And when they came. At first they were horrible, an unbearable torment, darkness. But then. Then the tears became a refuge. A place to rest. A waiting room before the next thing on the list. Then a part of her suddenly wanted to stay there among the tears. Put off the other thing which is going to happen. And then the tears leave her. Say: that’s it, then. And just stop.
She gets up. There’s a hand basin, she grabs the edge and pulls herself to her feet. Annette has obviously left the room.
Her eyes are swollen, they feel like half tennis balls. She presses her icy fingertips against her eyelids. Turns on the tap and splashes her face. There are some rough paper towels beside the basin. She dries her face and blows her nose, avoids looking in the mirror. The paper rasps against her nose.
She looks down at the dogs. She’s so exhausted, worn out with her tears, that she isn’t capable of feeling so strongly any longer. The overwhelming grief is just like a memory. She crouches down and gives each dog a much more thoughtful caress.
Then she leaves the room. Annette is busy at the computer in the office. All Lisa needs to do is mutter a good-bye.
Out into the September sunshine. That stabs and torments her. Sharply defined shadows. The sun is in her eyes, except when a few clouds drift by. She gets in the car and flips down the sun visor. Starts the car and drives through town before driving out onto the road to Norway.
She thinks about precisely nothing during the journey. Except for how the road curves its way forward. How the pictures change. Bright blue sky. White, ragged clouds shredding themselves as they scud along high above the mountains. Sharply defined, rugged ravines. The length of Torneträsk, like a shining blue stone with yellow gold spun around it.
When she has passed Katterjåkk it appears. A huge truck. Lisa keeps driving fast. She undoes her seat belt.
Rebecka Martinsson followed Nalle down into the cellar. A stone staircase painted green made its way down beneath the house. He opened a door. Inside was a room that was used as a larder, and for carpentry and general storage. Lots of things everywhere. It was damp. The white paint was covered with black spots in places. Here and there the plaster had come away. There were basic storage shelves covered in jam jars, boxes of nails and screws and all kinds of bits and pieces, tins of paint, tins of varnish that had evaporated, brushes that had gone hard, sandpaper, buckets, electrical tools, piles of flex. Tools hung on the walls where there was space.
Nalle shushed her. Placed his forefinger on his lips. He took her hand and led her to a chair; she sat down. He knelt down on the cellar floor and tapped on it with his fingernail.
Rebecka sat in silence, waiting.
He took an almost empty packet of biscuits out of his breast pocket. Rustled the packet as he unfolded it, took out a biscuit and broke it into pieces.
And then a little mouse came scampering across the floor. It ran over to Nalle following an S-shaped route, stopped by his knees, reared up on its hind legs. It was brownish gray, no more than four or five centimeters long. Nalle held out half a biscuit. The mouse tried to take it from him, but as Nalle didn’t let go, it stayed and ate. The only sound was small nibbling noises.
Nalle turned to Rebecka.
“Mouse,” he said loudly. “Little.”
Rebecka thought it would be frightened away when he spoke so loudly, but it stayed where it was and kept right on nibbling. She nodded at him and gave him a big smile. It was a strange sight. Great big Nalle and the tiny mouse. She wondered how it had come about. How he’d managed to get it to overcome its fear. Could he have been patient enough to sit quietly down here, waiting for it? Maybe.
You’re a very special boy, she thought.
Nalle reached out his forefinger and tried to pat the mouse on the back, but then fear overcame hunger. It shot away like a gray streak and disappeared among all the rubbish standing by the wall.
Rebecka watched it.
Time to go. Couldn’t leave the car parked like that indefinitely.
Nalle was saying something.
She looked at him.
“Mouse,” he said. “Little!”
A feeling of sorrow came over her. She was standing here in an old cellar with a mentally handicapped boy. She felt closer to him than she’d been to another human being for a long, long time.
Why can’t I? she thought. Can’t like people. Don’t trust them. But you can trust Nalle. He can’t pretend to be what he’s not.
“Bye then, Nalle,” she said.
“Bye then,” he said, without the least trace of sorrow in his voice.
She went up the green stone staircase. She didn’t hear the car pull up outside. Didn’t hear the footsteps on the porch. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, the outside door was opened. Lars-Gunnar’s enormous bulk filled the doorway. Like a mountain blocking her path. Something shriveled up inside her. And she looked into his eyes. He looked at her.
“What the hell,” was all he said.
The scene of crime team found a rifle bullet at nine thirty in the morning. They dug it out of the ground by the shore of the lake. Caliber 30-06.
By quarter past ten the police had matched the firearms register with the motor vehicle database. All those who owned a diesel car and were registered as owning a gun.
Anna-Maria Mella leaned back in her office chair. It really was a luxury item. You could recline the back so you were almost lying down, just like in a bed. Like a dentist’s chair, but without the dentist.
Four hundred and seventy-three people matched. She glanced through the names.
Then she caught sight of one name she recognized. Lars-Gunnar Vinsa.
He owned a diesel Merc. She checked in the firearms register. He was registered for three weapons. Two rifles and one shotgun. One of the rifles was a Tikka. Caliber 30-06.
What they really ought to do was take in all the guns of the right caliber for testing. But maybe they ought to talk to him first. Although that wasn’t likely to be particularly pleasant when it was a former colleague.
She checked the time. Half ten. She could drive out there with Sven-Erik after lunch.
Lars-Gunnar Vinsa looks at Rebecka Martinsson. Halfway to town he’d remembered that he’d forgotten his wallet, and turned back.
What kind of bloody conspiracy was this? He’d told Mimmi he was going out. Had she phoned that lawyer? He can hardly believe it. But that’s what must have happened. And she’s come dashing down here to snoop around.
The cell phone in the woman’s hand rings. She doesn’t answer it. He stares doggedly at her ringing phone. They stand there motionless. The phone goes on ringing and ringing.
Rebecka thinks she ought to answer. It’s probably Maria Taube. But she can’t. And when she doesn’t answer, it’s suddenly written in his eyes. And she knows. And he knows that she knows.
The paralysis passes. The phone ends up on the floor. Did he knock it out of her hand? Did she throw it down?
He’s standing in her way. She can’t get out. A feeling of absolute terror seizes her.
She turns and runs up the staircase to the top floor. It’s narrow and steep. The wallpaper dirty with age. A flowery pattern. The varnish on the stairs is like thick glass. She scrabbles rapidly on all fours, like a crab. Mustn’t slip now.
She can hear Lars-Gunnar. Heavy behind her.
It’s like running into a trap. Where will she go?
The bathroom door in front of her. She dashes inside.
Somehow she manages to shut the door and makes her fingers turn the lock.
The handle is pressed down from the outside.
There’s a window, but there’s nothing left inside her that can manage to try and escape. The only thing that exists is fear. She can’t stand up. Sinks down on the toilet seat. Then she begins to shake. Her body is jerking and shuddering. Her elbows are pressed against her stomach. Her hands are in front of her face, they’re shaking so violently that she involuntarily hits herself on the mouth, the nose, the chin. Her fingers are bent like claws.