“What?”
“These trips, I can’t cope with many more.”
“We have to do a few more. Four more.”
“Two,” said Henrik. “I’ll go out with you twice more.”
“Okay. Where?”
Henrik was silent behind the wheel.
“A couple of places I know,” he said. “A priest’s house where there could be some jewelry. And maybe the manor house at Eel Point.”
“Eel Point?” said Tommy. “The one Aleister gave us a tip about.”
Henrik nodded, even thought he believed that the person moving the glass around the board was called Tommy, not Aleister.
“We can go up there and see if he was right,” said Tommy.
“Sure… but then that’s enough.”
Henrik stared gloomily at the empty road. Fuck. This was completely out of control-not at all like the trips with Mogge.
He should have tried harder to stop that last break-in.
Stealing from churches brought bad luck.
10
“The police are back in Marnäs now, and we’ve got our eye on every criminal. I want everyone in northern Öland to be aware of that fact.”
Inspector Holmblad certainly had a gift for public speaking, Tilda realized as she listened to him, and he seemed to like being in the center of things. He gazed out over the audience of a dozen or so who had gathered in the cold wind on the street outside the new police station in Marnäs-journalists, colleagues, and perhaps a couple of ordinary residents-and continued his inaugural speech:
“The local police is a new aspect of police work, a more personal police force… comparable with the beat constables in the old days, who knew everyone in the community where they worked. Of course, our society has become more complex since then, there are more networks, but our local police officers here in northern Öland are well prepared. They will be working together with clubs and companies and will be
devoting particular attention to crimes committed by young people.”
He paused. “Any questions?”
“What are you going to do about the graffiti around the square?” said an elderly man. “It’s a disgrace.”
“The police will be bringing in anyone who is caught spraying graffiti,” replied Holmblad. “We have the right to search them and to confiscate any aerosols, and we will of course be applying a zero tolerance approach in this matter. But vandalism is equally an issue for schools and parents.”
“And what about the thieving, then?” asked another male voice. “All these break-ins into churches and summer cottages?”
“Breaking and entering is one of the key targets for the local police force,” said Holmblad. “We will be making it a priority to solve these cases and to bring the perpetrators to justice.”
Tilda was standing behind her boss like a dummy, her back stiff and her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was the only woman present, but would have preferred to be anywhere but Marnäs on this particular day. She would also have preferred to be someone else-not a police officer, at any rate. The uniform was too thick and too tight; it was suffocating her.
And she didn’t want to stand so close to her new colleague, Hans Majner.
The father of the family over on Eel Point, Joakim Westin, had written a critical letter to Ölands-Posten three days ago, about the police mix-up between his dead wife and his living daughter. He hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular by name, but after the letter had appeared Tilda thought that people on the streets of Marnäs had begun to stare at her in a different way, scrutinizing and judging her. And last night Holmblad had called her to say that she had to go out to Eel Point with him-to apologize.
“… and finally I have a couple of items for our new local police team, Hans Majner and Tilda Davidsson. The keys to the station and this…” Inspector Holmblad picked up a rectangular brown parcel that had been leaning against a desk. He opened it and took out an oil painting of a sailing ship, a three-masted ship out at sea in the middle of a violent storm. “This is a gift from Borgholm… a symbolic way of showing that we are all in the same boat.”
Holmblad handed over the painting and a bunch of keys each to Majner and Tilda with great ceremony. Majner unlocked the station door and invited everyone in with a sweeping gesture.
Tilda stepped to one side and let the men go in first.
The office had recently been cleaned, and the floor was spotless. On the walls were maps of Öland and the Baltic. Holmblad had ordered open-faced prawn sandwiches, which were laid out on a coffee table between Majner’s and Tilda’s workstations.
There were already several piles of paper on Tilda’s desk. She picked up one of the plastic folders and went over to her colleague.
Majner was standing by his own desk tucking into the sandwiches. He was talking to two male colleagues from Borgholm, who were laughing at something he’d just said.
“Hans, could you spare a moment?”
“Absolutely, Tilda.” Majner smiled at his colleagues and turned to her. “What is it?”
“I’d really like to talk about your message.”
“What message?”
“The message about the death at Eel Point.” Tilda moved to one side and Majner followed her. “You recognize this, I presume?”
She held up the piece of paper she had placed in the folder the day after she had received it from Majner. This was her proof.
Three names were written in ink on the note. The first was Livia Westin. The second was Katrine Westin. The third was Gabriel Westin.
Next to Livia’s name was a cross: †
“So?” said Majner, nodding. “Those were the names I got from the emergency call center.”
“Exactly,” said Tilda. “And you were supposed to mark the name of the person who drowned. That’s what I asked you to do.”
Majner was no longer smiling.
“And?”
“You put the cross in front of Livia Westin’s name.”
“Yes?”
“But that was wrong. It was the mother, Katrine Westin, who had drowned.”
Majner speared a few prawns with his fork and stuffed them in his mouth. He seemed completely uninterested in the conversation.
“Okay,” he said, munching on his prawns. “A mistake. Even the police make a mistake sometimes.”
“Yes, but it was your mistake,” said Tilda. “Not mine.”
Majner looked up at her.
“So you don’t trust me?” he said.
“Well, yes, but…”
“Good,” said Majner. “And just remember…”
“Are you two getting to know each other?” a voice interrupted them.
Inspector Holmblad had come to join them. Tilda nodded.
“We’re trying,” she said.
“Good. Don’t forget we’re going out after this, Tilda.”
Holmblad nodded and smiled and moved on, over to the reporter and photographer from the local paper.
Majner patted Tilda on the shoulder.
“It’s important to be able to rely on a colleague, Davidsson,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”
She nodded.
“Good,” said Majner. “Right or wrong… a police officer must be sure that he or she will always have backup. If anything happens.”
Then he turned his back on her and returned to his colleagues.
Tilda stood there, still wishing she was somewhere else.
“Right, Davidsson,” said Göte Holmblad half an hour later, when three quarters of the sandwiches had been eaten and the rest put away in the refrigerator. “We’d better get to our little meeting. We’ll take my car.”
At this point Tilda and the inspector were alone in the newly opened police station. Hans Majner had been one of the first to leave.
By this stage Tilda had decided she wasn’t even going to try to like him.
She put on her uniform cap, locked the station door, and went out to the car with Holmblad.
“We’re under no obligation to make a visit like this,” Holmblad explained when they were sitting in the car. “But Westin has called Kalmar a couple of times wanting to speak to me or someone else in authority, so I thought it would be a good idea to have a conversation with him face-to-face.” He started the car, pulled away from the sidewalk, and went on: “The important thing is to avoid official complaints and investigations. A visit like this isn’t an official gesture, but it usually clears up most misunderstandings.”