"With some guy, of course," says Davidsson, answering his own question.

He walks slowly around me on the cement floor, and I give him one last chance. I raise my hand and point toward the sh.o.r.e.

"We have to go and fetch the paintings."

"That's not possible."

"It is. You have to help me."

He shakes his head and walks over to the table. "They're already gone ... they're on their way to Gotland. The wind and the waves took them."

He fills up the gla.s.s and raises it to his lips.

I could warn him, but I say nothing. I simply watch as he drinks-three good gulps that almost empty the gla.s.s.

Then he puts it down on the table, smacks his lips and says, "Right, little Mirja ... so what do you fancy doing now?"

33

Henrik woke up to find his dead grandfather standing over him like a shadow in the whirling powdery snow. Algot leaned forward and raised his boot-clad foot. his dead grandfather standing over him like a shadow in the whirling powdery snow. Algot leaned forward and raised his boot-clad foot.Move yourself! Do you want to die?He felt hard blows striking his legs and feet, over and over again.Get up! Thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d!Henrik slowly lifted his head, wiped the snow out of his eyes, and screwed his eyes up as he peered into the wind. His grandfather's ghost was gone, but in the distance he could see a searchlight sweeping silently across the night sky. The blood-red glow made the veils of snow above him sparkle.A little further away he thought he could see another light. A steady white light.The light from the twin lighthouses at Eel Point.Henrik had struggled along in a daze, yard by yard through the snow, but in the end he had made it.His jeans were soaking wet; it was the water that had woken him up. The storm waves were so high by now that they came crashing in over the sh.o.r.e, sluicing his legs with foam even though he was lying a long way up on the gra.s.s.He got up slowly with his back to the sea. His hands had gone to sleep, as had his feet, but he was able to move.There was a little strength left in Henrik's trembling legs, and he set off again, his arms dangling at his sides.A rectangular wooden object shifted inside his jacket, and ice-cold steel was poking up by his throat.It was his grandfather's ax-he remembered tucking it inside his jacket, but not why he was carrying it around.Then it came to him: the Serelius brothers. He took the ax out and kept on going.Two gray towers took shape through the storm. The sea below them was boiling, hurling glittering lumps of ice onto the islands where the lighthouses stood.Henrik had arrived at Eel Point. He stopped, swaying in the wind. What should he do now?He would go up to the house, it must be somewhere on the left. He turned off in that direction, away from the lighthouses.With the wind at his back everything was suddenly much easier. It helped to nudge him along, up over the hard crust of snow covering the meadow. He had begun to recognize the different gusts of wind by now, how the weaker bursts were followed by sharper squalls.After a hundred or two hundred steps he began to get an impression of broad shadowy shapes ahead of him.A wooden fence suddenly blocked his way, but he found an opening. On the other side the buildings of Eel Point rose up like great ships in the night, and Henrik moved into the shelter between the gable ends.Made it.The manor house enfolded him in its dark embrace. He was safe.The wind in the courtyard was like a caress compared with the way it had been down by the sea, but there was a lot more snow between the buildings. It came swirling down from the roofs like powder, melting on his face, and the drifts were almost up to his waist.Henrik could just glimpse the veranda of the main house through the curtains of snow, and he plowed over to it and eventually reached the steps.He stopped on the bottom step, caught his breath, and looked up.The door had been broken open. The lock was smashed and the frame appeared to have been split.The Serelius brothers had been here.Henrik was too cold to be cautious now; he staggered up the steps, pulled open the veranda door, and more or less fell headlong over the threshold onto a soft rag rug. The door closed behind him.Warmth. The storm was shut out, and he could hear his own wheezing breath.He let go of the ax and began to move his fingers tentatively. At first they were like ice, but when the warmth and the feeling slowly began to return to his hands and toes, the pain came. The wound in his stomach started to throb again.He was wet and tired, but he couldn't just lie here.Slowly he got up and staggered through the next doorway. It was dark around him, but here and there he could see the glow of small yellow lamps and candles. The wallpaper was fresh and white, the ceilings had been repaired and painted-a lot had happened since he was last here.He turned left and suddenly found himself in the big kitchen. He had replaced and polished the floor in here last summer.A gray and black cat was sitting looking out of the window, and the faint aroma of fried meatb.a.l.l.s lingered in the air.Henrik spotted the faucet and the sink and staggered over to it.The water was only lukewarm, but still it burned his frozen hands. He gritted his teeth as the nerves warmed up, but after holding his fingers in the running water for a few minutes, he was able to move them.The cat turned to look at him, then returned its gaze to the snowstorm.On the counter stood a block containing stainless steel kitchen knives. Henrik grabbed the handle of the biggest one and pulled it out.With the carving knife in his hand he went back into the main house.He tried to remember the layout of the rooms, but had difficulty in picturing it. Suddenly he was standing in a long corridor, in the doorway of a small room.A child's room.A little girl of about five or six, with blonde hair, was sitting up in bed. She was holding a white cuddly toy and a red sweater in her arms. A small television stood on the floor in front of her, but it was switched off.Henrik opened his mouth, but his head was completely empty."Hi," was all he said.His voice was hoa.r.s.e and rough.The girl looked at him, but said nothing."Have you seen anyone else here?" he asked. "Any other ... nice men?"The girl shook her head. "I just heard them," she said. "They were clomping around and they woke me up ...I was scared to go out.""Good," said Henrik, "you need to stay in here. ... Where are your mom and dad?""Daddy went out to Mommy.""And where's your mommy?""In the barn."Before Henrik had time to think about that response, the girl pointed at him and asked, "Why have you got a knife?"He looked down. "Don't know."It felt very strange to see himself clutching a big knife. It looked dangerous."Are you going to cut some bread?""No."Henrik closed his eyes. The feeling was beginning to return to his feet now, and it hurt."What are you going to do?" said the girl."I don't know ... but you need to stay here.""Can I go into Gabriel's room?""Who's Gabriel?""My little brother."Henrik nodded with some effort. "Sure."The girl quickly jumped out of bed, still holding the cuddly toy and the sweater, and scampered past him.Henrik gathered his remaining strength and turned around. He heard the door close in the next bedroom along. He went in the other direction, to look for the Serelius brothers. Had he been along here before? He must have been.Down along a corridor, back to the front of the house.He listened for noises apart from the wind, and for a few seconds he thought he could hear a rhythmic banging from the upper floor-a loose shutter, perhaps. Then the house was silent again.A dark, flat object was lying in a corner out in the hallway. Henrik went closer.He saw that it was the Ouija board, thrown onto the floor, split across the middle with considerable force. The little gla.s.s lay beside the board like a cracked egg.Henrik went back out to the veranda where the air was cooler. The snow was sticking to the windowpanes, but he could just make out movements in the courtyard.He bent down in silence and picked up his grandfather's ax.Two shadows were moving out there. They slowly came closer through the snow, and Henrik could see that one of them was holding a dark object. A gun?He wasn't sure if it was the brothers, but raised the ax anyway.By the time the outer door was opened, he had already swung it.

