cigarette after cigarette out in the cold.
“I’m here on behalf of your wife’s employer,” said Rebecka Martinsson.
Erik Nilsson had been on the point of sitting down, or perhaps asking if she’d like a cup of coffee. But he remained standing. When he didn’t say anything, she went on:
“There are two things. First of all I would like her work keys. And then there’s the matter of your moving out.”
He looked out through the window. She kept talking, now she was the calm and pleasant one. She informed him that the house went with the job, that the church could help him find an apartment and a removal firm.
His breathing became heavy. His mouth a thin line. Every breath sounded like a snort down his nose.
He was gazing at her with contempt. She looked down at the table.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “Bloody hell, it’s enough to make you feel sick. Is it Stefan Wikström’s wife who can’t wait any longer? She never could stand the fact that Mildred had the biggest house.”
“Look, I don’t know anything about that. I…”
He slammed his hand down on the table.
“I’ve lost everything!”
He made a movement in the air with his fist, pulling himself together so as not to lose his self-control.
“Wait,” he said.
He disappeared through the kitchen door. Rebecka could hear his footsteps going up the stairs and across the floor above. After a while he came back, flung the bunch of keys onto the table as if it had been a bag of dog shit.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“Your moving out,” she said firmly.
And now she was looking him in the eye.
“How does it feel?” he asked. “How does it feel inside those fine clothes, when you’ve got a job like yours?”
She got up. Something changed in her face, it was a fleeting moment, but he’d seen it in this house many times. Silent anguish. He could see the answer in her eyes. Could hear it as clearly as if she’d spoken the words out loud. Like a whore.
She picked her gloves up from the table with stiff movements, slowly, as if she had to count them to make sure she had them all. One two. She picked up the big bunch of keys.
Erik Nilsson sighed heavily and rubbed his hand over his face.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Mildred would have given me a kick up the backside. What day is it today?”
When she didn’t reply he went on:
“A week, I’ll be out of here in a week.”
She nodded. He followed her to the door. Tried to think of something to say, it wasn’t exactly the time to ask if she’d like a coffee.
“A week,” he said to her departing back.
As if it could have made her feel happy.
Rebecka tottered away from the priest’s house. Although that was just the way it felt. She wasn’t actually tottering at all. Her legs and feet carried her away from the house with steady steps.
I’m nothing, she thought. There’s nothing left inside me. No human being, no judgment, nothing. I do whatever they ask me to do. Of course. The people at the office are all I’ve got. I tell myself I can’t cope with the idea of going back. But in fact I can’t cope with the idea of ending up on the outside. I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, to be allowed to belong.
She focused on the mailbox and didn’t notice the red Ford Escort driving up the track until it slowed down and turned in between the gateposts.
The car stopped.
Rebecka felt as if she’d had an electric shock.
Inspector Anna-Maria Mella climbed out of the car. They’d met before, when Rebecka was defending Sanna Strandgård. And it had been Anna-Maria Mella and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke who’d saved her life that night.
Anna-Maria had been pregnant then, shaped like a cube; now she was slim. But broad-shouldered. She looked strong although she was so small. Her hair in the same thick plait down her back as before. White, even teeth in her brown, sunburned horse face. A pony policewoman.
“Hi there!” exclaimed Anna-Maria.
Then she fell
“I’m here on behalf of your wife’s employer,” said Rebecka Martinsson.
Erik Nilsson had been on the point of sitting down, or perhaps asking if she’d like a cup of coffee. But he remained standing. When he didn’t say anything, she went on:
“There are two things. First of all I would like her work keys. And then there’s the matter of your moving out.”
He looked out through the window. She kept talking, now she was the calm and pleasant one. She informed him that the house went with the job, that the church could help him find an apartment and a removal firm.
His breathing became heavy. His mouth a thin line. Every breath sounded like a snort down his nose.
He was gazing at her with contempt. She looked down at the table.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “Bloody hell, it’s enough to make you feel sick. Is it Stefan Wikström’s wife who can’t wait any longer? She never could stand the fact that Mildred had the biggest house.”
“Look, I don’t know anything about that. I…”
He slammed his hand down on the table.
“I’ve lost everything!”
He made a movement in the air with his fist, pulling himself together so as not to lose his self-control.
“Wait,” he said.
He disappeared through the kitchen door. Rebecka could hear his footsteps going up the stairs and across the floor above. After a while he came back, flung the bunch of keys onto the table as if it had been a bag of dog shit.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“Your moving out,” she said firmly.
And now she was looking him in the eye.
“How does it feel?” he asked. “How does it feel inside those fine clothes, when you’ve got a job like yours?”
She got up. Something changed in her face, it was a fleeting moment, but he’d seen it in this house many times. Silent anguish. He could see the answer in her eyes. Could hear it as clearly as if she’d spoken the words out loud. Like a whore.
She picked her gloves up from the table with stiff movements, slowly, as if she had to count them to make sure she had them all. One two. She picked up the big bunch of keys.
Erik Nilsson sighed heavily and rubbed his hand over his face.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Mildred would have given me a kick up the backside. What day is it today?”
When she didn’t reply he went on:
“A week, I’ll be out of here in a week.”
She nodded. He followed her to the door. Tried to think of something to say, it wasn’t exactly the time to ask if she’d like a coffee.
“A week,” he said to her departing back.
As if it could have made her feel happy.
Rebecka tottered away from the priest’s house. Although that was just the way it felt. She wasn’t actually tottering at all. Her legs and feet carried her away from the house with steady steps.
I’m nothing, she thought. There’s nothing left inside me. No human being, no judgment, nothing. I do whatever they ask me to do. Of course. The people at the office are all I’ve got. I tell myself I can’t cope with the idea of going back. But in fact I can’t cope with the idea of ending up on the outside. I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, to be allowed to belong.
She focused on the mailbox and didn’t notice the red Ford Escort driving up the track until it slowed down and turned in between the gateposts.
The car stopped.
Rebecka felt as if she’d had an electric shock.
Inspector Anna-Maria Mella climbed out of the car. They’d met before, when Rebecka was defending Sanna Strandgård. And it had been Anna-Maria Mella and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke who’d saved her life that night.
Anna-Maria had been pregnant then, shaped like a cube; now she was slim. But broad-shouldered. She looked strong although she was so small. Her hair in the same thick plait down her back as before. White, even teeth in her brown, sunburned horse face. A pony policewoman.
“Hi there!” exclaimed Anna-Maria.
Then she fell
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