But she can’t hear the noise of the engine anymore.
It was just your imagination, calm down, she reassures herself. Sit down. You’re stressed and scared and you imagined you heard something. There’s nothing out there.
She sits down, but can’t take her eyes off the doorknob. She ought to get up and lock it.
Don’t start, she thinks, like some kind of spell. There’s nothing out there.
The next moment the doorknob begins to turn. The door opens. The moaning of the storm bursts in, along with a rush of cold air, and a man dressed in a dark blue snowsuit steps quickly inside. Pushes the door shut behind him. At first she can’t make out who it is. Then he takes off his hood and balaclava.
It isn’t Curt Bäckström. It’s Vesa Larsson.
Anna-Maria Mella is dreaming. She jumps out of a police car and runs with her colleagues along the E10 between Kiruna and Gällivare. They are on their way to a crashed car lying upside down ten meters from the carriageway. It’s such hard work. Her colleagues are already standing next to the crumpled car and yelling at her.
“Get a move on! You’re the one with the saw! We’ve got to get them out!”
She carries on running with the chainsaw in her hand. Somewhere she can hear a woman; her screams are heartrending.
She’s there at last. She starts up the chainsaw. It shrieks through the metal of the car. She catches sight of the child seat hanging upside down in the car, but she can’t see if there’s a child in it. The saw gives a shrill howl, but suddenly it makes a loud piercing ringing sound. Like a telephone.
Robert nudges Anna-Maria in the side and goes back to sleep as soon as she has picked up the receiver. Sven-Erik Stålnacke’s voice comes down the line.
“It’s me,” he says. “Listen, I went back to Curt Bäckström’s yesterday. But he hasn’t been there all night, at least nobody’s answering the door.”
“Mmm,” mumbles Anna-Maria.
The nastiness of her dream lingers on. She squints at the clock radio beside the bed. Twenty-five to five. She shuffles backwards in the bed and leans against the headboard.
“You didn’t go there on your own?”
“Don’t make a fuss, Mella, just listen. When he didn’t seem to be at home, or wasn’t opening the door, or whatever, I went to the Crystal Church to see if there was some sort of all-night hallelujah carry-on, but there wasn’t. Then I rang the pastors-Thomas Söderberg, Vesa Larsson and Gunnar Isaksson, in that order. I thought maybe they kept an eye on their flock and might know if this Curt Bäckström was in the habit of spending his free time during the day anywhere other than in his flat.”
“And?”
“Thomas Söderberg and Vesa Larsson weren’t at home. Their wives insisted they must still be at the church because of this conference, but I swear to you, Anna-Maria, there was nobody in that church. I mean, they could have been sitting there hiding in the dark, quiet as mice, but I find that difficult to believe. Pastor Gunnar Isaksson was at home, answered after ten rings and rambled on-he’d obviously had a nightcap.”
Anna-Maria ponders for a while. She feels befuddled and slightly unwell.
“I wonder if we’ve got enough for a search warrant,” she says. “I’d like to get into Curt Bäckström’s apartment. Ring von Post and ask him.”
Sven-Erik sighs at the other end of the phone.
“He’s completely hung up on Sanna Strandgård,” he says. “And we haven’t got a shred of evidence. But still, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this guy. I’m going to go in.”
"Into his apartment? Just stop right there."
“I’m going to ring Benny the locksmith. He won’t ask any questions if I tell him he can send the bill to the police.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
Anna-Maria lowers her feet to the floor.
“Wait for me,” she says. “Robert can dig the car out.”
“Take it easy now, Rebecka,” says Vesa Larsson. “We only want to talk. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Without taking his eyes off her he fumbles behind with his hand, grabs hold of the door handle and presses it downward.
We, she thinks. Who are “we”?
All at once she realizes that he is not alone. He just came in first to make sure the situation was under control.
Vesa Larsson opens the door and two other men come into the room. The door closes behind them. They are dressed in dark clothes. No skin visible anywhere. Balaclavas. Goggles.
Rebecka tries to get up from the chair, but her legs will not obey her. It is as if her whole body is ceasing to function. Her lungs are incapable of taking in any air. The blood that has flowed through her veins since she was born is stopping. Like the river when a dam has been built. Her stomach is turning into a solid knot.
No, no, fuck, fuck…
One of the two men takes off his hood and reveals his dark shiny curls. It is Curt Bäckström. His snowsuit is black and shiny. On his feet he has sturdy biker’s boots with steel toe-caps. Over his shoulder he is carrying a shotgun, double barreled. His nostrils and pupils are flared, like a warhorse. She looks straight into his glazed eyes. Sees the fever in them.
Be very careful with him, she thinks.
She sneaks a glance at the girls. They are fast asleep.
She sees who the other man is before he removes his hood and goggles. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing, she would recognize him anywhere. Thomas Söderberg. The way he moves. Dominates the room. It’s almost as if they had rehearsed. Curt Bäckström and Vesa Larsson take up positions on either side of the door to the pigsty.
Vesa Larsson looks past her. Or maybe straight through her. He has the same look as the parents of small children in the supermarket. The muscles beneath the skin of the face have given up. They can’t hide the tiredness anymore. The dead expression. The parents haul their trolleys up and down the aisles like donkeys beaten to the limit of their endurance, deaf to their children’s crying or their agitated chatter.
Thomas Söderberg takes a step forward. At first he doesn’t look at her. With tense, watchful movements he unzips his leathers and takes out his glasses. They are new since she last saw him, but that’s a long time ago. He looks around the room like a commander in a science-fiction film, registers everything, the children, the axe in the corner and Rebecka, by the kitchen table. Then he relaxes. His shoulders drop. His movements become softer, like a lion padding over the savannah.
He turns to Rebecka.
“Do you remember that Easter when you invited Maja and me here?” he asks. “It feels like another lifetime. For a while I thought I wouldn’t be able to find it. In the dark and the storm.”
Rebecka looks at him. He takes off his hood and his gloves and pushes them into the pockets of his leathers. His hair has got thinner. The odd gray streak among the brown, otherwise he is just the same. As if time had stood still. Maybe he has put on a little weight, but it’s hard to tell.
Vesa Larsson leans against the door frame. He is breathing with his mouth open and his face is turned slightly upward, as if he were feeling carsick. His gaze wanders from Curt to Thomas, and to Rebecka herself. But he doesn’t look at the children.
Why doesn’t he look at the children?
Curt sways to and fro a little. His gaze is firmly fixed, sometimes on Rebecka, sometimes on Thomas.
What’s going to happen now? Is Curt going to take the shotgun from his shoulder and shoot her? One, two, three, and it’s all over. Black. She must gain time. Talk, woman. Think of Sara and Lova.
Rebecka uses her hands to support her; leaning on the edge of the table, she raises herself from the chair.
“Sit down!” barks Thomas, and she slumps back down like a beaten dog.
Sara whimpers slightly but doesn’t wake. She turns over and her breathing once again becomes deep and calm.
“Was it you?” croaks Rebecka. “Why?”