The Shapeshifters by Stefan Spjut Page B

while,’ he said eventually, ‘before they go that far.’
    Seved pressed his thumbs against the rim of the coffee cup. He was aware it was getting close now. That they were getting close to explaining why Ejvor died. He would find out now.
    â€˜So she has to stay inside there?’ asked Börje.
    â€˜For the time being!’ The man with the long beard had shouted from the hall. But he stayed out there. He did not even look inside the kitchen.
    â€˜Until the child comes,’ he added, in a singsong voice.
    Seved felt a stab. So that was why. Then it was his fault. But did they mean she would have to sit in there
until then?
Even if he slept with Signe it could take months before she conceived, and then another nine months on top of that. How would they be able to put food in the kitchen? She had probably started to smell already. Börje couldn’t agree to this, surely?
    Oddly enough, Börje said nothing. He just looked down at his hands, at the bracelet with its button of reindeer antler. He was worn out. It looked as if he was struggling to keep his eyes open.
    Lennart got to his feet. Slowly he dropped first one mouse and then the other into his jacket pocket.
    â€˜Tomorrow I’m driving up to Torsten and his aunt’s,’ he said, pinching his nostrils together. ‘We’ll see what we can come up with. But if you move her, then you’ve only got yourselves to blame. Just so you know.’
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    The water that flowed through the heating system in Susso’s flat kept it at a constant if only mildly warm temperature, although the radiator in the bathroom was usually freezing cold, and that was yet another reason why she put off having a shower. With a pair of thick socks on her feet she went into the kitchen and put on the coffee machine. When the coffee was ready she sat down in front of the computer and wondered how to formulate her words.
    It was not exactly straightforward.
    It would be best to wait until she saw the photographs from the wildlife camera. At least then she could account for the measures she had taken, if nothing else, and compare the results with what Edit had told her. That would have to be enough.
    She had poured too much milk into her coffee, so she returned to the kitchen and put the cup in the microwave, which was a robust appliance, almost as old as she was. It resembled an old-fashioned television.
    She took out her cup, sat down again at the computer, opened a new file and wrote:
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Edit Mickelsson, living in Vaikijaur in the municipality of Jokkmokk, states that on Wednesday 16 November at approximately three in the afternoon she observed an unknown and abnormally short male person outside her house . . .
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    She then erased Edit’s name and took a mouthful of coffee, which was now far too hot. She drummed her thumb on the edge of the keyboard and glanced at the clock. It was almost ten forty. She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and put in her contact lenses, relieved at not having to write anything.
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    It had taken Seved just over an hour to drive to Arvidsjaur and now he sat in the car, waiting for two o’clock.
    Using his index finger he pushed back the cuff of his jacket to look at the scratched face of his watch. It was now one fifty. There was a car park to the rear of the pizzeria but there was no sign of the motorhome or the Merc. He breathed in deeply and then exhaled white air through his nose. The temperature in the car had dropped fast. The seal on one of the Isuzu’s doors had fallen off, so it was always perishing inside. The clothes he had put on were not warm enough and he had not bothered with a hat or gloves.
    He climbed out of the car, crossed the street and walked into the restaurant. Furthest in, where the chilled drinks cabinet hummed, an overweight man in a cap and knitted jumper sat staring into his coffee cup, but otherwise the tables were empty.
    Seved sat down in a