Authors: Camilla Ceder
The
fact that Molin was preparing his escape didn't make Sebastian nervous; he was
actually enjoying almost being able to smell the fear. He realised this was the
reward. Molin had put two and two together: he understood why he had to die.
And the fact that he was planning to run away was irrelevant - he wouldn't get
very far. However, Sebastian did feel obliged to change his plans. Presumably
Molin knew that the previous two victims had been shot from inside a car and he
was clearly on his guard. He would have the hunting rifle he doubtless owned at
the ready. It other words, it would be difficult to get close enough to execute
him, even on an ostensibly innocent errand. In addition, Sebastian's shooting
skills were limited, to say the least.
The
gun had been laughably easy to get hold of, thanks to a friend's father who had
criminal connections and swallowed hook, line and sinker Sebastian's woolly
explanation involving gambling debts and that he only needed the gun to gain
the respect of the people who were threatening him. Once he had the pistol he
had practised out in the forest a couple of times.
Shooting
Edell and Pilgren and running over them had given him adrenalin-fuelled
pleasure, hearing their bones splinter and their bodies being torn asunder
beneath the weight of the car. But this was nothing compared with the enjoyment
of observing Molin's twelve- year-old shame and terror from his hiding place.
Sebastian
moved further in behind the dilapidated old outhouse. There was no reason to
reveal his presence to Molin yet. For one dangerous moment Sebastian was almost
overcome by an urge to walk up to the house and knock on the door. Ask the way
to the nearest garage or something, just to watch Molin weighing him up. He
grabbed hold of the rotting corner of the outhouse with an iron grip until the
urge passed, talking to himself all the while: just a recce today. He had
positioned his camouflaged one-man tent in the densest part of the forest, at a
safe distance from the farm.
All in good time.
All in good time he would see Molin's
mortal terror close up, even if it wouldn't be for nearly long enough.
Driven
on by his misgivings, Tell floored the accelerator. It was after eight in the
evening, and as expected once they had passed Kungalv there was nothing, just
an empty carriageway, the forest growing thicker and thicker on both sides. His
breathing was rapid and shallow. Going to see Sven Molin had been a snap
decision, and if they hadn't been in such a sparsely populated area, his speed
would definitely have attracted flashing blue lights and sirens.
He
really wanted a cigarette. Instead he wound down the window and replaced the
stuffiness with the aroma of the pine forest and a starry sky that was just too
beautiful for the occasion. Irritatingly, this made his mind wander. He fixed
his eyes firmly on the road ahead and tried to deny Seja a place in his thoughts.
Mainly because during their brief acquaintance she had
managed to erode his normal decisiveness.
Her
betrayal seared his chest and throat like heartburn. The feeling of
reconciliation he had had as she sat in front of him had disappeared completely.
It
was quite simple really. As he saw it, she had played fast and loose with his
job, which in the final analysis meant she had put people's lives at risk. How
could he ever trust her again? Not only had she deliberately kept from him
facts that would have helped solve a murder case, but she had also carried out
her own private research. And at the same time she had exploited him, listening
to him as he put forward his hypotheses in good faith, hypotheses that turned
out to be completely wrong. She had deceived him. The more he went over it, the
more embarrassed he felt. The knowledge that he had also committed a serious
professional error by allowing himself to be seduced and misled by a witness
made him feel even more unbalanced.
When
he remembered his most recent conversation with Ostergren he just had to have
that cigarette. He gave Beckman an apologetic look.
'You
look as if you need it,' she responded.
The
cross-draught whirled the smoke up towards the roof and out through the window.
'I'm
thinking about that letter,' said Tell after a while.
'Me too.'
'It's
reasonable to assume that Edell and Bart received one as well.'
'But
Edell was dead.'
'What
do you mean?'
'He
was dead by that time, I assume. The Molins said they got the letter some years
after the attack, which happened in 1995. Edell died in 98 or 99, if I remember
rightly?'
'He
might have been alive. Or if he'd just died there's a chance that Lise-Lott
might have ended up with the letter.'
'But
wouldn't she have mentioned it, in that case?' Beckman rummaged in her handbag.
'No point in speculating.'
She
keyed in Lise-Lott's number. After a short conversation she flipped her mobile
shut.
'She
doesn't know anything about any letter. Either Edell received it before he died
- and it's more than likely he wouldn't have said anything to his wife about
something like that - or the letter writer, unlike the murderer, knew he was
dead.'
'Which
means the murderer and the letter writer
are not the same
person
.'
They
sat in silence for a while.
'I'm
thinking about Susanne Jensen,' said Beckman eventually.
Tell
smiled at the accord between them.
'Me too.
About her notes from social services.'
'Exactly.
They said she was dyslexic. Molin said there were
upper- and lower-case letters all mixed up.'
Tell
braked suddenly as a hare shot across the road. He smacked the wheel with his
hand.