34

Tilda staggered forward, heading straight for the blinding wall of swirling snow. Martin was still by her side, but neither of them was talking. It was impossible in the storm.They were out in a field, but the few times Tilda tried to look up to work out where they were heading, the granules of snow flew into her eyes like burning sparks.She had lost her police cap; it had been ripped off by the wind and disappeared. She felt as if her ears were frozen solid.One small encouraging sign was that the storm had briefly carried with it the aroma of burning wood. She guessed that it came from an open fire or stove, and realized they were close to a house-presumably Eel Point.A rectangular snowdrift appeared in front of them, but when Tilda tried to plow through it, she came to a sudden stop. It was a stone wall.She slowly clambered over the snow-covered stones, and Martin followed her. On the other side the ground was flatter, as if they were walking along a little track.Suddenly Tilda heard a creaking noise further away along the wall, followed by a grinding squeal and a dull thud.After a minute or so they reached a couple of huge white drifts with square contours. Two parked vehicles were standing there rocking in the wind, half buried in the snow.Tilda brushed away the snow along the side of the taller vehicle and suddenly recognized it. It was the dark-colored van with kalmar pipes & welding on it.Further along by the wall lay a boat on a trailer lying on its side. It looked as if it had been picked up and tipped over by the wind.The boat was still securely tied to the metal frame, but the tarpaulin covering it had split. An extraordinary collection of objects lay scattered in the snow: loudspeakers and chain saws alongside old paraffin lamps and wall clocks.It looked like stolen goods.Martin shouted something, but Tilda couldn't hear what he said. She made her way slowly along the side of the van and tried the doors. The driver's door was locked, but when she went around to the other side and tried the pa.s.senger door, it flew open with a crash.Tilda climbed in to catch her breath.Martin stuck his head in behind her, with snow in his hair and eyebrows."How are you doing?" he asked.Tilda ma.s.saged her frozen ears and nodded wearily. "Okay."The air inside the van was still warm, and she was finally able to breathe normally. She looked behind the seats and saw that the back of the van was full of even more items, all piled on top of one another. There were jewelry boxes and cartons of cigarettes and cases of alcohol.As she turned back to Martin she discovered that the brown panel inside the pa.s.senger door had come loose.White plastic was protruding beneath the panel-it was a packet of some kind."A hiding place," she said.Martin looked. Then he got hold of the plastic and pulled, and the whole panel came away and fell off into the snow.Behind it was a secret cache, full of even more packets.Martin took out the top one, made a small slit in it with the car key, and put his finger against the gap. He licked the powder off his finger and said, "It's methamphetamine."Tilda believed him-he had taught her group about different types of drugs. She pushed a couple of the packets into her pocket."Evidence," she said.Martin looked at her as if he wanted to add something, but Tilda didn't want to hear it. She unfastened her holster and took out her Sig Sauer."There are bad guys around here," she said.Then she clambered past Martin out into the gale and began to make her way along the track once again.When she had left the vehicles and the boat behind her, she caught her first glimpse of the beam from the lighthouse: a sweeping glow that only just managed to penetrate through the snowstorm.They had almost reached Eel Point now. Tilda could see the main house, with faint lights shimmering in the windows.They were candles, she realized. And Joakim Westin's car was parked in front of the house beneath a pile of snow.The family must be at home. In the worst-case scenario they were being held hostage inside by the thieves-but Tilda didn't want to think along those lines.The big barn appeared in front of her. She struggled to cover the final few steps to the red wooden wall, and at last found some shelter from the wind. It was a considerable achievement-she breathed out and wiped the melting snow off her face with the sleeve of her jacket.Now all she had to do was see who was in the house, and what state they were in.She unzipped her jacket and pulled out her flashlight. With her pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she pressed herself against the wall of the barn, moved slowly forward, and peeped around the corner.Snow, all she could see was snow. White curtains sweeping down from the roof, and whirlwinds of snow swirling between the buildings.Martin came up behind her out of the darkness, his back bent, and took shelter by the wall."Is this where we were heading?" he yelled.Tilda nodded and took a deep breath. "Eel Point," she said.The main house was about ten yards from the barn. The lights were on in the kitchen, but there was no sign of anyone.She started moving again, away from the barn and out into the inner courtyard, which was completely covered in snow. It came up to her waist in some places, and she had to force her way through the drifts. She carried on toward the house, her gun at the ready.There were fresh tracks in the snow here. Someone had recently plodded across the courtyard and walked up the stone steps.When Tilda reached the veranda, which was in darkness, she looked at the door.It had been broken open.She moved slowly up the steps. Then she grabbed hold of the handle, opened the door cautiously, and moved onto the top step.Then something slender and metallic gray came whirling through the opening. She closed her eyes but didn't manage to duck or raise her arm in time.Ax, was all she managed to think before it hit her in the face.There was a crunching noise from her own head, then a burning pain seared all the way up her nasal bone.She could hear Martin shouting in the distance.But by then she had already begun to fall backward, down the steps and back out into the snow.

