Mons Kallentoft - Midwinter Sacrifice aka Midwinter Blood

The alarm clock on the bedside table rings.

A harsh, loud, digital noise.

The time is 7.35.

After an hour and a half, the time of dreams is over.

The Correspondent is lying on the hall floor.

They’re behind on developments for once, but probably only because of the inevitable delay caused by the printing process.

They’ve got everything on Rebecka Stenlundh, that she’s the sister of the murdered Bengt Andersson, but nothing about Karl Murvall, or that they carried out a raid on his flat last night.

The paper must have gone to press by then. But they’re bound to have it on the net. I can’t be bothered to look right now, and what could they have that I don’t already know?

Daniel Högfeldt has written several of the articles in the paper. As usual.

Was I too abrupt with him earlier? Maybe I ought to give him an honest chance to show who he is.

The water in the shower is warm against her skin, and Malin feels herself waking up. She gets dressed, stands by the draining-board to drink a cup of Nescafé made with water heated in the microwave.

Please, let us find Karl Murvall today, Malin thinks. Dead or alive.

Might he have killed himself?

Anything is possible now as far as he is concerned.

Might he commit another murder?

Did he rape Maria Murvall? Karin would soon have the results, some time today.

Malin sighs and looks out of the window at St Lars Church and the trees. The branches haven’t given in to the cold, they’re still sticking out defiantly in all directions. Just like the people at this latitude, Malin thinks, as she catches sight of the posters in the travel agent’s windows. This place really isn’t habitable, but we’ve managed to create a home for ourselves here nonetheless.

In the bedroom Malin pulls on her holster and pistol.

She opens the door to Tove’s room.

Most beautiful in all the world.

Lets her sleep.

Karim Akbar is holding tight on to his son’s hand, feeling the eight-year-old fingers through the glove.

They are walking along a gritted path towards the school. The blocks of flats in Lambohov, three and four storeys high, look like moon-bases, randomly scattered across a desolate plain.

Usually his wife walks their son to school, but today she said she had a headache, couldn’t possibly get up.

The case is cracked. They just have to catch him. Then, surely, this will all be over?

Malin has delivered. Zeke, Johan and Börje. Sven: their rock. What would I do without them? My role is to encourage them, keep them happy, and how feeble it is compared to what they do. Compared to the way they deal with people.

Malin. In many ways she’s the ideal detective. Instinctive, driven and, not least, a bit manic. Intelligent? Certainly. But in a good way. She finds short cuts, dares to take chances. But not rashly. Not often, at least.

‘What are you going to do at school today?’

‘I don’t know. Normal stuff.’

And they walk on together in silence, Karim and his son. When they reach the low, white-brick school building Karim holds the door open for him and his son disappears inside, swallowed up by the dimly lit corridor.

The Correspondent is in the postbox by the road.

Rakel Murvall opens her front door and steps on to the porch, notes that the cold is damp today, the sort that gives her aches. But she is accustomed to that sort of physical pain, thinking, When I die I shall fall down dead on the spot. I’m not going to hang around in some hospital, rambling and unable to keep control of my own shit.

She walks carefully through the snow, worried about her hip-joints.

The postbox seems a long way off, but it’s getting closer with every step.

The boys are still sleeping; soon they’ll be awake, but she wants to read the paper now, not wait for them to bring it in to her, or read the latest news on the screen in the living room.

She opens the lid, and there it is, on top of some half-covered dead earwigs.

Back inside she pours a cup of fresh coffee and sits down at the kitchen table to read.

She reads the articles about the murder of Bengt Andersson and the attack over and over again.

Rebecka?

I understand what has happened.

I’m not that stupid.

Secrets. Shadows from the past. My lies, now they’re seeping out of their leaking holes.

His father was a sailor.

As I always said to the boys.

Was everything a lie, Mother?

Questions that lead to other questions.

Was Cornerhouse-Kalle his father? Have you been lying to us all these years? What else don’t we know? Why did you and Dad get us to torment him? To hate him? Our own brother?

Maybe even more.

How did Dad fall down the stairs? Did you push him, did you lie about what happened that day as well?

Truths need to be stifled. No doubts must be sown. It isn’t too late. I can see a chance.

She, Rebecka, was found wandering the fields, naked, like Maria.

‘Well done, Malin.’

Karim Akbar applauds her as she walks into Police Headquarters.

Malin smiles. Thinks, Well done? What do you mean, well done? This isn’t over yet.

She sits down at her desk. Checks the Correspondent ’s website.

They have a short piece about the raid at Karl Murvall’s flat, and the fact that a national alert has gone out. They don’t draw any conclusions, but mention the connections to the ongoing murder investigation, and the fact that his mother has complained about police harassment.

‘Great work, Malin.’

Karim stops beside her. Malin looks up.

‘Not quite according to the rulebook. But, between the two of us: it’s results that count, and if we’re ever going to get anywhere, we have to apply our own rules sometimes.’

‘We have to find him,’ Malin says.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I want to harass Rakel Murvall.’

Karim stares at Malin, who looks back into the police chief’s eyes with all the seriousness she can muster.

‘Go,’ he says. ‘I’ll take responsibility for any repercussions. But take Zeke with you.’

Malin looks across the office. Sven Sjöman hasn’t come in yet. But Zeke is hovering restlessly over at his desk.

Silence in the car.

Zeke hasn’t said he wants music, and Malin likes hearing the monotonous sound of the engine.

The city outside the car windows is the same as it was two weeks ago, just as greedy as ever: Skäggetorp full of rigid life, the retail boxes at Tornby just as blunt, the snow-covered Lake Roxen just as compact, and the houses on the slopes of Vreta Kloster just as inviting with their radiant sense of wellbeing.

Nothing has changed, Malin thinks. Not even the weather. But then it occurs to her that Tove has probably changed. Tove and Markus. A new note has emerged from Tove, less contrary and inward, more outward and open, confident. It suits you, Tove, Malin thinks, you’re going to make a really great grown-up.

And maybe I should give Daniel Högfeldt the chance to prove that he’s more than just a shag-machine.

There are lights on in the houses of Blåsvädret. The brothers’ families are at home in their respective houses. Rakel Murvall’s white wooden home looms at the end of the road, isolated at the point where the road stops.

Clouds of snow are drifting to and fro around the house, and behind the pale veils of winter there are still secrets hidden, Malin thinks. You’d do anything to protect your secrets, wouldn’t you, Rakel?

Child benefit.

A child that you only kept for the money. A few meagre coins. But maybe not so meagre for you. Enough to live off, almost.

And why did you hate him so? What did Cornerhouse-Kalle do to you? Did he do something to you in the forest, just like someone did to Maria? To Rebecka? Did Cornerhouse-Kalle take you by force? Was that how you got pregnant? And so you hated the child when he arrived. And maybe you wanted to have him adopted? But then you had your brilliant idea and invented the story about the sailor and got child benefit. That must have been it. That he took you by force. And the child you had as a result had to pay.