‘Listen, Sofia.’ He sighs. ‘What are we doing? Don’t you think we should just call it a day?’
She’s speechless, and swallows a few times. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we clearly haven’t got time to see each other. So why keep going?’
When she realises what he means, she feels a huge sense of relief. He pre-empted her by a matter of seconds. He wants to break up. Simple. No fuss.
She lets out a short laugh. ‘Mikael, that’s actually why I’ve been trying to contact you. Haven’t you got five minutes so we can talk?’
After the call, Sofia sits down on the sofa.
Washing, she thinks. Cleaning and paying bills. Watering the plants. Ending a relationship. Practical matters of roughly equal significance.
She doesn’t imagine she’s going to miss him.
On the table is the Polaroid picture she found in her pocket.
What am I going to do with that? she thinks.
She doesn’t understand. It’s her in the picture, yet it isn’t.
On the one hand her memories can’t be trusted, Victoria Bergman’s childhood is full of holes, but on the other hand the details in the photograph are so clear that they ought to stir some sort of memory in her.
She’s wearing a red quilted jacket with white detailing, as well as white wellington boots and red trousers. She’d never wear that. It looks like someone’s dressed her up.
The lighthouse in the background is red and white as well, which makes it look like the picture has been composed around those colours.
You can’t see much of the surroundings, apart from the beach with its broken wooden poles. The landscape looks bleak, with low hillocks of tall, yellowing grass.
It could be Gotland, maybe the south coast of England, or Denmark. Sk?ne? North Germany?
Places she’s been to, but not when she was that young.
It looks like late summer, possibly autumn, considering her clothes. It seems windy, and looks cold.
The little girl who is her has a smile on her lips, but her eyes aren’t smiling. When she looks closer at the picture, she thinks her eyes look desperate.
How did this end up in my pocket? Has it been there the whole time? Did I pick it up out in V?rmd? before the house burned down?
No, I didn’t have that jacket on me then.
Victoria, she thinks. Tell me what it is I don’t remember.
No reaction.
Not a single feeling comes to her.
Kungsgatan – Stockholm City Centre
AFTER SEVERAL YEARS of excavations into the Brunkeberg Ridge, Kungsgatan was inaugurated in November 1911. While work was going on, they found the remains of a Viking settlement that once stood roughly where H?torget is today.
The street, originally known as Helsingegathun, was renamed Lutternsgatan in the early eighteenth century. It was a rough area, lined with small shacks and old wooden houses.
The author Ivar Lo-Johansson wrote about the street, about the bohemians of the Klara district, and the prostitutes who lived and worked there.
During the sixties, when the city centre shifted south towards Hamngatan, the street began to decline, but after the renovations of the eighties it regained a little of its earlier status.
Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist gets off the metro at H?torget and, as usual, has trouble getting his bearings. There are far too many exits, and his sense of direction doesn’t work underground.
A few minutes later he’s standing outside the Concert House.
It’s raining and he puts up his umbrella and slowly begins to walk west, up Kungsgatan.
He’s in no hurry.
In fact he’s rather reluctant to arrive early to his office at the Public Prosecution Authority.
He’s worried. No matter how he looks at the matter, it goes wrong. No matter what he does, he’s going to end up as the loser.
He crosses Drottninggatan, M?largatan and Klara Norra Kyrkogatan.
What will happen if he does nothing at all and simply hides the documents underneath everything else in the bottom drawer of his desk?
There’s a chance that she’ll never get to hear about them, and over time new cases will arise and the old ones will be forgotten.
But seeing as he’s dealing with Jeanette Kihlberg, he doubts that she’ll just move on.
Her involvement with the dead boys has been too great, and she’s far too stubborn. Far too devoted to her work.
In his search for compromising facts about her, he hasn’t found a thing.
Not a single complaint about her work.
She’s a third-generation police officer. Both her father and her grandfather served in the Western District, and there was nothing of note in their files either.
He passes the Oscar Theatre and the Casino Cosmopol, in the former premises of the dance restaurant Bal Palais.
The whole thing’s a complete mess, and right now he’s the only person who can solve the problem.
Unless there’s something he hasn’t thought of?
An approach he’s missed?
For the time being Jeanette Kihlberg is fully occupied with her son, but once he’s better she’ll be back at work, and sooner or later she’s going to find out about the new information.
There’s nothing he can do to stop that.
Is there?
Kronoberg – Police Headquarters
THERE’S A KNOCK on her door and Commissioner Dennis Billing steps into her office.
Jeanette notes that he looks suntanned.
‘So, you’re back?’ he pants as he pulls up a chair and lowers his tall, heavy frame onto it. ‘How are you?’
Jeanette suspects that this last question covers more than just her well-being.
‘Under control. I’m waiting for Hurtig to report on his Bandhagen case.’
‘So what are you doing now?’ He opens the door to the corridor, where Hurtig is waiting to come in.
‘Have you got anything new for us?’ Jeanette leans back and stares at the broad rear view of Billing. There’s a large patch of sweat just above his trousers. A clear sign that he spends too much time sitting down, she thinks.
‘No, not exactly. Things are pretty calm right now, so maybe the pair of you could get back to your respective holidays.’
Jeanette and Hurtig shake their heads simultaneously, but Hurtig speaks first. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll take mine in the winter instead.’
‘Me too,’ Jeanette adds. ‘Taking time off is far too much hassle.’
Billing turns and looks at her. ‘Well then. Spend a few days playing solitaire until something happens. Reinstall Windows. Take it easy, basically. Bye.’ Without waiting for a reply he forces his way past Hurtig and walks off.
Hurtig closes the door behind him with a grin, and pulls out the chair by the desk.
‘Has the Bandhagen rapist confessed?’ Jeanette leans back and stretches, then puts her hands behind her head.
‘Case closed.’ Hurtig sits down and goes on. ‘He’s going to be charged with several counts of rape against his wife, for assault on her, and, if he sticks to his story, for one case of deprivation of liberty.’ Hurtig stops, and seems to be thinking. ‘I think he found it a relief to have the chance to tell someone.’