The Black Path (47 page)
She gets to her feet. Heaves herself up onto the reindeer’s back. Lies across it like a bundle. She can hear a familiar bark now. It’s Musta, scampering around the two women. Musta’s excited, demanding bark, she wants to be on her way. Ester is afraid they’ll go without her. Disappear.
Run, she says to the reindeer. Run. She grabs its thick coat with both hands.
And it begins to move forward.
Soon they’ll catch up.
Anna-Maria Mella suddenly discovers that she’s fumbling around in a dark, silent woods. She stopped running long ago. She realizes she hasn’t a clue how long she’s been wandering around, and she also realizes she isn’t going to find anybody here. She has the distinct feeling that it’s all over.
Sven-Erik, she thinks. I must get back.
But she can’t find her way back. She doesn’t really know where she is. She sinks down against a tree trunk.
I’ll have to wait, she thinks. It’ll be light soon.
The picture of the dead child comes into her head. She tries to push it away.
She’s longing so desperately for Gustav. She wants to hold him, his warm body.
He’s alive, she says to herself. They’re all at home. If she’d had her jacket she could have called Robert; her cell phone is in her inside pocket, but her jacket is still in the ditch.
She wraps her arms around her body, digging her fingers into her upper arms to stop herself from crying. And as she sits there digging and digging into her upper arms, she falls asleep in a second. She’s completely exhausted.
When she wakes up after a while, she notices that it’s grown a little lighter. She gets up stiffly and begins to make her way up to the house.
There are three police cars in the yard, as well as a van belonging to the national special operations squad. They’ve secured the area and are out there searching.
Anna-Maria comes walking up to the house with twigs in her hair and mud all over her face. All she feels when her colleagues point their guns at her is how tired she is. Hands up, they take her gun off her.
“Sven-Erik?” she asks. “Sven-Erik Stålnacke?”
One police officer is holding her arm loosely, a grip that can tighten if she starts playing up.
He looks troubled. He seems to be around the same age as Sven-Erik. But he’s taller.
“He’s okay, but you can’t talk to him at the moment,” he says. “Sorry.”
She understands. She really does. She’s shot two people, and God knows what else has happened. Obviously she has to be investigated. But she has to see Sven-Erik. Perhaps mainly for her own sake. She needs to see somebody she cares about. Somebody who cares about her. She only wants him to look at her and give her a little nod, a sign that everything’s going to be all right.
“Come on,” she pleads. “This was no picnic. I just want to know that he’s okay.”
The police officer sighs and gives in. How can he say no?
“Come with me, then,” he says. “But remember. No exchange of information about what happened here tonight.”
Sven-Erik is leaning against one of the police cars. When he catches sight of Anna-Maria, he turns his head away.
“Sven-Erik,” she says.
Then he turns to face her.
She’s never seen him so furious.
“You and your fucking tricks,” he yells. “Fuck you, Mella! We should have waited for backup. I…”
He clenches his fists and shakes them in rage and frustration.
“I’m handing in my notice!” he shouts.
And at that moment Anna-Maria sees their colleagues over by the Hummer shining a light on the man with the rifle, the marksman. He’s lying on the ground, and he’s been shot in the head.
But I shot him in the back, thinks Anna-Maria.
“Right,” she said absently to Sven-Erik.
Then Sven-Erik sits down on the hood of the police car and starts to cry. He thinks about the cat, Boxer.
He thinks about Airi Bylund.
He thinks that if Airi hadn’t cut down her husband and got the doctor to lie about the cause of death, there would have been an autopsy on Örjan Bylund and they would have started a murder investigation and then perhaps none of this would have happened. And then he wouldn’t have had to kill anyone.
And he wonders if he can get over this so that he can love Airi. He doesn’t know.
And he sobs his heart out.
Rebecka Martinsson gets out of the car in front of the Riksgränsen Hotel. Her stomach is doing somersaults.
It doesn’t matter, she says to herself. I have to do this. I have nothing to lose but my pride. And when she imagines what her pride looks like, she sees a worthless, worn-out thing, definitely the worse for wear.
In you go, she says to herself.
The bar is in full swing, as soon as she walks through the door she hears a tribute band playing an old Police track.
She stays in reception and calls Maria Taube. If she’s lucky, Maria will have some guy on the go and will be keeping an eye on her phone 24/7.
She’s in luck. Maria Taube answers.
“It’s me,” says Rebecka.
She’s slightly out of breath because of her nerves, but she can’t let that bother her either.
“Can you find Måns and ask him to come out to reception?”
“What?” says Maria. “Are you here?”
“Yes, I’m here. But I don’t want to see anybody, just him. Will you ask him, please.”
“Okay,” says Maria hesitantly, realizing at the same time that she’s missed something, that she hasn’t understood. “I’ll go and find him.”
It takes a couple of minutes.
Just as long as nobody else comes out here, thinks Rebecka.
She needs a pee, she should have gone to the bathroom first. And so thirsty, how’s she going to be able to talk to him when her tongue is sticking to the roof of her mouth?
