Midwinter Sacrifice

46

Sleeping-cars from Oslo sent on from Stockholm down towards Copenhagen, a slow, steady train full of people dreaming or about to wake up.

It is 6.15. The train is due at sixteen minutes past, and the morning has only just started to make itself felt. It is almost even colder than last night. But she managed to get up, wanted to check if Göran Kalmvik was actually on the train as they had been told, and, if he was, find out exactly what his secrets were.

She has called the security guards at Collins. They checked their logs and confirmed that Karl Murvall was in the factory from 19.15 on Wednesday evening until 7.30 the following morning. He had worked all night on a big update which had gone according to plan. She had asked if there was any other exit, or if there was any way he could have got out, and the guard had sounded certain: ‘He was here all night. The main gate is the only way out. And the fence has sensors connected to our office. We would have noticed if anyone was messing about with it right away. And where. And he was up in the server room when we made our rounds.’

Dinner with Tove yesterday. They talked about Markus. Then they watched ten minutes of a Pink Panther film before Malin fell asleep on the sofa.

Now she can just make out the train coming over the Stångån bridge.

The Cloetta Centre like a UFO off to the left on the other side, and the chimney of Tekniska Verken obstinately struggling against the smoke, the lettering of the logo glowing red like eyes on an unsuccessful photograph.

The train appears to increase in size as it approaches, the engine now at the end of the platform, a grandiose projectile fashioned by engineers.

Malin is alone at the station. She wraps her arms round her padded jacket and adjusts her hat.

No Henrietta Kalmvik, Malin thinks. I’m the only one here to meet someone. And I’m hunting a murderer.

Only one train door opens, two carriages away, and Malin hurries over, feeling the frozen air tug at her lungs. Only one man gets out on to the platform, carrying two big red suitcases, one in each hand.

A weather-beaten face and a body that is heavy but still muscular, and his whole being radiates familiarity with cold and privation; his blue coat isn’t even done up.

‘Göran Kalmvik?’

The man looks surprised. ‘Yes, and who are you?’

The door of the carriage closes again, and the sound of the conductor’s whistle almost drowns out Malin’s voice as she says her name and title. When the whistle has faded away and the train has left the platform, she quickly explains why she is there.

‘So you’ve been trying to get hold of me?’

‘Yes,’ Malin says. ‘For a few explanations.’

‘Then you’ll know that I wasn’t out on the rig.’

Malin nods. ‘We can talk in my car,’ she says. ‘It’s warm. I left it running in neutral.’

Göran Kalmvik inclines his head. His expression is one of relief, tinged with guilt.

A minute later he is sitting beside her in the passenger seat, and his breath smells strongly of coffee and toothpaste, and he starts talking without her having to ask.

‘I’ve had a woman in Oslo for about ten years now. I’ve been lying to Henrietta for ten years; she still thinks I work three weeks and have two off, but it’s the other way round. I spend the missing week in Oslo, with Nora and her lad. I like him, he’s more straightforward than Jimmy. I’ve never really understood that boy.’

Because you’re never at home, Malin thinks.

‘And guns? Do you have any idea where Jimmy might have got hold of a gun?’

‘No, I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing.’

‘And you don’t know what he used to do to Bengt Andersson?’

‘Sorry.’

Because you’re never at home, Malin thinks again.

‘I’ll need the number of your woman in Oslo.’

‘Does Henrietta have to find out about any of this? I don’t know what I want. I’ve tried telling her, but you know how it can be. So if she has to find out . . .’

Malin shakes her head. As an answer, as an attempt to get Göran Kalmvik to shut up, and as a reflection on the other gender’s occasionally incurable weakness.

Malin is sitting in the car, watching Göran Kalmvik’s taxi disappear off towards Ljungsbro, past the miserable brick box of the supermarket.

She is thinking.

Letting the possibilities wander freely through her head, then takes out her mobile and calls Niklas Nyrén’s various numbers. But he doesn’t answer, hasn’t called back, and she wonders if he might be at Margaretha Svensson’s, clicks up her number from the list, then stops when she sees what time it is: 6.59. Saturday morning.

It can wait.

There have to be some limits, even in a murder investigation. Let the worn-out single mother sleep.

Then Malin drives home. Gets into bed after checking on Tove. And before she falls asleep the image of Valkyria Karlsson comes back to her, naked in the field, like an angel, perhaps one of the devil’s angels.