Haver found himself getting lost in thought, his mind drifting back to Rebecka. He was a good investigator but came up short on the home front. He couldn’t really see what was bothering her. She had been home on maternity leave once before and that time everything had been fine. Should he simply ask her? Sit down with her after the kids had gone to bed and essentially interrogate her? Not leave anything to chance, be systematic and try to ignore the fact that he might be the guilty party?
“Tonight,” he said aloud and stood up; but he knew as he did so that he was lying to himself. He would never have the energy to talk to her after coming home from the first day of a homicide investigation. And when exactly would he go home?
“I mustn’t forget to call,” he mumbled.
Beatrice stood for a while in the entrance hall, reading the names of the residents. There were two Anderssons, one Ramirez, and an Oto. Where did Oto come from? West Africa, Malaysia, or some other far-off land? There was also a J. and B. and Justus Jonsson, two floors up.
She was alone in her errand, which pleased her. Delivering the news of a death was probably the hardest task. Beatrice was simply distracted by her colleagues in such situations. Dealing with her own emotions was hard enough, and she was happy not to have to support a colleague who would perhaps start shooting off at the mouth or go completely silent and inject a greater sense of anxiety.
The woodwork around the door had been newly replaced and still smelled of paint. She tried to imagine that she was there to visit a good friend, perhaps someone she hadn’t seen for a long time. Full of excitement and anticipation.
She stroked the pale green bumpy wall. The smell of paint mixed with the smells of cooking. Fried onions. Oto is making his national dish, she thought, in honor of my visit. Oto, how nice to see you again. Oh, fried onions! My favorite!
She took a step but stopped. Her cell phone vibrated. She checked to see who it was. Ola.
“We’ve just received a missing-persons report,” he said. “Berit Jonsson called in to say she hasn’t seen her husband since last night.”
“I’m in the stairwell,” Bea said.
“We told her we’d be sending someone over.”
“And would that be me?”
“That would be you,” Ola Haver said with great seriousness.
Damn it all to hell, she thought. She knows we’re coming. She thinks I’m here to ask her about John’s disappearance, and instead I’ll deliver the news of his death.
She remembered a colleague who had been called to the scene of an accident. An older man, hit by car, death was instantaneous. The colleague had recognized the man from his home village. He had been acquainted with the man’s parents and had stayed in touch with both the man and his wife when they moved into the city.
He took it upon himself to deliver the news of the man’s death. The man’s wife was delighted to see him, pulling him into the apartment with words about coffee and how her husband would soon be home, he was just out somewhere momentarily, and then they would all be able to have a bite and catch up.
Beatrice climbed the stairs one after the other. John, Berit, and Justus Jonsson. The doorbell played a muffled melody, a kind she disliked. She took a step back. The door opened almost immediately.
“Beatrice Andersson, from the police,” she said and put out her hand.
Berit Jonsson took it. Her hand was small, warm, and damp.
“That didn’t take long,” she said and cleared her throat. “Please come in.”
The entryway was narrow and dark. A heap of shoes and boots lay right inside the door. Beatrice removed her coat and reached for a hanger while Berit stood passively beside her. She turned around and tried a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off.
Berit’s face was void of expression. She returned Beatrice’s gaze with neutral eyes and they walked into the kitchen without a word. Berit gestured toward a kitchen chair with her hand but remained standing at the kitchen counter. She was about thirty-five. Her hair, sloppily gathered into a ponytail, had once been blond and was now dyed a reddish brown. A shade probably called “mahogany,” Berit guessed. Her left eye was slightly walleyed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and there was something naked about her face. She was very tired. She gripped the counter behind her back with her hands.
“You must be Berit. I also saw the name Justus downstairs. Is that your son?”
Berit Jonsson nodded.
“Mine and John’s.”
“Is he at home?”
She shook her head.
“You have reported John as missing,” Beatrice said, then hesitated for a moment before continuing, even though she had quietly planned it out.
“He should have come home yesterday afternoon, at four, but he never did.”
She wobbled over the “never did,” freeing one of her hands from the counter and rubbing it over her face.
Beatrice thought she was beautiful even in her present state with all her worry, the large black circles under her eyes and her stiff, exhausted features.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but John is dead. We found him this morning.”
The words settled like a chill over the kitchen. Berit’s hand hovered by her face as if she wanted to take cover, not hear, not see, but Beatrice saw how the realization crept over her. Berit lowered her arm, bringing it forward in an open position, palm up, as if begging for something. Her eyelids fluttered, the pupils grew larger, and she swallowed.
Beatrice stood up and took Berit’s hand again and now it was ice-cold.
“I’m very sorry,” she repeated.
Berit scrutinized her face as if to determine if there was any trace of uncertainty in it. She pulled her hand away and put it in front of her mouth, and Beatrice waited for the scream, but it never came.
Beatrice swallowed. She saw Little John’s battered, beaten, and burned body, in her mind’s eye, dumped in a bank of snow that was dirty from the city’s streets.
Berit shook her head, gently at first, almost imperceptibly, then more forcefully. She opened her mouth very slowly and a strand of saliva ran out of the corner of her mouth. Beatrice’s words were taking root, burrowing into her consciousness. She stiffened, not moving a muscle, unreachable during the time that the message about her John sank in, that he was never going to come home again, never hug her, never walk into the kitchen, never do anything again.
She made no resistance when Beatrice put her arms around her shoulders, led her away to the chair by the window, and sat down across from her. She caught herself quickly taking note of what was on the table: an azalea that needed water and was starting to wilt, the morning paper, an Advent candleholder with three candles that had burned halfway to the bottom, and-farthest in by the wall-a knife and fork crossed over an empty plate.
Beatrice leaned in across the table and grabbed Berit’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. Then came a single tear that traced its way down her cheek.
“Can we call anyone?”
Berit turned her face toward Beatrice, meeting her gaze.
“How?” she asked hoarsely, in a whisper.
“He was murdered,” Beatrice said in a low voice, as if she were adjusting the volume to match Berit’s.
The look she got reminded her of a sheep slaughter she had witnessed as a child. The victim was a female sheep. The animal was taken from the pen, braying, and led out into the yard. She was wild but let herself be calmed by Beatrice’s uncle.
It was the look the sheep gave Beatrice at that moment, that tenth of a second before it happened. The white of the eye glimmered, the expression full of hurt, no suggestion of fear, more as if posing a question. It was as if there weren’t room enough in the world for her despair, although the pen was so spacious, the pastures so rich.