Midwinter Sacrifice

59

Britta Svedlund has stood up, her eyes fixed on Joakim Svensson and Jimmy Kalmvik, who are just entering her office at Ljungsbro school. The room is vibrating with her anger and there is a thick smell of coffee and nicotine.

She must smoke in here sometimes, Malin thought when she came in a few minutes before.

When the boys first caught sight of Malin and Zeke they backed away, wanting to run, but the head’s sharp stare held them where they were, is still holding them.

Earlier, when they were waiting for Joakim and Jimmy to come to her office from their English lesson, Britta Svedlund explained the philosophy behind her teaching.

‘You have to understand that it’s impossible to help everyone. I’ve always focused on the ones, not necessarily the most talented, but the ones who really want to learn. You can make pupils want more than they imagine, but some are hopeless and I’ve stopped wasting energy on them.’

You haven’t given up on Joakim and Jimmy yet, Malin thinks as she watches Britta Svedlund take command of the boys with her look. Even though they’re leaving this spring? Even though they’re old enough to take responsibility for what they do?

‘Sit down,’ Britta says, and the two boys sink on to a couple of chairs, cowering under her voice. ‘I’ve tried my best to protect you. And look what you’ve done.’

Malin moves so the boys can see her eyes. ‘Look at me,’ she says in an ice-cold voice. ‘Enough lies. We know you fired those shots through the window of Bengt Andersson’s flat.’

‘We haven’t—’

Britta Svedlund’s voice from the other side of the table: ‘HAVE SOME MANNERS,’ and then Jimmy Kalmvik starts talking, his voice shrill, anxious, as if it has been dragged out of adolescence and shifted back to a more innocent age.

‘Yes, we used that rifle to shoot at his flat. But he wasn’t at home. We took the rifle and cycled there and then we fired the shots. It was dark and he wasn’t at home. I swear. We scarpered at once. It was really creepy.’

‘It’s true,’ Joakim Svensson says calmly. ‘And we’ve got nothing to do with all that mad shit that happened to Ball-Bengt afterwards.’

‘And when did you fire the shots?’ Malin asks.

‘Just before Christmas, a Thursday.’

‘Will we go to prison now? We’re only fifteen.’

Britta Svedlund shakes her head wearily.

‘That depends on whether you co-operate or not,’ Zeke says. ‘Tell us anything you think could be of interest to us, and I mean everything.’

‘But we don’t know anything else.’

‘We don’t know shit.’

‘So you didn’t torment Bengt after that? Things didn’t get out of hand one evening? Well?’

‘Tell us what happened,’ Malin says. ‘We need to know.’

‘But we didn’t do anything else.’

‘And the night between Wednesday and Thursday the week before last? Before Ball-Bengt was found?’

‘We’ve already told you, we were watching Lords of Dogtown. It’s true!’ Desperation in Joakim Svensson’s voice.

‘You can go,’ Zeke says, and Malin nods in agreement.

‘Does that mean we’re free?’ Jimmy Kalmvik’s voice, naïve.

‘It means,’ Zeke says, ‘that you’ll be hearing from us again in due course. You don’t fire shots through someone’s window without there being consequences.’

Britta Svedlund looks tired, seems to be longing for whisky and a cigarette, seems happy that the boys have left her office.

‘God knows, I’ve really tried with those two.’

‘Maybe they can learn from this,’ Malin says.

‘Let’s hope so. Are you close to arresting anyone for the murder?’

Zeke shakes his head.

‘We’re following several lines of inquiry,’ Malin says. ‘We have to look into every possibility, every little chance, however improbable it might be.’

Britta Svedlund looks out through the window. ‘What’s going to happen to the boys now?’

‘They’ll receive letters calling them in for questioning, if the lead detective thinks it worth while.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Britta Svedlund says. ‘They have to be made to realise that what they did was wrong.’

Back at Police Headquarters Karim Akbar meets them in reception.

Irritation like a cloud over his head.

‘What have you two been up to?’

‘We’ve—’

‘I know. You’ve been out to see Rakel Murvall and bullied her with questions about who she had sex with forty-five years ago.’

‘We didn’t bully anyone,’ Zeke says.

‘According to her you did. She called and made a formal complaint. And she’s going to ring “the paper”, as she put it.’

‘She’s no—’

‘Fors, how do you think this is going to look? She’ll come across as a defenceless little old lady, and we’ll be monsters.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. We’ve got nothing to go on there. We have to leave the Murvalls alone. If you, both of you, don’t stop, Jakobsson will have to take over.’

‘Shit,’ Malin whispers.

Karim moves closer to her. ‘One day of peace and quiet, Fors, that’s all I ask.’

‘Shit.’

‘Suspicions, Fors, aren’t good enough any more. Almost two weeks have passed now. We need something concrete. Not a load of crap about who is whose brother and the fact that we’re bullying an old woman in the absence of anything better.’

The door to the open-plan office opens. Sven Sjöman. Resigned look.

‘The evidence isn’t strong enough to hold the Murvall brothers for the break-in at the weapons store in Kvarn. We have to let them go.’

‘For God’s sake, they had hand grenades from there. Hand grenades!’

‘Yes, but who’s to say they didn’t buy them from someone in the underworld? Poaching and possession of illegal firearms isn’t enough for the court to issue formal arrest warrants. And they’ve confessed.’

Then a voice from behind the reception desk. ‘Call for you, Malin.’

She takes the call at her desk, the phone cold and heavy in her hand.

‘Fors here.’

‘This is Karin Johannison.’

‘Hi, Karin.’

‘I’ve just got an email from Birmingham. They haven’t managed to get anything from that sample of Maria Murvall’s clothes, it was evidently too messed up, but they’re running another test. Something completely new.’

‘Nothing? What can we hope to get from the new test?’

‘You sound tired. Did what we came up with from the small-bore rifle help at all?’

‘Yes, it pretty much means we can shut down that line of inquiry.’

‘And?’

‘Well, what can I say, Karin. Kids, or rather teenagers, left to their own devices. That’s never a good idea.’