35

The murderer had stepped out of the shadows among the trees, walked over to Ethel, and whispered:"Do you want to come with me? If you just keep quiet and come with me, I'll show you what I've got in my pocket ... no, it isn't money, it's something even better. Come down to the water with me and you can have a fix of heroin from me, completely free. You've got your own needle and spoon and lighter, haven't you?"Ethel had nodded.Joakim shivered and pushed the dream-pictures out of his head. A rumble like thunder shook him. the dream-pictures out of his head. A rumble like thunder shook him.He woke up properly and looked around him. He was sitting in the front row in the prayer room, with Katrine's Christmas present on his knee.Katrine?It was almost completely dark. The flashlight had gone out and the only light came from the single bulb in the loft, seeping in through the narrow gaps in the wall.And the rumbling noise? The barn hadn't been struck by thunder or lightning-it was the storm, roaring its way in over the coast.The blizzard had reached its peak.The stone walls on the lower floor were immovable, but the rest of the barn was shaking in the wind. The sound of the air being forced in through the cracks rose and fell like a siren around Joakim.He looked up at the roof beams above his head and thought he could see them trembling. The storm-force winds came pouring in over Eel Point like black waves, making the wooden walls creak and bang.The blizzard was tearing the barn apart. That's what it felt like.But Joakim thought he could hear other sounds too. Rustling noises from inside the room-slow footsteps crossing the wooden floor. Restless movements in the darkness. Whispering voices.The church benches had begun to fill up behind him.He couldn't see who the visitors were, but felt a growing chill in the room. There were many of them, and they were starting to sit down.Joakim listened, his body tense, but remained where he was.It was quiet on the church benches now.But someone else was walking slowly along the aisle beside them. He heard careful noises in the darkness, the sc.r.a.ping sound of footsteps from a figure pa.s.sing all the benches behind him.Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a shadow with a pale face had stopped beside his bench, and was standing there motionless."Katrine?" whispered Joakim, without daring to turn his head.The shadow slowly sat down beside him on the bench."Katrine," he whispered again.Tentatively he groped in the darkness and his fingers brushed against another hand. It was stiff and ice cold when he took hold of it."I'm here now," he whispered.There was no reply. The figure bent its head, as if in prayer.Joakim also lowered his eyes. He looked down at the denim jacket beside him and carried on whispering:"I found Ethel's jacket. And the note from the neighbors. I think ... Katrine, I think you killed my sister."And still there was no reply.

So we sat there in the outbuilding staring at each other, Ragnar Davidsson the eel fisherman and I.

I was extremely tired by this time. The blizzard was on its way, but I had managed to rescue only a few of Torun's oil paintings, half a dozen canvases that were lying on the floor next to me. Davidsson had thrown the rest into the sea.

-MIRJA RAMBE

WINTER 1962.

Davidsson has refilled his gla.s.s with schnapps. his gla.s.s with schnapps.

"Sure you don't want some?" he asks.

When I clamp my lips together, he takes a deep draft from the gla.s.s. Then he puts it down on the table and smacks his lips.

He seems to get various inappropriate ideas when he looks at me, but before he has time to select one of them, his guts are suddenly twisted into a knot in his belly. That's what it looks like to me, anyway-his body jerks, he bends over and presses his arms against his stomach.

"s.h.i.t," he mumbles.

Davidsson tries to relax. But then he suddenly goes rigid again, as if he has suddenly thought of something.

"Oh s.h.i.t," he says, "I think ..."

He falls silent and looks to one side, still thoughtful-then the whole of his upper body jerks in a violent attack of cramp.

I sit there motionless, staring at him; I don't say a word. I could ask if he's not feeling well, but I know the answer: the poison in the gla.s.s has finally begun to work.

"It wasn't schnapps in that gla.s.s, Ragnar," I say.

Davidsson is in a lot of pain now, he is leaning against the wall.

"I put something else in there."

Davidsson manages to get to his feet and staggers past me toward the door. This suddenly gives me a burst of fresh energy.

"Get out of here!" I yell.

I pick up an empty metal bucket standing in a corner and hit him on the back with it.

"Out!"

He does as I say, and I follow him out into the snow and watch him aim for the fence. He manages to find the opening, and heads on down toward the sea.

The southern lighthouse is flashing blood-red through the falling snow; the northern tower is dark now.

In the darkness I can see Ragnar's open motorboat bobbing in the sea out by the jetty. The waves are breaking along the sh.o.r.e with a long drawn-out roaring sound, and I ought to try and stop him, but I stay where I am, just watching as he teeters out along the jetty and loosens the ropes. Then he stops, bends over again, and vomits into the water.

He drops the rope and the waves begin to play with the boat, nudging it away from the jetty.

Ragnar seems to be feeling too ill to bother about the boat. He glances out to sea, then begins to stagger inland instead.

"Ragnar!" I yell.

If he asks me for help, he can have it, but I don't think he can hear me. He doesn't stop when he reaches the sh.o.r.e, but sets off northward. Heading for home. Soon he has disappeared in the darkness and the snow.

I go back to the outbuilding and Torun. She is still awake, sitting in her chair by the window as usual. outbuilding and Torun. She is still awake, sitting in her chair by the window as usual.

"Hi, Mom."

She doesn't turn her head, but asks, "Where is Ragnar Davidsson?"