She catches sight of herself in the mirror and discovers to her horror that she’s wearing her grandmother’s old quilted nylon jacket. She looks like somebody who lives out in the forest and grows everything organically, is on a permanent collision course with the authorities, and looks after stray cats.
She’s seized by an impulse to run out to the car and take off, but then her cell phone rings. It’s Maria Taube.
“He’s on his way,” she says, and rings off.
And there he is.
Rebecka feels like an aquarium containing an electric eel.
He doesn’t say “Hi, Martinsson,” or anything. It’s as if he realizes this is serious. He looks so good. Just like he used to. He doesn’t often wear jeans.
She steadies herself and tries to forget about her hair, which is way too long and needs styling, cutting, coloring. Tries to forget about her scar. And that bloody jacket!
“Come with me,” she says. “I’ve come to take you back to my place.”
She thinks she ought to say something else, but she can’t manage any more than that.
He smiles a little. But then his face grows serious. And before he has time to say anything, Malin Norell is standing behind him.
“Måns?” she says, looking from him to Rebecka. “What’s going on?”
He shakes his head regretfully.
Rebecka doesn’t know who he’s shaking his head at. Her or the woman behind him.
But then he smiles at her and says:
“I just need to get a jacket.”
But she has no intention of letting him go, oh no. Not for a second.
“Take mine,” she says.
They’re sitting in the car. The falling snow outside is like a white curtain, zero visibility. Rebecka is driving very carefully. They don’t say much. Nothing, in fact. Måns is studying the torn sleeves of the quilted nylon jacket he’s wearing. It has to be the ugliest jacket he’s ever seen in his life.
Then he looks at Rebecka. She really is something else. Completely crazy. And he begins to laugh. He can’t help himself.
She’s laughing too. She laughs until the tears are pouring down her face.
Much later. When she’s resting in his arms, she starts to cry. It just overflows. And at first he jokes with her, and says:
“That good, was it?”
And that makes her laugh, but the tears come back.
Then he holds her tight. Holds her and strokes her hair, kisses the scar above her lip.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just let it all out.”
And she cries until she’s finished crying. And he’s full of good intentions. He’s going to take care of her. She can move back to Stockholm and start working for the firm again. It’ll be fine.
During the night she wakes up and looks at him. He’s sleeping on his back, his mouth wide open.
He’s here right now, she thinks. I’ll try not to hold on to him so tight that he wants to get away. I’ll just enjoy it.
The fact that he’s here right now.
Author’s Acknowledgments
Half the series has been written. It feels strange. I look at the previous two books and the manuscript of this one, and it feels as if someone else has written them. As usual, it’s all lies. Certain people do exist, but what I’ve written about them is fiction.
Many people have helped me, and I would like to thank some of them here: Lennart Edström, consultant, who helped me with the progress of Rebecka’s illness, among other things; senior doctors Peter Löwenhielm and Jan Lindberg, who helped me with regard to physical injuries and my dead bodies; lecturer Marie Allen, with whom I have had the pleasure of discussing traces of blood and strands of hair; prosecutor Cecilia Bergman; dog handler Peter Holmström; and the artists Anita Ponga, Maria Montner and Camilla Jüllig, who have all freely shared their expertise. And I must stress that Ester’s family is not Anita Ponga’s.
As always, any errors are my own.
Thanks also to: my editor Rachel Åkerstedt, merciless and wonderful. All the brilliant people at my publishers; just walking in there makes me happy. The fantastic Bonnier Group Agency, who manage to sell my books to the world. Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin and John Eyre for their original cover design.
Thanks to my mother, Eva Jensen, Lena Andersson and Thomas Karlsen Andersson for reading the manuscript and turning somersaults with joy and giving me praise. I needed that so much. You put up with me. Thanks to my father and Mona, who read and checked on the facts relating to Kiruna.
And finally: thanks, Per. The book is finally finished. And now I’m coming to get you.
About the Author
Åsa Larsson was born in 1966; she grew up in Kiruna and now lives in Mariefred. She is a qualified lawyer and made her debut in 2003 with
Sun Storm,
which was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers’ Association prize for best debut novel. The sequel,
The Blood Spilt,
was chosen as Best Swedish Crime Novel of 2004. The books were an immediate success; they have been sold to ten countries, and are being launched in the United States; the film rights have been sold to Sandrew Metronome.
ALSO BY ÅSA LARSSON
Sun Storm
The Blood Spilt
THE BLACK PATH
First published in Sweden as
Svart stig
A Delta Trade Paperback / August 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Åsa Larsson
Delta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Larsson, Åsa, 1966–
[Svart stig. English]
The black path/Åsa Larsson; translated by Marlaine Delargy.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33798-0
1. Delargy, Marlaine. II. Title.
PT9877.22.A78S8313 2008
839.73'8—dc22 2007018323
v1.0
Table of Contents
Inspector Anna-Maria Mella and…
Rebecka Martinsson is discharged…
Chief Prosecutor Alf Björnfot…
That’s right, thought Rebecka…
