Midwinter Sacrifice

29

Wednesday, 8 February

Daniel Högfeldt’s bedroom.

What am I doing here?

Are those his hands on my body? He’s eager, firm, caresses, nips, slaps. Does he hit me? Oh, let him. Let him scratch a little, it might as well hurt a bit.

I give way. Let it happen. His body is hard and that’s enough, I don’t give a damn who he is.

Grey walls. My hands near the chrome headboard, he nibbles at my lips, his tongue in my mouth and he pumps and pumps.

Sweat. Minus thirty-four degrees.

Tove, Janne, Dad, Mum, Ball-Bengt, Maria Murvall.

Daniel Högfeldt on top of me, in charge. Do you think I’m yours, Daniel? We can pretend that if you like.

It hurts. And it’s nice.

She takes control, rolls away from him, forces him down on the mattress. Clambers on, in.

Now, Daniel. Now.

I disappear into the lovely pain. And it’s wonderful.

Can’t that be enough?

Malin is lying next to Daniel, twists herself up into a sitting position. Looks at the sleeping muscular body beside hers. Gets up, puts on her clothes, leaves the flat.

It’s five o’clock. Linköping deserted.

She walks towards Police Headquarters.

I heard you, Malin, I was awake, but you didn’t notice.

I wanted to keep you here, I wanted that. It’s so damn cold out there, I wanted to say that I wanted you to stay. Even the very toughest, people who seem hard, need warmth, everyone does.

There’s nothing original in warmth.

But it still means everything.

I dig and root about in people’s lives, try to uncover their secrets. There’s no warmth in that, but I still like doing it.

How did I get like this?

The Murvall brothers.

Adam, Jakob, Elias.

Malin has their files in front of her on the desk, leafing through them at random, reading, drinking coffee.

Three people. Poured into almost the same mould.

The brothers’ police records read like the report of a boxing match.

Round one: shoplifting, hash, souped-up mopeds, driving without a licence, obstruction of official duties, break-ins in kiosks, thefts from Cloetta trucks.

Round two: assault, fighting in bars.

Round three: poaching, extortion, stealing boats, possession of illegal weapons. Small-bore rifles, Husqvarna.

Then after that it’s like the match is over.

The last notes in the brothers’ files are some ten years old.

So what’s happened to the Murvall brothers? Have they calmed down? Got families? Gone straight? Got smarter? Never the last of these. It doesn’t happen. Once a gangster, always a gangster.

Which one is worst?

Notes, extracts from interviews.

The youngest brother, Adam. A hash-smoking petrol-head with violent tendencies, if the file is to be believed. He beat one of the drivers at Mantorp horse-trotting track until he was pouring with blood, after he failed to win a race that Adam had high hopes of.

Illegal betting? No question. Three months in Skänninge secure unit. Two elk poached in February. One month in Skänninge. Beating up his girlfriend. Suspicion of attempted rape. Six months.

The middle brother, Jakob. Illiterate, according to the files. Dyslexic. Prone to violent outbursts. And what does someone like that do? Hits a teacher in year seven, breaks the arm of a contemporary outside the kiosk in Ljungsbro. Juvenile institution. Dealing hash in the playground when he returned, broke a policeman’s jaw when they came to pick him up. Six months in Norrköping, extortion of businesses in Borensberg, drink-driving. One year in Norrköping. Then nothing. As if whatever was wrong suddenly stopped.

The eldest brother, Elias. A perfect example. Some sort of talent for football, in the reserve team as a thirteen-year-old, until he broke into the kiosk at Ljungsbro IF and was expelled from the club. Causing death by dangerous driving when he hit a tree, drunk. Six months in Skänninge. Grievous bodily harm in the Hamlet restaurant. He smashed a beer-glass into another customer’s head. The man lost the sight in one eye.

‘Slow-witted, easily led, insecure.’ The psychologist’s words. Slow-witted? Insecure? Did people really write things like that?

Little sister Maria.

So these are your brothers, Maria? The ones who put up the posters in your room? Adam? In their language, his language, I suppose that’s a sign of concern.

Bengt’s blue body in the tree.

The revenge of three brothers?

Round four: murder?

Malin rubs her eyes. Sips her third cup of coffee.

She hears the door of the office open, feels a cold draught.

Zeke’s voice, rasping and tired: ‘Early today, Fors? Or just a very long night?’

Zeke puts on the radio.

Low volume.

‘Interesting reading, isn’t it?’

‘They seem to have settled down,’ Malin says.

‘Or they just got a bit smarter.’

Zeke is about to say something else, but his voice is hidden by the sound of the radio. The song that is playing fades out, then an annoying jingle, then Malin’s friend’s voice: ‘That was . . .’

Helen.

She grew up out there, Malin thinks. Almost the same age as the brothers. Maybe she knows them? I could call her. I’ll call her.

‘Hello, Malin.’

The voice as soft and sexy over the phone as on the radio.

‘Can you talk?’

‘We’ve got three minutes and twenty-two seconds until this track is over. But I can give us twice as long if I don’t bother to talk before the next one.’

‘I’ll get straight to the point, then. Did you know three brothers by the name of Murvall, who grew up out in Vreta Kloster?’

‘The Murvall brothers. Sure. Everyone knew them.’

‘Infamous?’

‘You could say that. They were always known as “the crazy Murvall brothers”. They were pretty nasty. But all the same . . . there was something tragic about them. You know, they were the ones who everyone knew would never turn into anything, but who rage and rebel against the system. You know, the ones who are sort of on the periphery right from the start. Who are, I don’t know, maybe doomed always to be outside normal society, knocking to get in. They were branded, somehow. They lived in Blåsvädret. The worst, most windswept hellhole on the whole plain. That was Murvall family territory. I wouldn’t be surprised if they still live there.’

‘Do you remember Maria Murvall?’

‘Yes. She was the one who was going to make something of herself. She was in the parallel class to me.’

‘Did you hang out with her?’

‘No, she was sort of on the sidelines as well, somehow. As if she were branded the same way, like her good grades were almost, I don’t know, it sounds awful, but a meaningless attempt to break free. Her brothers protected her. There was one boy who tried to bully her about something, I forget what, and they sandpapered his cheeks. Two horrible wounds, but he didn’t dare tell anyone who did it.’

‘And the father?’

‘He did odd jobs. Blackie, that was his name. He was actually quite fair, but everyone called him Blackie. He had some sort of accident, broke his back and ended up in a wheelchair. Then he drank himself to death, although I think he’d already made a start on that. I’m pretty sure he broke his neck when he rolled down the stairs in their house.’

‘Mother?’

‘There were rumours that she was some sort of witch. But I dare say she was just an ordinary housewife.’

‘A witch?’

‘Gossip, Malin. A shitty little rural dump like Ljungsbro lives off rumour and gossip.’

The voice on the radio.

‘And this next track is for my good friend Malin Fors, the brightest star of Linköping Police.’

Zeke chortles.

‘Carry on the good work, Malin. Soon you’ll be world-famous. Right now she’s investigating the case of Bengt Andersson, which everyone in the city has such an interest in. If you know anything about the case, call Malin Fors at Linköping Police. Anything at all could help them.’

Zeke is chuckling louder now. ‘You’re going to get such a torrent of calls.’

The music starts.

‘Country Boy’ by Eldkvarn.

‘This is my love song. This is my time on earth . . .’

Plura Jonsson’s voice, tremulous with longing and sentimentality.

‘. . . I am what I am . . . a country boy, call me a country boy . . .’

What am I? Malin thinks.

A country girl?

Not out of love. Maybe out of obligation.