I go and stand by the fire and sigh. "He's gone. He was here for a while ... but now he's gone."

"Did he throw out the paintings?"

I hold my breath and turn around. "The paintings?" I say, a lump forming in my throat. "Why do you think he would do that?"

"Ragnar said he was going to throw them out."

"No, Mom," I say. "Your canvases are still in the storeroom. I can fetch-"

"He should have done it," says Torun.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I asked Ragnar to throw them in the sea."

It takes four or five seconds for me to understand what she's saying-then it's as if a membrane breaks inside me and dangerous fluids begin to mingle in my brain. I see myself rushing over to Torun.

"f.u.c.king sit here, then, you f.u.c.king old cow!" I scream. "Sit here till you die! You f.u.c.king blind old ..."

I hit her over and over again with the palm of my hand, and Torun can do nothing but take the blows. She doesn't see them coming.

I count the blows, six, seven, eight, nine, and I stop hitting her after the twelfth.

Afterward both Torun and I are breathing loudly, almost wheezing. The mournful howling of the wind can be heard through the windows.

"Why did you leave me with him?" I ask her. "You should have seen how dirty he was, Mommy, and the stench of him ... You shouldn't have let me go in there, Mommy."

I pause for a moment.

"But you were blind even then."

Torun stares rigidly ahead, her cheeks red. I don't think she has any idea what I'm talking about.

And that was the end for me at Eel Point. I left and never came back. And I stopped speaking to Torun. I made sure she got a place in a care home, but we never spoke again. end for me at Eel Point. I left and never came back. And I stopped speaking to Torun. I made sure she got a place in a care home, but we never spoke again.

The next day the news came that the evening ferry between oland and the mainland had capsized in the waves. Several pa.s.sengers had died in the icy waters. Markus Landkvist was one of them.

Another victim of the storm was Ragnar Davidsson, the eel fisherman. He was found dead on the sh.o.r.e a day or so later. I felt no guilt over his death-I felt nothing.

I don't think anyone ever lived in the outbuilding again after Torun and me, and I don't think anyone really lived in the main house again, apart from the odd month in the summer. Sorrow had permeated the walls.

Six weeks later, when I had moved to Stockholm to start at the art school, I found that I was pregnant.

Katrine Mnstrle Rambe was born the following year, the first of all my children.

You had your father's eyes.

36

"h.e.l.lo?" Henrik shouted to the figure down in the snow. "Are you okay?" to the figure down in the snow. "Are you okay?"It was a stupid question, because the body below him was lying motionless with a b.l.o.o.d.y face. The snow had already begun to cover it.Henrik blinked in confusion; it had all happened so quickly.He thought he had spotted the Serelius brothers outside. When the first of them opened the veranda door, Henrik had thrown his grandfather's ax as hard as he could, and it had hit the intruder on the head. With the blunt edge-not with the blade, he was sure of that.He stayed in the doorway of the veranda. In the glow of the outside light he suddenly saw that it was a woman he had hit.A few yards behind her stood a man, as if he were frozen solid in the whirling snow. Then he strode forward and knelt down."Tilda?" he shouted. "Wake up, Tilda!"She moved her arms feebly and tried to raise her head.Henrik walked out onto the steps, with his back to the warmth of the house and the cold and wind in his face, and discovered that the woman was wearing a dark-colored uniform.A cop. She had almost disappeared in a huge billowing drift at the bottom of the steps. A thin stream of dark blood was pouring out of her nose and down around her mouth.For a few seconds everything stood still, except for the falling snow.The pains in his belly came back."h.e.l.lo?" he said again. "Are you okay?"Neither one replied, but the man picked up the ax and came over to the steps."Drop it!" he yelled at Henrik.Behind the man the woman suddenly coughed and started vomiting violently in the snow."What?" said Henrik."Drop it now!"The man was talking about the kitchen knife, Henrik realized. He was still clutching it in his hand.He didn't want to drop it. The Serelius brothers were around somewhere; he needed to be able to defend himself.The woman had stopped vomiting. She put her hand to her face, felt cautiously at her nose. The snowflakes were landing on her shoulders and her nose, and the blood had congealed into black patches on her face."What's your name?" asked the man on the steps.The woman raised her head and shouted something to Henrik through the howling wind, the same thing over and over again, and eventually he was able to make out what it was. His own name."Henrik!" she was shouting. "Henrik Jansson!""Drop the knife, Henrik," said the man. "Then we can talk.""Talk?""You're under arrest for robbery with violence, Henrik," the woman went on from her snowdrift. "And breaking and entering ... and criminal damage."Henrik heard what she said but didn't reply; he was too tired. He took a step backwards, shaking his head."All that stuff ... that was Tommy and Freddy," he said quietly."What?" said the man."It was those f.u.c.king brothers," said Henrik. "I just went along with them. But it was much better with Mogge, I never thought-"There was a sudden tinkling noise, just a couple of inches from his right ear. A short, solid sound in the wind.Henrik turned his head and saw that a black, uneven hole had appeared in one of the small panes of gla.s.s in the veranda windows.Was it the storm? Perhaps the storm had smashed the gla.s.s. Henrik's second confused thought was that the pistol had been fired at him, despite the fact that the cop was no longer holding it.But when he looked out through the whirling snow, over toward the barn, he discovered that there was someone else there.A dark figure had stepped out of the half-open door of the barn and was standing there in the snow, legs apart. In the glow from the outside light Henrik could see that the figure was holding a slender stick in its hands.No, not a stick. It was a gun, of course. Henrik couldn't make it out properly, but he thought it was an old Mauser.A man in a black hood. Tommy. He shouted something across the courtyard, then the gun in his hands jerked. Once. Twice.No panes of gla.s.s broke this time-but the face of the man in front of Henrik contorted suddenly, and he went down.

