The joke seems to have fallen flat. Sofia frowns before going on.
‘It’s an interesting element in a certain type of offender mentality. The perpetrator returns to childhood, to the time when he first became aware of his own sexuality. The fifty-year-old claimed that his real gender identity was female, a young girl’s, and he was convinced that the games he introduced his daughters to were entirely normal in a relationship between child and parent. Through those games he could both relive and sustain his own childhood. And what he perceived to be his true sexual identity.’
Jeanette raises the glass to her mouth again. ‘I get it. I think I can see what you’re getting at. The castration of the boys is a ritual, and it’s about reliving something.’
Sofia looks at her sharply. ‘Yes, but not just anything. It’s a symbol for the loss of sexuality. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the perpetrator in this case is someone who at an early age went through a change of sexual identity, either voluntary or involuntary.’
Jeanette puts her glass down on the table. ‘You mean a sex change?’
‘Maybe – if not physically, then definitely mentally. The murders are so extreme that I think you ought to be looking for an equally extreme offender. Castration symbolises a loss of sexual identity, and embalming is the technique used to preserve what the perpetrator regards as his work of art. Instead of painting with oils, the artist uses formalin and embalming fluid. Just as I said earlier, it’s a self-portrait, but not just of shame. The central motif is a loss of sexual belonging.’
Interesting, Jeanette thinks. It sounds logical, but she’s still dubious. She still doesn’t understand why Sofia began the conversation by talking about cannibalism.
‘Wasn’t it the case that the dead boys were missing their genitals?’ Sofia says.
Then she understands, and suddenly feels nauseous again.
Icebar, Stockholm
IF SWEDEN APPEARS to outsiders to consist of equal parts of freedom, state-run off-licences and high income tax, then Stockholm appears to city planners to consist of one-third water, one-third parks and one-third buildings.
In the same way, a sociologist can divide Stockholm’s inhabitants into poor, rich and very rich. In this last group, however, the division is rather different.
The properly rich do everything they can not to flaunt their wealth, while those living in the suburbs compete to look and behave like multimillionaires. In no other city the size of Stockholm do you see so few Jaguars and so many Lexuses.
In the bar where Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist is well on his way to getting seriously drunk on rum, cognac and whisky, the clientele consists of the rich and the very rich. The only thing spoiling the socio-economic structure is a group of Japanese men who look like they’re on a field trip to an exotic zoo. Which, in a way, they are.
The delegation is here at the invitation of the Stockholm judicial system, and is from the office of public prosecutions in Kobe. The conference is taking place in the first hotel in the world to have a bar where it’s always winter.
The glass in von Kwist’s hand is made entirely of ice, and is currently full to the brim with whisky from the distillery in Mackmyra, a drink that seems to appeal greatly to their Japanese guests.
What a bunch of fucking puppets, he thinks, looking around hazily. And I’m one of them.
Their party consists of twelve young Japanese lawyers, and with him and his colleagues from the Public Prosecution Authority, there are fifteen of them in total, all wearing thick silver outfits with hoods and heavy gloves that make the below-freezing temperature inside the bar bearable long enough for them to empty their wallets. The cold blue lighting from the blocks of ice that make up the interior of the bar gives a surreal impression, and it feels like he’s in a cartoon series about futuristic Michelin men.
The visit to the ice bar is the culmination of the ten-hour-long conference programme, and, if the prosecutor has learned anything during the day, it’s that it isn’t possible to learn anything on days like this.
‘Another one,’ he mutters to the bartender, putting his glass down hard on the bar.
The prosecutor sips his fourth or fifth whisky of the evening, feels his mood getting steadily worse, and knows he needs a break from this.
He decides to have a cigar before taking his leave. He needs to think, even if somewhere behind the fog of alcohol he realises that no matter what he might think in his current state, he won’t remember it tomorrow. But he still excuses himself, pushes his way through the almost-full bar, hands over his gloves and the bulky silver jacket, and goes out onto the street to be alone for a while.
But he gets no further than lighting the cigar before he is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.
He turns round and is about to say something cutting when he is hit in the face by a clenched fist. His cheek burns from the lit end of the cigar, which crumbles and falls to the ground while he himself stumbles from the blow and loses his balance.
Someone’s holding him in a tight grip, and puts their knee on his back. The prosecutor is lying helpless with his face against the pavement.
Von Kwist’s body immediately activates the defence mechanism that is managed by its fastest and most durable muscles. The ones in charge of his eyes.
He shuts them tight and begs for his life.
The grip soon relaxes. Ten seconds later he dares to open his eyes and gets to his knees.
What the hell just happened?
L?ngholmen Island
L?NGHOLMEN IS AN island in the centre of Stockholm, and forms a distinct part of the city. It is about a kilometre long, and not quite five hundred metres across, and for many years it was Stockholm’s prison island. One of L?ngholmen’s inmates was Hanna Hansdotter. The last woman in Sweden to be sentenced to death for witchcraft.
Madeleine drives onto the island across the P?lsund Bridge, and parks behind Sj?mansskolan. She knows the way because she’s been here before.
She’s spent several nights staying at the camping site beneath the Western Bridge. There are too many people, and she doesn’t want to have to answer any questions from curious tourists. But it’s better than Sj?fartshotellet, where she felt watched the whole time.
Since she got back from Mariehamn she’s spent all her time in the car. A restless day with no other goal but tracking down her real mother. She’s got the photograph Charlotte gave her in her pocket.
She’s done what she set out to do, and now she wants to wipe out the body she was born from. It’s turned out to be harder than she expected. Viggo had once said he’d seen Victoria Bergman down by the water in Norra Hammarbyhamnen, and Madeleine has been there several times, but hasn’t found her.
And time will soon be running out. Her deal with Viggo needs to be completed.