Zeke holds his gun in front of him.
‘Police! Don’t move! OK, down on your knees!’
The man on the landing looks scared and surprised, and next to him is a box with the Sony logo and a picture of a flat-screen television.
Shit, Zeke thinks as he lowers his weapon.
The Horticultural Society Park is completely deserted and Janne and Malin meet a patrol car on its way into the park as they are coming out.
They called home to the flat a moment ago.
No answer.
They drive out onto Hamngatan, past McDonald’s, and Malin asks Janne if he’s hungry.
‘I couldn’t keep anything down.’
His eyelids are practically hanging on his cheeks, how much sleep has he been getting? Two hours per night? Three?
‘You said she worked on pool maintenance?’
‘Yes, at least that’s what we think,’ Malin replies.
‘Well, you’d have to buy chemicals somewhere. Wouldn’t you?’
‘And?’
‘You get them from DIY stores. In large quantities. Maybe some DIY store has delivered stuff to her? To an address you don’t know about? To that company of hers?’
They glide past St Lars church.
Malin looks up at the flat. The windows are still black.
Zeke helped the man to carry the television. He lived on the fourth floor, and now the sweat is literally pouring from Zeke’s brow.
The man, a pensioner named Lennart Thörnkvist, had never even seen his neighbour, but commented on the smelclass="underline" ‘That’s what dead bodies smell like in hot weather.’
And now Zeke is standing in front of Vera Folkman’s door again.
He looks at his watch.
Just a few minutes before midnight.
He gets set.
Kicks the door as hard as he can, but it doesn’t give way, nothing happens.
He takes out his pistol again.
Aims at the lock and fires.
A deafening echo. Zeke’s ears are ringing as he pushes the door open and the stench that hits him is unbearable.
A switch. Light.
An empty hall and scratching noises from inside the kitchen and what must be the only other room of the small flat.
He heads towards the room with his weapon drawn, glancing into the kitchen where he sees three rabbit cages stacked on top of each other, living creatures behind the bars.
Inside the room.
On the walls.
A sight that Zacharias Martinsson will never forget.
65
Sunday, 25 July
I’m busy with my bag.
I’m going to kill you. You can be resurrected. I am packing up, unpacking, the blue nothing, worms, rabbits’ claws, my white spiders’ legs and all the things that are me.
Incense and painted flowers.
Sacrificial offerings in my temple.
How it started? It’s always gone on. It’s been the meaning and purpose of my life. To the far side of the planet, to the parched interior of Australia, the beaches of Bali. Looking after pools for people with money.
But there is no escape from unlove.
Then one day I was driving my van through the city, along Hamngatan, and I saw a taxi. It was only a few weeks ago, actually. And there you were, sitting in the front seat, Dad. Old, but your eyes, and the fingers against the windscreen were the same, you were probably on your way to the hospital for some sort of tests.
And when I saw you, I knew.
Wisdom and innocence swept through my body and I was forced to begin, just so that what must be conquered could be conquered.
I’ve been feeling my way.
Fumbling in the darkness for the light.
You’re sleeping again, my summer angel.
You’re a long way down now, deep down in the darkness of dreams.
You’re hanging in the bathroom, sister.
I’m the one to find you, shake you, cry over you.
I’m the one who’s going to put everything right.
And then we can ride our bikes together, we can go skinny-dipping together in water that no one else knows about.
Rabbits, splayed open, nailed to the walls, their claws pulled out, red trickles of blood dripping from the paws, some of the animals still alive, their little lungs rising and falling frenetically, whimpering, then others that have been hanging for a long time, the shreds of their rotting bodies slipping down towards the polished pine floor.
A bed in one corner, discarded white surgical gloves, a bunk in the middle of the floor, and then rows of bottles of chemicals along the walls, pots of paint that must have been used to paint the flowers on the walls. Splashes of blood on the floor, bloody scalpels and a stench that is making Zeke giddy, he lowers his gun and goes over to the window, undoes the catch and opens it wide onto the leafy inner courtyard, and breathes, breathes, breathes.
He turns back to the room.
Bloody hell.
Like a picture by what’s-his-name, Francis Bacon.
But no Vera Folkman.
No Tove.
Janne fell fast asleep just after Zeke called them. Malin could see how he was trying to stay awake on the short drive from the Abisko roundabout to Sturegatan, but his body’s need of sleep got the better of him.
He’s asleep down in the car now.
His head leaning against the window.
What are you dreaming about now, Janne?
About when we were young?
When Tove came to us?
We’re a family. Why have we never been able to see it?
Instead we’ve rushed off in different directions. Yet still not far from each other.
They’re standing in the stairwell outside the flat, drinking coffee Per Sundsten picked up at the Statoil petrol station in Stångebro. Karin Johannison inside, searching for evidence, securing material.
Sven Sjöman’s breathing is heavy, his face furrowed with tiredness, Per and Waldemar Ekenberg are quiet, watchful, sleepy too. Karim Akbar is in the background, scratching his cheek.
It’s already three o’clock.
Soon dawn will be stroking Linköping’s rooftops, whispering: a new day is here, wake up people, come out into the heat.
Zeke tired, but still alert and keen. He is explaining for the third time: ‘I broke in. The smell was so awful that I suspected some sort of criminal activity had taken place in the flat.’
‘Don’t worry, Zeke,’ Sven repeats once more. ‘It’s fine. Those pool chemicals in there. We’re dealing with one and the same person.’
‘Now we just have to find Vera Folkman,’ Per says, and no one in the group of detectives wants to give voice to the obvious subtext: we have to find Vera Folkman, because then we’ll find Tove, Tove, our colleague Malin’s only daughter.
‘Any ideas?’
Malin shakes her head, not a no, but to shake off her drowsiness and she looks at the others, sees in their eyes how they’re screaming for rest, that none of them can think clearly, that they might miss the most obvious things, that they can’t let it all become too late just because of tiredness.
‘Anyone who wants to can get some sleep,’ Sven says. ‘We’re not being terribly constructive here.’
No one replies.
They slowly drink their coffee. Feeling valuable time slip by.
‘Fuck!’ Malin says, and Sven puts his arm around her shoulder.
‘We’ll sort this, Malin. It’s going to be OK,’ and at that moment Karin appears from inside the flat, holding up one of the chemical containers in one hand, and pointing at a label with the other.
‘This can, and several of the others, were delivered by Torsson’s DIY down on Tanneforsvägen. Maybe you should have a word with them? They might know something?’