37

Tilda saw it all so clearly when Martin was shot. so clearly when Martin was shot.It was after the ax had hit her. She almost wished she had lost consciousness then, but her brain remained awake, registering everything. The pain, the fall, and the pistol spinning out of her hand.When she landed on her back, the snow received her like a soft bed.She stayed where she was. Her nose was broken, warm blood was pouring down into her mouth, and she was completely exhausted after the trek through the storm.I've done my bit tonight, she thought. Enough Enough."Tilda!"Martin was calling her name, bending over her. Behind him she saw a man step out from the veranda and look down at her. He was holding a big knife in his hand and shouting something, but she couldn't make out a word.Everything stopped for a little while. Tilda sank down into a warm drowsiness before the nausea hit her, and the vomiting. She turned her head to the side and threw up into the snow.Tilda coughed, raised her head, and tried to pull herself together. She saw Martin go over to the man and shout to him to drop the knife.It was Henrik Jansson up there on the steps, the man responsible for the break-ins, the man she'd been looking for."Henrik?"Tilda called his name several times, her voice thick, while at the same time trying to recall all the things he was suspected of.She didn't hear his reply-she did, however, hear the gunshot.It came from the barn on the other side of the courtyard and sounded like a dull bang with no echo. The bullet hit the veranda; a pane of gla.s.s broke next to Henrik.He turned his head and looked at the hole in confusion.Martin continued on up the steps toward him. He was moving calmly and speaking firmly to the perpetrator, like the police instructor he was. Henrik backed away.Neither of them had heard the shot, Tilda realized.As she opened her mouth to warn them, there were several more bangs.She saw Martin jerk up on the steps. His upper body contorted, his legs gave way. He collapsed and landed heavily in the snow just a few yards from Tilda."Martin!"He was lying there with his back to her, and she began to crawl toward him, keeping her head down. She could hear a faint moaning sound through the wind."Martin?"Breathing, bleeding, shock. That was the list she had learned to check in cases of stabbing or gunshot wounds.Breathing? It was difficult to see in the storm, but Martin hardly seemed to be breathing.She dragged his upper body into the recovery position, ripped open his jacket and bloodstained sweater, and finally found the small entry hole-high up and just to the left of the spine. The hole looked deep and the blood was still flowing. Had the bullet hit the main artery?He shouldn't be left out here, but there was no way Tilda could get him into the house. There was no time.She unb.u.t.toned her right jacket pocket and took out a pressure bandage pack."Martin?" she called again, at the same time pressing the bandage against the bullet hole as firmly as she could.No reply. His eyes were open, unblinking in the snow-he had gone into shock.Tilda couldn't find a pulse.She pushed his body onto its back again, leaned over him, and began pressing on his chest with both hands. One firm push, wait. Then a firm push again.It didn't help. He no longer seemed to be breathing, and when she shook him his body was completely lifeless. The snow was landing in his eyes."Martin ..."Tilda gave up. She sank down beside him in the snow, sniveling blood up her nose.Everything had gone completely wrong. Martin wasn't even supposed to be here; he shouldn't have come with her to Eel Point.Suddenly she heard two more bangs from the direction of the barn. Tilda kept her head down.The pistol? She had dropped it when she fell in the snow.The Sig Sauer was made of black steel-she ought to be able to see it in all this whiteness, and she began to feel around with her hands. At the same time she peeped cautiously over the drifts.A figure was moving through the snow. He had a black hood over his head and a gun in his hands.The man clambered over a snowdrift, and when he realized that Tilda had seen him, he shouted something into the wind.She didn't answer. Her hand was still burrowing in the snow-and suddenly it felt something hard and heavy down there. At first the object just slid away, but then she managed to get hold of it.She pulled the gun out of the snow.She banged the barrel a couple of times to get the snow out of it, undid the safety catch, and aimed in the direction of the barn."Police!" she yelled.The masked man said something in reply, but the wind ripped his words to shreds."Ubba ... ubba," it sounded like.He slowed down and stooped slightly, but kept on coming toward her through the snowdrifts."Stand still and drop the gun!" Tilda's voice became shrill and small, she could hear how weak it sounded, but still she went on: "I'll fire!"And she did actually fire, a warning shot straight up into the night. The bang sounded almost as weak as her voice.The man stopped, but didn't drop the gun. He dropped to his knees between two snowdrifts, less than ten yards away. He raised the gun and aimed it at her again, and Tilda fired two shots at him in rapid succession.Then she ducked back behind the drifts, and at almost the same moment the light went out. The lamps in the windows and the lantern in the inner courtyard went out at the same time. Everything went black.The blizzard had caused a power outage at Eel Point.

