The shadows and the cold surrounded her once more. She thought she heard movements ahead of her, but could see nothing.
She kept close to the northern wall, where the small windows in the thick stone wall were completely covered in snow.
Then a door appeared, and Tilda went through it.
The room on the other side was large and even colder. Tilda stopped. The feeling that she wasn’t alone in the darkness came back. She lowered her pistol, listened, and took a step forward.
A shot rang out.
She ducked, without knowing if she’d been hit or not. Her ears were ringing from the report; she coughed quietly and breathed in the dry air. She waited.
Nothing else happened.
When Tilda finally looked up into the darkness, she saw another closed door four or five yards away. It was a way out-but there was someone standing in front of it. A man.
It was Freddy’s brother, Tommy. It couldn’t be anyone else. He had rolled the balaclava up to his forehead and his pale face bore a resemblance to Freddy’s.
Tommy had an old rifle over his shoulder.
Tilda steadied the hand holding the pistol, aiming at Tommy.
“Drop the gun.”
But Tommy just stood there like a sleepwalker, almost as if someone were holding on to him. His eyes were lowered and his right hand was resting on the door handle, as if he
were on his way out, but his legs seemed to be incapable of movement.
“Tommy?”
He didn’t reply.
A narcotic-induced psychosis? She walked slowly over to Martin’s murderer, afraid but resolute. Then she silently reached out to his shoulder and carefully unhooked the rifle. She saw that the safety catch was on, and dropped it on the floor behind her.
“Tommy?” she said again. “Can you move?”
When she nudged his arm, he suddenly gave a start and came to life.
He fell backward, the iron handle was pushed down, and the door opened. It flew open, torn back by the storm. He tumbled out into the snowdrifts, got up, and staggered away.
Tilda raced after him over the low stone step, out into the gale. She could see swaying tree trunks a dozen or so yards away.
“Tommy!” she shouted. “Stop!”
Her voice was ripped to shreds by the wind, and the man ahead of her didn’t stop. He had picked up speed through the snow; he shouted something over his shoulder and fled, heading straight for the forest.
Tilda fired a warning shot, up into the storm, then dropped on one knee. She raised her pistol and took aim, keeping her finger on the trigger.
She knew she could hit him in the legs. But she couldn’t bring herself to shoot someone who was running away.
Tommy had reached the low-growing trees on the edge of the forest. The covering of snow was thinner there, and he was able to move faster. After fifteen or twenty steps he was a gray shadow in the forest. Then he was gone.
Shit.
Tilda remained outside for several minutes, but saw no other movements in the darkness apart from the whirling snow. It was still blowing in across the coast, and when she
began to lose the feeling in her fingers she turned her back to the wind. She went back and picked up the Mauser in the doorway.
On her way back to Joakim she decided to go along the outside of the barn, despite the fact that the wind and the cold had almost finished her off by now. But she didn’t want to risk meeting anyone else in there, in those black rooms.
40
Dousing the fire with snow had worked, but when Joakim finally managed to put the flames out, almost the entire staircase up to the loft was charred, and thick curtains of smoke hung from the roof beams.
Joakim coughed in the dry air and sat down at the bottom of the smoking staircase with aching legs. He was still holding the snow shovel he had fetched from the house.
He couldn’t even think anymore, didn’t have the strength to wonder where all these uninvited guests had come from tonight, or to ponder what had happened up there in the room with the church benches. He realized that Gerlof Davidsson was right: a veil of forgetfulness was already beginning to obscure his memories of this night.
Had he really met Katrine up there? Had she confessed that she had drowned his sister?
No. Katrine hadn’t said that.
Joakim looked at the tall man lying over by the wall. He
had no idea who he was or why he was wearing handcuffs, but if police officer Tilda Davidsson had caught him, then certain conclusions could be drawn.
Almost at that same moment, he thought he heard fresh shots from somewhere outside the barn.
Joakim listened, but when he heard nothing more he looked over in the direction of the wall.
“Was it you who started all this?” he asked.
After a few seconds a quiet reply came from the floor.
“Sorry.”
Joakim sighed. “I’ll have to build a new staircase to the loft… sometime.”
He leaned back, then remembered that Livia and Gabriel were still in the house, alone.
How could he have left them?
There was a sudden scraping noise over by the barn door, and when he turned his head he saw Tilda come stumbling in from the storm, covered in snow. She had her pistol in one hand, and an old hunting rifle in the other.
She sank down over by the wooden wall and breathed out.
“He’s gone,” she said.
Freddy looked up from the floor.
“Gone?” said Joakim.
“He ran into the forest,” said Tilda. “He disappeared… but at least he hasn’t got a rifle now.”
Joakim got up. “I have to see to my children,” he said, walking toward the door. “Will you be okay on your own for a while?”
Tilda nodded, but remained on the floor, her head drooping.
“If you go through the veranda… there are people there. Two men.”
“Injured?” said Joakim.
Tilda lowered her eyes. “One’s injured… and one’s dead.”
Joakim didn’t ask any more questions. When he glanced
at her for one last time, she had taken out her cell phone and started to key in a number.
He walked out into the billowing snow dunes in the inner courtyard, bending low against the wind. Eel Point didn’t seem so big tonight-the buildings seemed to be cowering like a pack of frightened dogs beneath the blizzard. The onslaughts of the wind ripped off slates and whirled them up above the top of the roof, where they disappeared into the darkness.
Joakim went inside the veranda and closed the door. A man was lying stretched out on the rug. Dead? No, he was just deeply asleep.
The storm was making the windows on the front of the house rattle, and the putty and frames holding the panes were creaking, but they were still holding.
Joakim walked into the house, but stopped in the hallway.
He could hear creaking noises in the corridor.
Hoarse breathing.
Ethel was there.
She was standing in front of the door to the children’s rooms; she had come to collect her daughter. Ethel was going to take Livia away with her.
Joakim didn’t dare go up to her. He simply bent his head and closed his eyes.
Trust me, he thought.
He opened his eyes and went on into the house.
The corridor by the bedrooms was empty.
41
Tilda had vague memories of being helped up the steps to the veranda late that night. It was still cold outside, but it felt as if the wind from the sea was beginning to subside. It was Joakim Westin who was walking beside her, supporting her along a newly cleared track. High banks of snow rose up on either side of them.
“Did you call for help?” he asked.
She nodded. “They said they’d get out here as soon as they could… but I don’t know when that will be.”
They passed a snowdrift with a piece of material sticking out. It was a leather jacket.
“Who’s that?” asked Joakim.
“His name was Martin Ahlquist,” said Tilda.