Frozen Moment (62 page)

    Of
course he had never thought it would catch up with him. In one way the timing
was particularly annoying. He had finally attained something of value,
something to fight for. Now he would be forced to fight.

    Every
sound outside the cabin made him jump. The impenetrable darkness increased the
panic which he had felt all day. Keeping hold of his gun at all times,
he
crawled around on all fours so he couldn't be seen
through the cabin's single window. He didn't dare to use the forest for his
bodily functions; instead he used one of the buckets that the children had left
behind. The food he had grabbed in leaving soon ran out.

    It
wouldn't take long for him to lose his mind.
Unless he
starved to death first.

    Since
his mobile phone had no clock, he quickly lost all notion of time. His parents'
number flashed silently on the display at regular intervals, interspersed with
a withheld number which he presumed belonged to the police. They had left a
message on his voicemail asking him to go to the nearest police station
immediately. That could have been days ago or hours ago, he had no idea. He
didn't trust the police, and he certainly didn't believe they could protect him
from a lunatic.

    From
the start, giving himself up had been unthinkable. His thoughts had gone round
and round in circles. Would his part in the incident be seen as manslaughter,
aiding and abetting an attempted rape, or refusing to cooperate in a police
investigation? Would the incident be covered by the statute of limitations,
twelve years later?

    As
time passed it became more a matter of fear, but a different kind, more
primitive. He would have liked the police to be with him in the hunting cabin,
as he lay huddled in his sleeping bag, shaking with terror and expecting the
deranged avenger to kick down the door at any second. The battery on his phone
had almost run out - he would soon have no choice. As he sat there poised to
key in the emergency number, a text message came through: 'The police authority
in Gothenburg has been trying to contact you with regard to a possible threat
to your safety. We are now able to confirm that this threat no longer exists,
as the perpetrator is in custody. Please contact Detective Inspector Christian
Tell on 031-739 29 50 immediately in
connection
with
this matter.'

    He
had to read the message several times before he grasped what it said.

    Molin's
heart was still in his mouth as he ran, half-stooping, through the forest to
the place where he had hidden his neighbour's car. He leapt inside, locked all
the doors and took off along the dark twisting gravel track at death-defying
speed. Away from the worst twenty-four hours of his life, away from feverish
waking dreams of a silhouette looming over him, its arm raised. He would
contact the police as soon as he got home.

    He
screamed as a shadow leapt at the car. For a fraction of a second he stared
straight into a pair of terrified eyes. The car struck the back of the deer,
and it let out a scream. In the rear-view mirror he saw the animal collapse in
a heap on the road; it stopped moving. He would have assumed the deer was dead
had it not then struggled awkwardly to its feet and dragged its damaged body
off into the forest, emitting long drawn-out cries of pain.

    Everything
flickered in front of his eyes. He made himself stop the car at the crossroads
by the mailboxes.
Almost home.

    …
this
threat no longer exists, as the perpetrator is in
custody.
The danger was over. He breathed as calmly as he could.

    The
ghostly cries of the deer seemed to be coming closer. He glanced in the rear-view
mirror once more. Behind the car the branches of a dense fir tree were swaying.

    For
a moment he hesitated, then leaned across and picked up his gun. When he opened
the door and got out, the animal's cries sliced through him. It was unbearable.
He had to shut it up - it would only take one shot.

    He
followed the sound, his way dimly lit by the rear lights of the car. He didn't
have to go far before he almost fell over the animal. The shot echoed through
the forest, and a merciful silence descended. He hurried back. He was only a
couple of metres away from the car when he sensed a movement behind him.

    The
next second he felt a stabbing sensation between his shoulder blades. At first
he was surprised, and instinctively twisted his arm back to touch the source of
the pain. The second blow caught his wrist. The agony shot up his arm and
through his body and brought him to his knees. There was a figure leaning over
him and the sound of rapid breathing. His bewildered brain repeated on a loop:
The danger is over. The danger is over.

    Tell
had waited outside the off-licence with the alcoholics, and when the doors
opened had bought himself a bottle of Glenfiddich and one of decent red - to
celebrate if nothing else - then called in at the local mini-market on
Vasagatan. The girl behind the counter was chatting loudly on her mobile phone,
but lowered her voice when Tell walked in. He picked up a few DVDs, some crisps
and other snacks for a day on the sofa with the blinds drawn.

    In
the rear-view mirror he could see a traffic warden approaching and a road
sweeper slowly clearing the junction between Vasagatan and Viktoriagatan, while
the cafe in Tomtehuset, with its promise of coffee and freshly baked cinnamon
buns, was opening its doors for the day.

    Tell
breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled away without having acquired a ticket;
he didn't need another fine, particularly on a day like this. It was crazy to
use the car for the short trip between home and work - but he knew that
already. He narrowly avoided being hit by a number 3 tram. The driver made an
obscene gesture and angrily sounded his horn, but Tell was far too tired to get
annoyed.

    The
apartment had a musty smell when he got home. He kicked off his shoes in the
kitchen and poured himself a Glenfiddich, moved in slow motion towards the
living room and crash-landed on the sofa.

    The
end-of-shift siren from Valand woke him several hours later. He glanced at his
watch: it still said a quarter past seven. He had slept for a long time, but he
still felt tired as well as hot and sticky. The leather sofa was slick with
sweat.

