read in the paper that you searched Lollo Svensson’s house. But the article didn’t say everything. You ought to know that I had a thing with her, well, I went with her, just like Theresa did. I presume that’s what you want to know, if you didn’t already know.’
Malin and Zeke are staring at each other.
So maybe that was what Theresa was doing when she said she was with Peter Sköld? Is that what he wouldn’t tell them?
Louise ‘Lollo’ Svensson.
So, you’re back in the case again.
And are you Lovelygirl as well?
‘Is Louise Svensson the same person as Lovelygirl on Theresa’s Facebook page?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Lollo.
A hot fog drifting into the meandering byways of the case, taking shape, disappearing, sweeping on and taking shape again.
A shadow.
‘Bloody hell,’ Zeke says.
‘And it didn’t occur to you that we ought to know this?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘But you still . . .’ Malin stifles her words, swearing inwardly. All this silence they have to fight against, all this life that has to be kept secret, to elevate it somehow, as if all this damn silence were holy water.
‘But now you know,’ Nathalie Falck says with a smile. ‘I just didn’t think it was anything to do with you. It’s private.’
‘How do you mean, went with her?’
‘Had sex with her out at her farm. She’d give you money. And in case you’re wondering about Peter Sköld, he’s got a boyfriend in Söderköping. He was spending time with him whenever he said he was with Theresa. And Theresa was with me instead.’
‘Were you and Theresa a couple?’
‘No. Not my type.’
Not ‘your type’, Malin thinks.
‘We had sex a few times, every now and then,’ Nathalie Falck says. ‘But only as friends.’
Zeke’s words to Sven Sjöman: ‘Get a patrol car out to Lollo Svensson’s farm outside Rimforsa, and bring her in for questioning straight away. She had a sexual relationship with Theresa Eckeved.’
Pause.
The hot, clammy interior of the car as he opens the door in the cemetery car park.
‘I know, Sven. We can always hold her on corruption of a minor.’
Don’t be too hard on her now.
See her as the person she really is.
Lollo, there’s nothing wrong with her. Unless perhaps there is? Something wrong with her?
I remember her hands on my skin, the way she gave me money afterwards, the taste of her swollen, moist crotch, and her words, whispering: Theresa, Theresa, Theresa, and the words turned to cotton wool among the flowery sheets, to the forest outside her window, to the dark expanse of the sky adorned with hopeful stars.
And she gave in to my tongue, and I had nothing against that, because I had so much to learn about the body that I no longer have.
Angels.
Like me, like Sofia.
Are we the eternal virgins?
Is she Lovelygirl, Malin?
Or is Slavenca Lovelygirl?
You’ll have to work that out on your own.
So listen to Lollo, try to understand why she does what she does, why she is the way that she is.
I can feel your excitement, Malin.
The way you think you’ve caught a scent of the truth.
Imagining that it will help you.
That hope is driving us both, isn’t it?
43
Waldemar Ekenberg is sitting at his temporary desk in the Crime Unit’s open-plan office. His longs legs, clad in green linen, are up on the desk and he’s drumming a pen against the arm of his office chair. Opposite him Per Sundsten is randomly surfing various news websites and bringing himself up to date with what’s being written about their murders.
Expressen: City of Terror.