'But
how does she fit in? Susanne Jensen, the sister of one of the attackers from
1995. What the fuck has she got to do with all this? I mean, it was her brother
who… Did she send him a threatening letter as well?
And if
so, why?
Plus she came to talk to you, didn't she? About what Olof had
said when he was drunk. If she'd been trying to get money out of Edell and
Molin, would she really want to draw the attention of the police to the case
and risk being found out
herself
?'
'Maybe
she's suffering from a guilty conscience and wants to put things right. Sinners
must pay, and so on. Or maybe she was in need of money for a fix when she wrote
those letters. Or maybe she was raped at some point and thinks-'
'But
Maya Granith wasn't raped.'
'Maybe
Susanne didn't know that. And it wouldn't be so surprising if she re-evaluated
the whole thing now her brother's been murdered, would it? Obviously she wants
the murderer to be caught. And she might think that the business with the money
is now covered by the statute of limitations.'
Tell
sighed.
Beckman
found a forgotten packet of throat sweets in the glove compartment and took
two. The chewy mass stuck between her teeth.
'What
are you thinking?' she said, poking at her mouth with a fingernail.
Tell
didn't reply straight away, but he nodded to show that he'd registered the
question. 'I don't actually know,' he said in the end. 'It's just a feeling
I've got. That time is important.
As always, but now more
than ever.'
Beckman
accepted his less than exhaustive answer and instead thought about what they
might get out of the trip to Bengtsfors.
Whether she ought to
try to convince Tell to contact their colleagues in the local force before they
got to Sven Molin's farm.
Whether she ought to ring home and say that
she was probably going to be late again tonight.
The
familiar excitement wasn't really there, presumably because for once she didn't
know where she was with Tell. She accepted that he could be temperamental in
stressful situations and sometimes over- keen on prestige, but over the years
she had learned to tackle these issues.
When
she had first joined the group, she had secretly been pleased to detect behind
Tell's harsh facade - he sometimes demanded an unreasonable amount from his
subordinates - a team leader who was fair, self-critical and had a greater
insight into relationships than he was necessarily willing to reveal. But
recently she hadn't recognised him. He had seemed distracted by something he
was keeping from the team.
She
glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He had been running
his
hand over his head, removing any vestige of a hairstyle,
and his eyebrows protruded over his narrowed eyes, making him look annoyed and
dejected.
'Is
anything wrong?' she ventured at last. 'Anything else, I mean?'
The
car veered on to the verge as he leaned over to switch the radio on. The sound
of some pop anthem was quickly throttled as Beckman turned down the volume. He
glanced at her.
'Sorry,
I didn't hear what you said.'
'I
said, is anything wrong?'
When
he still didn't reply, she leaned back in her seat and sighed.
'You
have a few minutes before we get there. I might not be able to help you, but I
can always listen.
If you want me to.'
The
bend of the exit road was sharper than he expected. The tyres screeched as they
passed a garage with its lights off.
'It's
just that I…' She searched for the right words. 'You seem to have had a lot on
your mind recently.
Like now, for example.
I can see
that something's weighing you down.' A look from Tell made her add, 'I mean,
apart from the case.'
Now
it was Tell's turn to sigh.
'Nothing
gets past you, does it? If you really want to know, I was thinking about a chat
I had with Ann-Christine the other day…'
He
was putting out a feeler. If she knew what he knew, she would pick up on it. At
the same time he was reluctant to reveal what he had been told in confidence.
He had never called her anything but Ostergren before, or possibly 'the boss',
ironically putting some distance between them. Ann-Christine was the person
behind the professional role.
Beckman's
expression told him that she knew as well, and suddenly it became distressing
for them both.
Ann-Christine.
As if she had
lost some of her authority as soon as she confided in them and exposed her
human frailty for the first time.
'The
worst thing is that I feel so… inadequate,' he said eventually.
'Because you're afraid?'
'Because
I feel…' He thought for a second. 'Because I feel something is expected of me.
But I don't know what. I don't even know what to say to her.'
'What
makes you think she expects more of you than anyone else?' 'I don't know if I
think that… Can you just check that we're heading in the right direction?'
Beckman
checked her printout and directed him on to a gravel track at a dark
crossroads.
'In your capacity as a colleague, or as a friend?'
'How
the hell should I know?
Both, maybe.
I've worked
closely with her for a long time so… We've always made a good team.'
'You
think you're going to miss her.'
'For fuck's sake, Beckman!'
He
took a bend unnecessarily quickly, and Beckman reached out for a grab handle on
the dashboard.
'You're
forever putting words in my mouth, do you know that?' Tell snapped. 'Is that
something they recommend on your bloody psychology courses?'
She
opened her mouth to reply, but changed her mind and focused on the road ahead.
The
air went out of him with a sigh.
'I
feel like a clumsy child. And the worst thing is that my first thought was
about the vacancy, when she… leaves. Not that I want it, but the fact that I'll
have to make that choice. Isn't that terrible?'
Beckman
slowly shrugged her shoulders.