38

So Ethel went down the dark paths, down among the trees by the walkway along the sh.o.r.e. Down to the water, where the lights of the houses and streets of Stockholm glittered in the blackness.There she sat down obediently in the shadow of a boat-house and got her reward. Then she just had to do the usual: heat up the yellow-brown powder in the spoon, draw it up into the syringe, and insert it into her arm.Peace.The murderer waited patiently until Ethel's head was drooping and she was just beginning to doze off ... then went over and gave the unresisting body a hard shove. Straight down into the winter water.Joakim was still sitting slumped on the bench, motionless. There was no light in the prayer room, and yet it wasn't completely dark. He could make out the wooden walls, the window, and the drawing of Jesus' empty tomb. There was a faint, pale glow around him, as if from a distant moon. slumped on the bench, motionless. There was no light in the prayer room, and yet it wasn't completely dark. He could make out the wooden walls, the window, and the drawing of Jesus' empty tomb. There was a faint, pale glow around him, as if from a distant moon.The storm continued to howl over the roof.He was not alone.His wife, Katrine, was sitting beside him. He could see her pale face out of the corner of his eye.And the benches behind him had filled up with visitors. Joakim could hear the faint sound of creaking, just like when the congregation in a church is impatiently waiting to go up and take Communion.They started to get up.When Joakim heard this, he stood up too, with the unpleasant feeling of being in the wrong place on the wrong night. Soon he would be discovered-or unmasked."Come on," he whispered. "Trust me."He pulled at Katrine's cold hand and tried to get her to stand up, and in the end she obeyed him.He heard creaking steps approaching. The figures behind him had begun to move out into the narrow aisle.There were so many of them when they were gathered together. More and more shadows seemed to fill the room.Joakim couldn't get past them. All he could do was stay where he was in front of the bench-there was nowhere to go now. He stood completely still, not letting go of Katrine's hand.The air grew colder around them, and Joakim shivered. He could hear the rustling sound of old fabric, and the floor creaked faintly as the chapel's visitors spread out around him.They wanted so much warmth that he was unable to give them. They wanted to take Communion. Joakim was freezing now, but still they pressed forward to reach him. Their jerky movements were like a slow dance in the narrow room, and he was drawn along with them."Katrine!" he whispered.But she was no longer with him. Her hand slipped from his grip and they were separated by all the movement in the room."Katrine?"She was gone. Joakim turned around and tried to push his way through the crowd to find her again. But no one helped him, everyone was standing in his way.Then suddenly he heard something more than the wind through the cracks in the barn: someone shouting, then several dull bangs. It sounded as if someone were shooting with a rifle or a pistol-like a volley of shots somewhere down below the hayloft.Joakim stiffened and listened. He could no longer hear any other sounds, no voices or movements inside the room.The pale light that had been seeping through the wall from the bulb in the loft suddenly went out.The electricity had gone out, Joakim realized.He stood still in the pitch darkness. It felt as if he were completely alone now, as if all the others in the room had gone away.After several minutes a flickering light began to glow somewhere in the barn. A pale yellow glow that rapidly increased in strength.

