The Darkest Room

41

Tilda had vague memories of being helped up the steps to the veranda late that night. It was still cold outside, but it felt as if the wind from the sea was beginning to subside. It was Joakim Westin who was walking beside her, supporting her along a newly cleared track. High banks of snow rose up on either side of them.

“Did you call for help?” he asked.

She nodded. “They said they’d get out here as soon as they could… but I don’t know when that will be.”

They passed a snowdrift with a piece of material sticking out. It was a leather jacket.

“Who’s that?” asked Joakim.

“His name was Martin Ahlquist,” said Tilda.

She closed her eyes. There would be many questions about this night: about what had gone wrong, what she had done right and what she ought to have done differently-but she was bound to ask herself more questions than anyone

else would. But she just didn’t have the strength to think about that right now.

The house was quiet. Joakim led her through the corridors to a big room where a mattress made up into a bed lay on the floor. There was a tiled stove nearby; it was warm, and she lay down and relaxed. Her nose was aching and was still full of blood-she couldn’t breathe with her mouth closed.

The wind was howling around the house. But at last she fell asleep.

Tilda slept deeply, but was woken occasionally by a throbbing pain in her head and with memories of Martin’s body in the snow-and by a spine-chilling fear of being back out there in the darkness of the barn, where pale arms with long fingers reached out for her. It took time to relax.

Sometime before dawn a shadow leaned over her. She gave a start.

“Tilda?”

It was Joakim Westin again. He carried on talking, slowly and clearly as if he were addressing a small child.

“Your colleagues called, Tilda… They’re coming soon.”

“Good,” she said.

Her voice sounded thick through her broken nose. She closed her eyes and asked, “And Henrik?”

“Who?”

“Henrik Jansson,” said Tilda. “The guy on the veranda… how’s he doing?”

“Pretty good,” said Joakim. “I put a fresh pressure bandage on.”

“Tommy? Is he here?”

“He’s gone… the police are going to look for him when they get here.”

Tilda nodded and went back to sleep.

An indefinable amount of time later she was woken by a droning noise and quiet voices, but she hadn’t the strength to wonder what was going on.

Then she heard Joakim’s voice again:

“The cars can’t get through, Tilda… they’ve borrowed an all-terrain vehicle from the army.”

Soon after that the room was filled with voices and movement, and she was helped up out of bed, somewhat roughly.

The warm air suddenly disappeared, she was out in the cold again, but now there was barely a breath of wind. She was walking along a path that had been cleared of snow, with white mounds all around her.

Christmas Eve, she thought.

A door closed, another opened, she was placed on a bunk beneath a weak lightbulb. Then she was left in peace.

Silence fell.

She was lying in an army vehicle and she could see a body below her on the floor, wrapped in a plastic sack. It wasn’t moving.

Then someone beside her coughed. Tilda raised her head and saw another person lying a few yards away with a gray blanket over their legs. The body moved slightly.

It was a man. He was lying on his back with his head turned away from her, but she recognized his clothes.

“Henrik,” she said.

No reply.

“Henrik!” she shouted, despite the fact that it made her ribs hurt.

“What?” asked the man, turning his head toward her.

And she finally got to see his face clearly: Henrik Jansson, flooring contractor and thief. He looked just like any twenty-five-year-old guy, but his face was exhausted and chalk white. Tilda took a deep breath.

“Henrik, your fucking ax broke my nose.”

He was silent.

Tilda asked, “Have you done anything else I should know about?”

Still he didn’t reply.

“There was a death here on the point in the fall,” she went on. “A woman drowned.”

She heard Henrik move.

“Some people heard a boat down by the point on the day she died,” said Tilda. “Was it your boat?”

Then Henrik suddenly opened his eyes. “Not mine,” he said quietly.

“Not yours?” said Tilda. “Another boat?”

“But I did see it,” said Henrik.

“Did you, indeed?”

“I was standing by the landing stage the day she died…”

“Katrine Westin,” said Tilda.

“She had a visitor,” he went on. “In a big white boat.”

“Did you recognize it?”

“No, but it was bigger than mine, built for longer trips… a small yacht. It moored by the lighthouses and someone was standing there. I think it was her…”

“Okay.”

Tilda suddenly realized she just didn’t have the strength to talk anymore.

“I saw it,” said Henrik.

Tilda met his eyes.

“We can… talk about it later,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be having plenty of interviews.”

Henrik just breathed out with a heavy sigh.

Silence fell in the vehicle again. Tilda just wanted to close her eyes and doze off, so that she could escape the pain and thoughts of Martin.

“Did you hear anything in the house last night?” Henrik suddenly asked.

“What?”

A door slammed. Then the carrier’s engine roared into life, and the vehicle moved off.

“Knocking noises?”

Tilda didn’t understand what he meant. “I didn’t hear anything,” she said through the noise of the engine.

“Me neither,” said Henrik. “No knocking. I think it was down to the lantern… or the board. But it’s all quiet now.”

He’d been stabbed and was well on his way to ending up in jail, but Tilda still thought he sounded relieved.