Midwinter Sacrifice

17

Zeke’s eyes are cold, annoyed when he meets her at the entrance of Police Headquarters. He has a go at her as they walk the few steps to her desk in the open-plan office. Johan Jakobsson nods from his own corner, Börje Svärd isn’t there.

‘Malin, you know what I think about you going off on your own. I tried to call but you had your mobile switched off the whole time.’

‘It felt urgent.’

‘Malin. It doesn’t take much longer to pick me up here than it does to find a whore on the Reeperbahn. How long would it have taken to come by here? Five minutes? Ten?’

‘A whore on the Reeperbahn? Zeke, what would the ladies in the choir say about that? Stop sulking. Sit down and listen instead. I think you’re going to like this.’

Afterwards, when Malin has told him about Bengt Andersson’s father, Cornerhouse-Kalle, and the world he created, Zeke shakes his head.

‘Human beings. Wonderful creatures, aren’t we?’

‘Have they got anywhere with the archive?’

‘No, not yet. But it’ll be easier now. They can focus on specific years. He has no criminal record, but that’s because he was only fourteen when it happened. We just need to get confirmation of what the old man said. It won’t take long now. And the death certificate was issued this morning. So I managed to get a name in social services in Ljungsbro, a Rita Santesson.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘Only briefly over the phone.’

‘You didn’t go out there? Or pick me up. Now I’ll have to go back out there again.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Malin, you might go off on your own, but I don’t. We’re doing this together, aren’t we? Anyway, going out to Ljungsbro is fun.’

‘And the others?’

‘They’re following up the last of the door-to-doors, and they’re helping the domestic burglary unit after a break-in at some Saab director’s villa over the weekend. Apparently they stole a painting, some American, Harwool I think it was, worth millions.’

‘Warhol. So a theft from a director’s villa is more important than this?’

‘You know how it is, Malin. He was only a fat, lonely man on benefits. Not exactly the foreign minister.’

‘And Karim?’

‘The media have calmed down, so he’s calmed down. And a stolen Warhol might make it into Dagens Nyheter.’

‘Okay, let’s go and talk to Rita Santesson.’

Rita Santesson looks like she’s falling apart before their eyes. Her light green crocheted top is hanging off her skinny shoulders, and her legs are little more than two sticks in a pair of beige corduroy trousers. Her cheeks are sunken, her eyes watery from the strip-lighting, and her hair has lost any colour it may have once had. Reproductions of Bruno Liljefors prints hang on the yellow-painted fabric wallpaper: a deer in snow, a fox attacking a crow. The blinds are pulled down, as if to keep out reality.

Rita Santesson coughs, and with unexpected force throws a black file bearing Bengt Andersson’s name and ID number on to the worn pine top of the desk.

‘That’s all I have to give you.’

‘Can we take a copy?’

‘No, but you can take notes.’

‘Can we use your office?’

‘I need it to meet a client. You can sit in the staffroom.’

‘We’ll need to talk to you afterwards as well.’

‘We can do that now. As I said, I really don’t have much to tell you.’

Rita Santesson slumps down on to her padded chair. Gestures towards the orange plastic chairs, evidently for visitors.

She coughs, from deep in her lungs.

Malin and Zeke sit down.

‘So, what do you want to know?’

‘What was he like?’ Malin asks.

‘What he was like? I don’t know. The few times he was here he seemed distant. He was on antidepressants. Didn’t say much. Seemed withdrawn. We tried to get him to register for invalidity benefit, but he was strongly opposed to that. I suppose he still thought there was a place for him somewhere. You know, hope is the last thing that people let go of.’

‘Nothing else? Any enemies? People who didn’t like him?’

‘No, nothing like that. He didn’t seem to have any friends or enemies. As I said—’

‘Are you sure? Please, try to remember.’ Zeke’s voice, forceful.

‘Well, he did want to know about his sister. But that wasn’t part of our job. I mean, helping him to keep tabs on his family. I don’t think he dared contact her himself.’

‘Where does his sister live now?’

Rita Santesson points to the file. ‘It’s all in there.’

Then she gets up and gestures towards the door.

‘I’m seeing a client in a couple of minutes. The staffroom is at the end of the corridor. If you don’t have any more questions?’

Malin looks at Zeke. He shakes his head.

‘In that case . . .’

Malin gets up. ‘Are you certain there’s nothing else we ought to know?’

‘Nothing that I want to go into.’

Rita Santesson seems suddenly energised, the sickly tiger master of its cage.

‘Nothing you want to go into?’ Zeke bursts out. ‘He was murdered. Hung up in a tree like a lynched nigger. And you “don’t want to go into” something.’

‘Please don’t use that word.’ Rita Santesson purses her lips tight and shrugs, the movement making her whole body shake.

You hate men, don’t you? Malin thinks. Then she asks, ‘Who did he used to see before you?’

‘I don’t know, it should be in the records. There are three of us in this office. None of us has been here longer than a year.’

‘Can you give us the numbers of the people who used to work here?’

‘Ask in reception. They should be able to help.’

A sour smell of burned coffee and microwaved food. A flowery waxed cloth on an oval table.

Sombre reading. They pass the pages between them, taking turns to read, make notes.

Bengt Andersson. In and out of mental hospitals, depression, a loner, different contact names, a transit station for social workers on the way up.

Then something happens in 1977.

The tone of the notes changes.

Words like ‘lonely, isolated, in need of contact’ start to appear.

The same social worker throughout this period: Maria Murvall.

Now the sister appears in the notes. Maria Murvall writes: Bengt is asking after his sister. I checked the archive. His sister, Lotta, was first placed in a foster home, then adopted by a family in Jönköping. New name, Rebecka Stenlundh.

So Lotta had to become a Rebecka, Malin thinks, Andersson became Stenlundh. Rebecka Stenlundh, her name changed like a cat with new owners after the old ones got tired of it.

Nothing else about the sister, except: Bengt is worried about contacting his sister, a phone number, an address in Jönköping, jotted down in the margin. Then an unthinkable reflection: Why am I so concerned?

Maria Murvall.

I recognise that name. I’ve heard that name before.

‘Zeke. Maria Murvall. Don’t you think it sounds familiar?’

‘Yes, it does. Definitely.’

New words. In a good mood. After all my visits and constant nagging, I’ve sorted out his hygiene and cleaning. Now exemplary.

Then an abrupt end.

Maria Murvall replaced first by a Sofia Svensson, then an Inga Kylborn, then Rita Santesson.

They all form the same judgement: Shut off, tired, difficult to get through to.

The last meeting three months ago. Nothing odd about that.

They leave the folder with reception. A young girl with a nose-ring and jet-black hair smiles at them, and says, ‘Of course,’ when they ask for the phone numbers of Bengt Andersson’s social workers.

Five names.

Ten minutes later the girl hands them a list. ‘There you go. I hope it’s useful.’

Before they leave Malin and Zeke do up their jackets and pull on their hats, gloves and scarves.

Malin looks at the clock on the wall. The institutional sort, black hands on a greyish-white background: 15.15.

Zeke’s mobile rings.

‘Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes.’

With the phone still in his hand Zeke says, ‘That was Sjöman. He wants us back for a group meeting at quarter to five.’

‘Has anything happened?’

‘Yes, some old boy from the history department at the university phoned. He evidently has some theory about what might have inspired the murder.’