Birgitta Roslin lived in Kjellstorp, an upmarket residential area on the northern edge of Helsingborg. On the way home she stopped at a little shop. It was owned by a Pakistani immigrant who always greeted her with a broad smile. He knew she was a district judge and was very respectful towards her. She wondered if there were any female judges in Pakistan, but had never got around to asking him.
When she arrived home she had a bath before going to bed. She woke up at one o’clock and at last felt fully rested. After a couple of sandwiches and a cup of coffee, she returned to her work. A few hours later she printed out her judgement that acquitted the guilty man, drove back to court and left it on her secretary’s desk. Her secretary was evidently attending some kind of in-service training course: Birgitta Roslin hadn’t been informed or, more likely, had forgotten all about it. When she arrived back home she heated up some leftover chicken stew from yesterday’s dinner and left the rest in the fridge for Staffan.
She settled down on the sofa with a cup of coffee and switched on teletext. She was reminded of the headlines she had seen earlier in the day. The police had no clues to follow up and declined to reveal how many people had been killed or their names, since the next of kin had not yet been contacted.
A madman, she concluded, who either had a persecution complex or considered himself to have been badly treated by the world.
Her years as a judge had taught her that there were many different forms of madness that could drive people to commit horrendous crimes. But she had also learned that forensic psychiatrists did not always succeed in exposing criminals who merely pretended to be mentally ill.
She switched off the television and went down to the basement, where she had created a little cellar of red wines complete with several wine lists and order forms from a number of importers. Only a few years ago it had dawned on her that, thanks to her children moving out, the family finances had changed fundamentally. She now felt she could afford to spend money on something special and had decided to buy a few bottles of red wine every month. She enjoyed studying the lists and picking out new wines to try. Paying five hundred kronor or so for a bottle seemed to her an almost forbidden pleasure.
It was cool in the cellar. She checked that the temperature was fourteen degrees Celsius, then sat down on a stool between the racks. Down there, among all the bottles, she could feel at peace with the world. Given the alternative of soaking in a warm pool, she would have preferred to sit in her cellar surrounded on this particular day by one hundred and fourteen bottles lying in their racks.
But then again, was the peace she could experience in her cellar really genuine? When she was a young woman, if anybody had suggested to her that one day she would become a wine collector, she would never have believed her ears. She wouldn’t merely have denied any such possibility, she would have been upset. As a student in Lund she had been in sympathy with the left-wing radicals who, in the late 1960s, had questioned the validity of university education and the very foundations of the society in which she would eventually work. In those days, collecting wine would have been regarded as a waste of time and effort, a typically middle-class and hence objectionable hobby.
She was still sitting there lost in thought when she heard Staffan moving around on the floor above. She put the wine lists away and went back upstairs. He had just taken the chicken stew out of the fridge. On the table were a couple of evening newspapers he had brought with him from the train.
‘Have you seen this?’
‘I gather something awful’s happened in Hälsingland.’
‘Nineteen people have been killed.’
‘Teletext said that the number of dead wasn’t yet known.’
‘These are the latest editions. They’ve killed practically the whole population of a hamlet up there. It’s incredible. How did it go with the judgement you were working on?’
‘It’s finished. I acquitted him. I didn’t have any choice.’
‘The papers are all abuzz.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘You’re going to come in for some stick.’
‘No doubt. But I can suggest that the reporters might like to check what the law says, and then decide if they’d prefer us to go over to lynch law in Sweden.’
‘These mass murders are going to detract attention from your case.’
‘Of course. What’s a petty little rape compared with a brutal mass murder?’
They went to bed early that night. He would be in charge of an early train the following morning, and she had failed to find anything of interest on the television. She had also decided which wine she was going to buy. A case of Barolo Arione 2002, at 252 kronor per bottle.
She woke up with a start at midnight. Staffan was sleeping soundly by her side. She was fairly frequently woken up by pangs of hunger in the middle of the night. She put on her dressing gown, went downstairs to the kitchen, made herself a cup of weak tea and a couple of sandwiches.
The evening papers were still lying on the kitchen table. She leafed absent-mindedly through one of them — it was hard to form a clear picture of what had happened in that little village in Hälsingland. But there was no doubt that a large number of people had been brutally murdered.
She was just going to put the paper to one side when she gave a start. Among the dead were several people called Andrén. She read the text carefully, then checked in the other paper. The same there.
She stared hard at the page in front of her. Could this really be true? Or did she remember wrongly? She went to her study and took out from a desk cupboard a folder of documents wrapped in a red ribbon. She switched on the desk lamp and opened the folder. As she hadn’t brought her glasses down with her, she borrowed a pair of Staffan’s. They were not as strong as hers, but they were usable.
The folder contained all the documents connected with her parents. Her mother had been dead for more than fifteen years. She had been diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas and died within three months.
She eventually found the photograph she had been looking for in a brown envelope. She took out her magnifying glass and examined the picture. It depicted a group of people in old-fashioned clothes standing in front of a house.
She took the photograph with her to the kitchen. In one of the newspapers there was a general view of the village where this major tragedy had taken place. She examined the picture carefully through her magnifying glass. She paused at the third house and began comparing the two photographs.
She had remembered rightly. This hamlet that had been struck down by unannounced evil was not just any old place. It was the village in which her mother had grown up. Everything fitted — it was true that her mother’s surname had been Lööf as a child, but as her parents had both been alcoholics, she had been placed with a family called Andrén. Birgitta’s mother had rarely mentioned those days. She had been well looked after, but had always longed to be acquainted with her real parents. However, they had both died before she was fifteen, and so she had to stay in the village until she was considered old enough to find work and look after herself. When she met Birgitta’s father, the names Lööf and Andrén disappeared from the scene. But now one of them had returned with a bang.
The photograph lying among her mother’s papers had been taken in front of one of the houses in the village where the mass murders had been perpetrated. The facade of the house, the ornamental carving around the windows, was exactly the same in the old photograph as in the newspaper.