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Tilda blinked away the drops of melted ice flakes from her eyes and cautiously pressed a fistful of snow against her throbbing nose. Then she got up slowly on unsteady legs, her pistol in her right hand. Her head was aching just as much as her nose, but at least she was able to stand upright. the drops of melted ice flakes from her eyes and cautiously pressed a fistful of snow against her throbbing nose. Then she got up slowly on unsteady legs, her pistol in her right hand. Her head was aching just as much as her nose, but at least she was able to stand upright.The manor was in complete darkness now, and the soft drifts between the buildings had turned into hills with blurred contours. Beyond them the barn rose up, like a cathedral in shadow. The electricity seemed to have gone out at Eel Point-perhaps throughout the whole of northern oland. It had happened before, when a tree blew down onto one of the main power lines.Martin was lying motionless a couple of yards away from Tilda. She couldn't see his face, but his lifeless body was already well on the way to being covered by the snow.She took out her cell phone and called the emergency number. It was busy. She tried the police station in Borgholm, but couldn't get through there either.When she had put the cell phone away, she glanced around the inner courtyard, but couldn't see the man who had shot at her. She had returned his fire-had she hit him?She looked over toward the steps. There was no sign of Henrik Jansson either.Keeping her pistol trained on the barn, Tilda moved backwards until she b.u.mped into the bottom step.Her eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness. She moved quickly up the steps to the house, bending low, and peered in through the open door.The first thing she saw inside the veranda was a pair of boots. A dark figure dressed in outdoor clothes was half lying on the rag rug just inside the door. He was breathing heavily."Henrik Jansson?" said Tilda.There was silence for a few seconds."Yes?" he said eventually."Don't move, Henrik."Tilda crept through the doorway, keeping her pistol trained on him. Henrik stayed where he was, gazing wearily at the gun, and made no attempt to get away. He was clutching the edge of the rug with one hand; the other was pressed against his stomach."Are you hurt, Henrik?" she asked."I've been stabbed ... in the stomach."Tilda nodded. More violence. She wanted to scream and swear at someone, but instead she picked up his knife, hurled it out into the snow, then checked his pants and jacket. No more weapons.She took a sterilizing pack out of her pocket along with the second and last bandage and pa.s.sed them over to Henrik."Martin's lying out there," she said quietly. "He's been shot. He didn't make it.""Was he a cop?" said Henrik.Tilda sighed. "He used to be ... he's a tutor at the Police Training Academy."Henrik opened the sterilizing pack and shook his head. "They're crazy.""Who, Henrik? Who shot Martin?""There are two of them," he said. "Tommy and Freddy."Tilda looked at him suspiciously and he shrugged his shoulders."That's what they call themselves ...Tommy and Freddy."Tilda remembered the two men at the races in Kalmar."So you broke in here together? You're partners?""We were." He pulled up his sweater and began to wipe the wound in his stomach. "It was Tommy who did this.""What are they carrying, Henrik?""They've got a hunting rifle. An old Mauser ...I don't know if they've got anything else."Tilda bent down and held the compress while Henrik tied the pressure bandage."Now lie down on your stomach," she said."Why?""I'm going to put the handcuffs on."He looked at her. "If they shoot you, they'll come after me next," he said. "Am I supposed to sit here in handcuffs, waiting for them?"Tilda thought it over for a few seconds, then hung the cuffs back on her belt."I'll be back."She turned and jumped down from the steps, crouching between the drifts as she took a last glance at Martin's body.With her knees and back bent, she began to move through the snow, over toward the barn.She blinked to help her see through the snowflakes more easily and stayed on the alert as she moved forward, all the time expecting to be shot at.A long, billowing snowdrift ran along a couple of yards from the barn, and behind it she found traces of the gunman. A pair of boots had been trampling around, and there was the outline of someone who had been lying down in the snow. But both the man and his gun were gone, and she couldn't see any sign of blood.He must have gone back inside the barn.Tilda thought about Martin's blood-covered back and stayed where she was, out in the courtyard. The broad doorway gaped like the opening of a cave. She didn't want to go in there.A little further away to the right was another entrance-a narrow door made of wooden planks, painted black. She began to move slowly toward it, pressed against the stone wall, the fine snow whirling down and melting on the back of her neck.When Tilda reached the door, she grabbed the handle and pulled the door open as far as she could before the snow stopped it.She peered inside.Pitch black. The electricity was still off.With her pistol at the ready she moved inside onto the earth floor, straight into the darkness and silence.She stayed by the wall for a while, listening for sounds; her nose was beginning to throb again. It was impossible to tell if anyone was lying in wait for her in the shadows.The storm was more distant in here, but high above her the great roof squeaked and creaked. After a minute or so she started moving again, silently and cautiously. There was no snow to contend with, of course, but the floor was uneven-sometimes it was earth, sometimes stone.When she saw a broad shadow looming up ahead of her, she almost aimed her pistol at it-until her boot hit an enormous rubber tire. Above the tire was a hood with the logo McCORMICK.Tilda had b.u.mped into an old tractor-a rusty monster on wheels that must have been parked there for years.She crept silently past it. When she saw old cans of paint and piles of planks on the floor, she realized she was in a storeroom at the eastern end of the barn.A faint thud came from somewhere in the barn. She turned her head quickly-but nothing moved behind her.There were two of them in here, Henrik had said. Oddly enough Tilda had the feeling that there were in fact many more people here in the barn-figures keeping watch in the shadows around her. It was a vague but unpleasant feeling, and she was unable to shake it off.Her eyes were beginning to grow accustomed to the darkness, and she could see the stone wall opposite.Suddenly she heard a faint tinkling sound to her left. From inside the barn.A second or so later it grew a little lighter around her, and she saw that there was a doorway in the wooden wall beside her. It ought to lead into the barn. The light was coming from the barn; a flickering, dancing glow.Tilda caught the smell of smoke and suspected she knew what had happened. She hurried to the door and looked into the barn.A fire was burning next to the steep wooden staircase a few yards away, leading up to the hayloft, and there was the acrid smell of paraffin mixed with smoke. Someone had gathered a big heap of old hay, then smashed a burning bottle of paraffin against the floor. The fire had taken hold by now, and the flames had already begun licking at the planks of the staircase.A tall man was standing beneath the loft on the far side of the fire. He was about the same age as Henrik and was holding a black hood or cap in one hand; he didn't appear to have noticed her. The man's gaze was fixed on the growing flames and his face was shiny. He looked excited.A framed oil painting was propped against a wooden pillar beside him, but there was no sign of any gun.Tilda looked around one last time-no one was lurking behind her-then she took a deep breath and stepped out into the barn. She was holding the pistol with both hands."Police!" she shouted. "Stand still!"The man looked up and gazed at her, more surprised than anything."Get down on the floor!"The man remained standing, his mouth open."My brother's looking for a way out," he said. "Around the back."Tilda moved forward until she was only two paces from the man.He moved backwards and to one side, toward the door, and Tilda followed him."Down on the floor!"If he didn't give up, would she shoot him? She didn't know. But she was aiming straight at his head."Lie down!""Okay, okay ..."The man nodded and got down on his stomach, with some effort."Hands behind your back!"Tilda was by his side and had unhooked the handcuffs from her belt.She quickly grabbed his wrists, pulled them back, and slipped on the cuffs. He was secure now, lying on the stone floor, and she was able to search him. He had a mountain knife in the pocket of his pants, but that was the only weapon. And pills, lots of pills."What's your name?"He seemed to be considering the question."Freddy," he said eventually."Your real name."He hesitated. "Sven."Tilda found that difficult to believe, but merely said, "Okay, Sven ... just keep calm."When she got up, she could hear the crackling of the fire. The flames had nowhere to go along the stone floor, but had got a hold on the staircase and were climbing up toward the edge of the loft.Tilda couldn't see a fire blanket or extinguisher, nor any buckets she could use to carry water.She pulled off her uniform jacket and beat at the steps, but the flames simply moved aside and grew. The fire seemed to want to reach up toward the storm-more than half the staircase was burning now.Could she try to kick the whole staircase away from the edge of the loft?She raised her foot and took aim-then she saw a shadow approaching out of the corner of her eye. She spun around.It was a tall man wearing jeans and a sweater, hurrying toward the staircase out of the darkness of the barn. He stopped and looked at the fire, then at Freddy and finally at Tilda.She almost didn't recognize him-but it was Joakim Westin."I can't put it out!" she yelled. "I've tried ..."Westin just nodded. He seemed calm, as if there were worse things in the world."Snow," he said. "We have to smother it.""Okay."But where had Westin come from? He looked pale and tired, but didn't seem particularly surprised to have visitors. Even the fire didn't seem to bother him much."I'll get a shovel."He turned toward the barn door."Can you manage without me?" asked Tilda.Joakim simply nodded, without stopping.Tilda left the burning staircase. She had to go back into the darkness."Stay where you are," she said to Freddy. "I'm going to find your brother."But she stayed in the doorway of the inner room, waiting for Joakim to come back. It took perhaps half a minute, then he was back with a huge shovel full of snow.They nodded to each other and Tilda went into the storeroom where the tractor was. Behind her she could hear the fire hissing as Joakim put it out.She had raised her pistol again.The shadows and the cold surrounded her once more. She thought she heard movements ahead of her, but could see nothing.She kept close to the northern wall, where the small windows in the thick stone wall were completely covered in snow.Then a door appeared, and Tilda went through it.The room on the other side was large and even colder. Tilda stopped. The feeling that she wasn't alone in the darkness came back. She lowered her pistol, listened, and took a step forward.A shot rang out.She ducked, without knowing if she'd been hit or not. Her ears were ringing from the report; she coughed quietly and breathed in the dry air. She waited.Nothing else happened.When Tilda finally looked up into the darkness, she saw another closed door four or five yards away. It was a way out-but there was someone standing in front of it. A man.It was Freddy's brother, Tommy. It couldn't be anyone else. He had rolled the balaclava up to his forehead and his pale face bore a resemblance to Freddy's.Tommy had an old rifle over his shoulder.Tilda steadied the hand holding the pistol, aiming at Tommy."Drop the gun."But Tommy just stood there like a sleepwalker, almost as if someone were holding on to him. His eyes were lowered and his right hand was resting on the door handle, as if he were on his way out, but his legs seemed to be incapable of movement."Tommy?"He didn't reply.A narcotic-induced psychosis? She walked slowly over to Martin's murderer, afraid but resolute. Then she silently reached out to his shoulder and carefully unhooked the rifle. She saw that the safety catch was on, and dropped it on the floor behind her."Tommy?" she said again. "Can you move?"When she nudged his arm, he suddenly gave a start and came to life.He fell backward, the iron handle was pushed down, and the door opened. It flew flew open, torn back by the storm. He tumbled out into the snowdrifts, got up, and staggered away. open, torn back by the storm. He tumbled out into the snowdrifts, got up, and staggered away.Tilda raced after him over the low stone step, out into the gale. She could see swaying tree trunks a dozen or so yards away."Tommy!" she shouted. "Stop!"Her voice was ripped to shreds by the wind, and the man ahead of her didn't stop. He had picked up speed through the snow; he shouted something over his shoulder and fled, heading straight for the forest.Tilda fired a warning shot, up into the storm, then dropped on one knee. She raised her pistol and took aim, keeping her finger on the trigger.She knew she could hit him in the legs. But she couldn't bring herself to shoot someone who was running away.Tommy had reached the low-growing trees on the edge of the forest. The covering of snow was thinner there, and he was able to move faster. After fifteen or twenty steps he was a gray shadow in the forest. Then he was gone.s.h.i.t.Tilda remained outside for several minutes, but saw no other movements in the darkness apart from the whirling snow. It was still blowing in across the coast, and when she began to lose the feeling in her fingers she turned her back to the wind. She went back and picked up the Mauser in the doorway.On her way back to Joakim she decided to go along the outside of the barn, despite the fact that the wind and the cold had almost finished her off by now. But she didn't want to risk meeting anyone else in there, in those black rooms.