    Stiff
from lying in an awkward position, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled
into the kitchen to find something to eat before attacking the crisps. He ate a
sandwich, gazing down on Gotabergsgatan and the part of Vasa Park he could see
from his window. A gang of youths were shouting as they made their way along
Avenyn.

    In
the old days the drunks had at least confined themselves to Saturday nights, he
thought. The noise of the city had never really disturbed him, though, not
seriously. In fact he found the silence out at Seja's cottage more unnerving.

    He
took a shower with a glass of red perched on the edge of the washbasin - he was
planning to spend his day off in a pleasant haze of intoxication - while the
trailers flickered on the TV screen, introducing Clint Eastwood's
Million
Dollar Baby.
He didn't hear the phone until the answering machine kicked
in.

    '…
have reached… automatic answering service…'

    As
he towelled himself dry his recorded voice requested the caller's name and
number. He reminded himself to disconnect the landline next time he was
planning a day to himself.

    The
extended tone stopped, replaced by Karlberg's agitated voice. Tell went into
the kitchen and leaned over the speaker so he could hear more clearly. The poor
quality of the recording meant he had to rewind and listen again.

    The
second time he played the tape, he had no doubt what the message said.

    'Sven
Molin has been found dead.
Murdered.
I've rung Beckman
too. Give me a call when you get in.'

    Tell
looked at the bottles over on the draining board, at the useless watch still
showing a quarter past seven; according to the clock on the wall, it would soon
be showing the right time. He decided to call a taxi.

    If
he hadn't been so keen to conceal the fact that he wasn't entirely sober, Tell
would have laughed at the deathly pale detective waiting for him. If the reason
for this meeting had been funny, that is.

    'We
didn't forget to lock Granith up before we went home, did we?' Tell couldn't
resist it, but he pulled himself together when he saw the surprise on Gonzales'
face. 'OK, OK. This isn't exactly what we were expecting.'

    He
could feel the anger mounting as he took in the scale of what had happened. The
shared sense of failure was clearly written on the faces of his colleagues.

    
'Bloody hell!
How the fuck…' he burst out before making an
effort to think clearly. 'Is Karlberg up there?'

    Gonzales
nodded. 'He took the call from Bengtsfors and went there straight away. We were
waiting for you so we could check before-'

    'Who's
spoken to Karlberg?'

    'I
have.'

    Bärneflod
appeared in the doorway, threading his belt through the loops in his jeans.

    
'And?'

    'Molin
was
lying
there on the road, stabbed to death just a
couple of hundred metres from the officer on duty.'

    
'Close to where he lived, then.'

    'Yes,
at a crossroads just before you get to the farm. For some reason Molin had
stopped the car and got out - the driver's door was wide open.'

    'Karlberg
thought maybe he'd stopped to pick up the post,' Gonzales interjected, 'he was
only a few metres from the mailboxes. Or he might have hit something. There
were brown marks on the front of the car that could be blood. If it's an
animal, they should find it before long.'

    The
sound of high heels echoed along the corridor, and Beckman appeared. Her
tousled hair indicated that like Tell she had turned the day upside down and
been woken by the bad news. 'Bed hair,' Barneflod whispered loudly to Gonzales,
who didn't move a muscle.

    Beckman
slumped down next to Gonzales, looking at Tell with an expression that said she
couldn't get her head around this latest development either.

    'How
did it happen?' asked Tell, perching impatiently on the very edge of the chair.
'Stabbed, you said?
Which means we have a completely
different method.
I just can't understand-'

    'Well,
it's a completely different murderer,' Bärneflod informed him.

    Tell
closed his eyes for a second before replying. 'Yes, I'm aware that Sebastian
Granith can't have murdered Sven Molin while he was locked in a cell. But,
bearing in mind the background, perhaps we should consider that it would be a
strange coincidence if Sven Molin had been murdered by a total stranger,
someone with no connection whatsoever to Sebastian Granith. Wouldn't it?'

    'Never
say never when it comes to police work. Not unless there's proof,' replied
Bärneflod loftily.

    No
doubt that's your intelligent comment for the day,
thought Tell. Then he set
out his own hypothesis.

    'Without
taking anything for granted, we must start from the premise that this third
murder also has something to do with the fact that Maya Granith, the sister of
Sebastian Granith, was probably attacked by Thomas Edell, Olof Bart and Sven
Molin. So it's someone who's working with Granith.'

    'Someone
who was also close to Maya,' said Beckman.

    Tell
nodded.
'Or is close enough to Sebastian to go along with his
campaign of revenge.
And of course there's another alternative, namely
that Sebastian Granith has confessed to two crimes he didn't commit. That he's
protecting someone else.'

    'Who
found Molin?' asked Beckman.

    'One
of the neighbours,' said Bärneflod.

    'Have
they been questioned?'

    'Yes.
The local police have started knocking on doors. Not that there are many doors
to knock on out there. But one person thought he heard a shot.'

    'A
shot?' said Beckman. 'Now I'm getting confused.'

    'Yes.
Molin's rifle was on the ground next to him. He could have felt uneasy; he
could have shot at the murderer and missed. How should I know?'