The radio news bulletin was short. The press conference had just begun. According to what they had heard, the police had arrested a man on suspicion of mass murder in Hesjövallen. More information was promised in the next bulletin.
Birgitta Roslin resumed her journey, then stopped again an hour later. She turned off cautiously onto a timber track, afraid that the snow would be so deep that her car might get stuck. She switched on the radio. The first thing she heard was Robertsson’s voice. A suspect was being interrogated. Robertsson expected him to be charged that afternoon or evening. That was all he could say at the moment.
A hubbub of sound filled the radio when he had finished speaking, but Robertsson declined to comment further.
When the news bulletin was over, she turned off the radio. Some heavy chunks of snow fell from a fir tree next to the car. She unbuckled her seat belt and got out. The temperature was still falling. She shuddered. What had Robertsson said? A male suspect. Nothing more. But he had sounded confident, just as Sundberg had given the impression of being confident that a breakthrough had been achieved.
This is not the Chinese man, she thought.
She restarted the engine and continued her journey. She forgot about the next news bulletin.
She stopped in Örebro and took a room for the night. She left the bag of diaries in the car.
Before falling asleep, she felt an almost irresistible longing for another human being. Staffan. But he wasn’t there. She could hardly remember what his hands felt like.
The following day, at about three in the afternoon, she arrived back home in Helsingborg. She put the plastic bag of diaries in her study.
By then she knew that a man in his forties, as yet unnamed, had been charged by Prosecutor Robertsson. But there were no details — the media ranted on about the lack of information.
Nobody knew who he was. Everybody was waiting.
19
That evening Birgitta Roslin watched the television news with her husband. Prosecutor Robertsson talked about a breakthrough in the investigation. Vivi Sundberg was hovering in the background. The press conference was chaotic. Tobias Ludwig failed to keep the reporters under control, and they almost tipped over the lectern at which Robertsson was standing. He was the only one who remained calm. Eventually he was interviewed alone on camera and explained what had happened. A man aged about forty-five had been arrested in his home outside Hudiksvall. There had been no drama, but to be on the safe side they had called in reinforcements. The man had been charged on suspicion of involvement in the Hesjövallen massacre. For technical reasons Robertsson was not prepared to reveal his identity.
‘Why won’t he do that?’ wondered Staffan.
‘Any other people involved could be warned, evidence could be destroyed,’ said Birgitta, hushing him.
Robertsson released no details, but the breakthrough had come as a result of several tips from the general public. They were checking various leads and had already held a preliminary interrogation.
The interviewer pressured Robertsson with more questions.
Has he confessed?
No.
Has he admitted to anything at all?
I can’t comment on that.
Why not?
We are at a crucial stage in the investigation.
Was he surprised when he was arrested?
No comment.
Does he have a family?
No comment.
But he lives near Hudiksvall.
Yes.
What’s his job?
No comment.
In what way is he connected to all the people who have been killed?
You must realise that I can’t comment on that.
But you must also understand that our viewers are interested in what has happened. This is the second most serious outbreak of violence that has ever taken place in Sweden.
Robertsson raised his eyebrows in surprise.
What was worse?
The Stockholm Bloodbath.
Robertsson couldn’t help laughing out loud. Birgitta Roslin groaned at the sheer cheek of the interviewer.
The two incidents can hardly be compared. But I’m not going to argue with you.
What happens next?
We will interrogate the suspect again.
Who is his defending counsel?
He’s asked for Tomas Bodström, but he probably won’t get him.
Are you sure you have arrested the right man?
It’s too early to say. But for the moment I’m happy with the fact that he’s been charged.
The interview ended. Birgitta turned down the sound. Staffan looked at her.
‘Well, what does the judge have to say about this?’
‘They obviously have some evidence, or they would never have been allowed to charge him. But he’s been locked up on grounds of suspicion. Either Robertsson is being cautious, or he doesn’t have anything more concrete.’
‘Did just one man do all this?’
‘It doesn’t necessarily follow that he was alone just because he’s the only one who’s been arrested.’
‘Can it really be anything but an act of madness?’
Birgitta sat in silence for a moment before replying.
‘Can an act of madness be meticulously planned? Your answer is as good as mine.’
‘So we’ll have to wait and see.’
They drank tea and went to bed early. He stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he said.
‘I was thinking about what a lot of forest there is in Sweden.’
‘I thought perhaps you might be thinking it was good to get away from everything.’
‘From what? You?’
‘Me. And all the trials. A little midlife crisis.’
She snuggled up closer.
‘Sometimes I think: What’s going on? It’s unfair, I know. You, the children, my job, what else can I ask for? But there are other things. What used to make us tick when we were younger. Not only understanding, but making a difference. If you take a look around, the world has only got worse.’
‘Not in every way. We smoke less, we have computers, mobile phones.’
‘It’s as if the whole world is falling apart. And our courts are pretty useless when it comes to preserving any kind of moral decency in this country.’
‘Is this what you were thinking about when you were up there in the north?’
‘I suppose so. I’m a little depressed. But perhaps you need to be a little depressed sometimes.’
They lay there without speaking. She expected him to reach for her, but nothing happened.
We’re not there yet, she thought, disappointed. But at the same time she couldn’t understand why she didn’t feel able to make the move herself.
‘We should go away for a while,’ he said eventually. ‘Some conversations are better during daylight hours rather than right before going to sleep.’
‘Maybe we should go on a pilgrimage,’ she said. ‘Do what tradition tells us to do, take the route to Santiago de Compostela. Put rocks in our backpacks, every one representing a problem we’re wrestling with. Then, when we’ve found solutions, we take the rocks out and lay them by the roadside, one by one.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course. But I don’t know if my knees are up to it.’