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Dousing the fire with snow had worked, but when Joakim finally managed to put the flames out, almost the entire staircase up to the loft was charred, and thick curtains of smoke hung from the roof beams. had worked, but when Joakim finally managed to put the flames out, almost the entire staircase up to the loft was charred, and thick curtains of smoke hung from the roof beams.Joakim coughed in the dry air and sat down at the bottom of the smoking staircase with aching legs. He was still holding the snow shovel he had fetched from the house.He couldn't even think anymore, didn't have the strength to wonder where all these uninvited guests had come from tonight, or to ponder what had happened up there in the room with the church benches. He realized that Gerlof Davidsson was right: a veil of forgetfulness was already beginning to obscure his memories of this night.Had he really met Katrine up there? Had she confessed that she had drowned his sister?No. Katrine hadn't said that.Joakim looked at the tall man lying over by the wall. He had no idea who he was or why he was wearing handcuffs, but if police officer Tilda Davidsson had caught him, then certain conclusions could be drawn.Almost at that same moment, he thought he heard fresh shots from somewhere outside the barn.Joakim listened, but when he heard nothing more he looked over in the direction of the wall."Was it you who started all this?" he asked.After a few seconds a quiet reply came from the floor."Sorry."Joakim sighed. "I'll have to build a new staircase to the loft ... sometime."He leaned back, then remembered that Livia and Gabriel were still in the house, alone.How could he have left them?There was a sudden sc.r.a.ping noise over by the barn door, and when he turned his head he saw Tilda come stumbling in from the storm, covered in snow. She had her pistol in one hand, and an old hunting rifle in the other.She sank down over by the wooden wall and breathed out."He's gone," she said.Freddy looked up from the floor."Gone?" said Joakim."He ran into the forest," said Tilda. "He disappeared ... but at least he hasn't got a rifle now."Joakim got up. "I have to see to my children," he said, walking toward the door. "Will you be okay on your own for a while?"Tilda nodded, but remained on the floor, her head drooping."If you go through the veranda ... there are people there. Two men.""Injured?" said Joakim.Tilda lowered her eyes. "One's injured ... and one's dead."Joakim didn't ask any more questions. When he glanced at her for one last time, she had taken out her cell phone and started to key in a number.He walked out into the billowing snow dunes in the inner courtyard, bending low against the wind. Eel Point didn't seem so big tonight-the buildings seemed to be cowering like a pack of frightened dogs beneath the blizzard. The onslaughts of the wind ripped off slates and whirled them up above the top of the roof, where they disappeared into the darkness.Joakim went inside the veranda and closed the door. A man was lying stretched out on the rug. Dead? No, he was just deeply asleep.The storm was making the windows on the front of the house rattle, and the putty and frames holding the panes were creaking, but they were still holding.Joakim walked into the house, but stopped in the hallway.He could hear creaking noises in the corridor.Hoa.r.s.e breathing.Ethel was there.She was standing in front of the door to the children's rooms; she had come to collect her daughter. Ethel was going to take Livia away with her.Joakim didn't dare go up to her. He simply bent his head and closed his eyes.Trust me, he thought.He opened his eyes and went on into the house.The corridor by the bedrooms was empty.

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