On another page a public prosecutor called Robertsson claimed that the investigation was progressing on a very large scale totally without prejudice. The police in Hudiksvall had received the assistance that they had requested from the central authorities.
Robertsson seemed to be confident of success: ‘We shall catch whoever did this deed. We shall not give up.’
An article on the next page was about the unrest that had spread throughout the Hälsingland forests. Many villages in the area had few inhabitants. There was talk of people acquiring guns, of dogs, alarms and barricaded doors.
Birgitta Roslin slid the newspaper to one side. The house was empty, silent. Her sudden and unwanted free time had come out of the blue. She went down to the basement and fetched one of the wine lists. She decided to order the case of Barolo Arione online. It was really too expensive, but she felt the urge to treat herself. She thought about doing some cleaning, an activity that was almost always neglected in her household. But she changed her mind just as she was about to bring out the vacuum cleaner. She sat down at the kitchen table and tried to assess her situation. She was on sick leave, although she wasn’t really ill. Is having high blood pressure really being ill? Maybe she really was close to burning herself out, and perhaps it could affect her judgement in court?
She looked at the newspaper in front of her on the table and thought again about her mother and her childhood in Hälsingland. An idea struck her. She picked up the telephone, rang the local police station and asked to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Hugo Malmberg. They had known each other for many years. At one time he had tried to teach her and Staffan to play bridge, without arousing much enthusiasm.
She heard Malmberg’s gentle voice at the other end of the line. Most people imagine police officers sound gruff; Hugo would convince them otherwise. He sounded more like a cuddly pensioner sitting on a park bench feeding the birds.
She asked how he was and wondered if he had time to see her. He agreed. She’d walk.
An hour later, Birgitta Roslin entered Hugo Malmberg’s office with its neat and tidy desk. Malmberg was on the phone, but he gestured, inviting her to sit down. The call concerned an assault that had happened the previous day.
Malmberg hung up and smiled at her. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘I’d rather not, thank you.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘The police station’s coffee is just as bad as the brew they serve up in the district court.’
He stood.
‘Let’s go to the conference room,’ he said. ‘This telephone rings nonstop. It’s a feeling I share with every other decent Swedish police officer — that I’m the only one who’s really working hard.’
They sat down at the oval table, cluttered with empty coffee mugs and water bottles. Malmberg shook his head disapprovingly.
‘People never clean up after themselves. They have their meetings, and when they’ve finished they disappear and leave all their rubbish behind. How can I help? Have you changed your mind about those bridge lessons?’
She told him about what she’d discovered, about her connection to the mass murders.
‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘All I can gather from what’s in the papers and the news bulletins is that many people are dead, and the police don’t have any leads.’
‘I don’t mind admitting that I’m glad I don’t work in that district right now. They must be going through sheer hell. I’ve never heard of anything like it. In its way it’s just as sensational as the Palme murder.’
‘What do you know that isn’t in the newspapers?’
‘There isn’t a single police officer the length and breadth of the country who isn’t wondering what happened. Everybody has a theory. It’s a myth that police officers are rational and lack imagination. We start speculating about what might have happened right away.’
‘What do you think happened?’
He shrugged and thought for a moment before answering.
‘I know no more than you do. There are a lot of bodies, and it was brutal. But nothing was stolen, if I understand things correctly. The probability is that some sick individual was responsible. What lies behind it, goodness only knows. I assume the police up there are lining up known violent criminals with psychological problems. They’ve doubtless been in touch already with Interpol and Europol in the hope of finding a clue that way, but such things take time. That’s all I know.’
‘You know police officers all over Sweden. Do you have a contact up in Hälsingland? Somebody I could perhaps phone?’
‘I’ve met their chief of police,’ said Malmberg. ‘A man by the name of Ludwig. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that impressed by him. As you know, I don’t have much time for police officers who’ve never been out in the real world. But I can call him and see what he has to say.’
‘I promise not to disturb them unnecessarily. I just want to know if it was my mother’s foster-parents who died. Or if it was their children. Or if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether.’
‘That’s a fair-enough reason for calling them. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now. I have an unpleasant interview with a very nasty violent man coming up.’
That evening she told Staffan what had happened. His immediate reaction was that the doctor had done the right thing, and he suggested that she should take a trip to the south and the sun. His lack of interest irritated her. But she didn’t say anything.
Shortly before lunch the following day, when she was sitting in front of her computer and surveying holiday offers, her telephone rang.
‘I’ve got a name for you,’ said Hugo Malmberg. ‘There’s a woman police officer called Sundberg.’
‘I’ve seen that name in the papers, but I didn’t know it was a woman.’
‘Her first name’s Vivian, but she’s known as Vivi. Ludwig will pass your name on to her, so that she knows who you are when you call her. I’ve got a phone number.’
‘Thanks for your help. Incidentally, I might go south for a few days. Have you ever been to Tenerife?’
‘Never. Good luck.’
Roslin immediately dialled the number she’d been given. An answering machine invited her to leave a message.
Once again she took out the vacuum cleaner, but couldn’t bring herself to use it. Instead she returned to the computer and within an hour or so had decided on a trip to Tenerife departing from Copenhagen two days later. She dug out an old school atlas and began dreaming of warm water and Spanish wines.
Maybe it’s just what I need, she thought. A week without Staffan, without trials, without the daily grind. I’m not exactly experienced in confronting my emotions or indeed my life. But at my age I ought to be able to look at myself objectively and face up to my weaknesses and to change things if necessary. Once upon a time, when I was young, I used to dream of becoming the first woman to sail around the world single-handed. It never happened. But nevertheless, maybe I could do with a few days sailing out to Denmark, or strolling along a beach in Tenerife. Either will work out if old age is already catching up with me, or if I can scramble out of the hole I’m sinking into. I managed menopause pretty well, but I’m not really sure what’s happening to me now. What I must establish first of all is whether my high blood pressure and panic attacks have anything to do with Staffan. I must understand that we will never feel content unless we lift ourselves out of our current dispirited state.
She started planning her trip without further ado. There was a glitch that prevented her from finalising her booking online, so she emailed her name and telephone number, and specified the package she was interested in. She had an immediate reply, saying she would be contacted within an hour.