drive himself, but they had insisted. So his vehicle was still in the car park, and he’d have to walk over there to retrieve it. But of course then he might have a chance to go up and visit …
Gunnar gasped for breath. How could he have forgotten so quickly? How could he forget even for a second that Matte was dead? They had seen him lying there on his stomach on the striped rag-rug that Signe had woven for him. Lying on his stomach with a hole in the back of his head. How could he forget the sight of all that blood?
‘Shall I put on some coffee?’ Gunnar forced himself to break the silence. The only sound he heard was his own heart, and he’d give anything to stop listening to those steady beats, which made him realize that he was alive and taking one breath after another while his son was dead.
‘I’ll get you a cup.’ He stood up even though Signe hadn’t answered. She was still under the effects of the sedative as she sat there, motionless, with a blank look on her face and her hands clasped on the oilcloth covering the table.
Gunnar moved mechanically, putting in the filter, pouring in the water, opening the coffee container, measuring out the grounds, and then pressing the button. A hissing and bubbling started up at once.
‘Would you like something with your coffee? A piece of sponge-cake, maybe?’ His voice sounded oddly normal. He went over to the refrigerator and took out the sponge-cake that Signe had baked the day before. Carefully he removed the plastic, set the cake on the cutting board, and cut two thick slices. He put them on plates and set one in front of Signe, the other at his own place at the table. She didn’t react, but he didn’t allow himself to worry about that now. He heard only the thudding inside his chest, drowned out briefly by the clattering of the plates and the sputtering of the coffee maker.
When the coffee was ready, he reached up to take down two cups. Their daily habits seemed to have become more entrenched with every passing year, and they each had a favourite cup. Signe always drank her coffee from a delicate white cup with roses adorning the edge, while he preferred a sturdy ceramic cup that they had bought on a coach trip to Gränna. Black coffee with one sugar cube for him; coffee with milk and two sugar cubes for Signe.
‘Here you are,’ he said, setting her cup next to the plate with the piece of cake.
She didn’t move. The coffee burned his throat when he took too big a sip, and he coughed until the stinging sensation subsided. He took a bite of the sponge-cake, but it seemed to swell inside his mouth, forming a big lump of sugar and egg and flour. Then he felt bile rising up in his throat, and he knew that he had to get rid of that lump, which was getting bigger and bigger.
Gunnar dashed past Signe out to the bathroom down the hall, and dropped to his knees to lean over the toilet. He watched as coffee, cake crumbs, and bile poured into the water that was always green from the cleaning fluid that Signe insisted on fastening to the side of the porcelain toilet bowl.
When his stomach was virtually empty, he again heard the sound of his own heart. Thump, thump, thump. Once more he leaned forward and threw up. Out in the kitchen, Signe’s coffee was growing cold in the white cup decorated with roses.
It was evening by the time they finished their work at Mats Sverin’s flat. Though it was still light outside, the hustle and bustle of the day had begun to taper off, and the number of people passing by had diminished.
‘His body just arrived at the forensics lab,’ reported Torbjörn Ruud.
The head of the crime tech team looked tired as he came over to Patrik, holding his mobile in his hand. Patrik had worked with Torbjörn and his team on several homicide investigations, and he had tremendous respect for the grey-bearded man.
‘How soon do you think they’ll get to the post-mortem?’ asked Patrik, massaging the bridge of his nose. He was beginning to feel the effects of what was turning out to be a very long day.
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Pedersen about that.’
‘What’s your preliminary assessment?’ Patrik shivered in the cold wind blowing across the small patch of lawn in front of the building. He pulled his jacket tighter around him.
‘It’s not all that complicated, from what I can see. A gunshot wound in the back of the head. One shot, killing him instantly. The bullet is still inside the skull. The casing we found indicates a nine-millimetre pistol.’
‘Did you find any evidence in the flat?’
‘We’ve taken fingerprints from all the rooms, and also a few fibre samples. That will give us something to go on, once we have a suspect.’
‘Provided that the suspect actually left any prints or fibres,’ said Patrik. Technical evidence was all fine and good, but from experience he knew that a large helping of luck was needed to solve a murder case. People came and went, and it could just as well have been friends or family members who left traces behind in the flat. If the killer was among them, the police would be faced with a whole different set of problems in terms of trying to link the perpetrator to the crime scene.
‘Isn’t it a bit too early to be taking such a pessimistic view?’ said Torbjörn, giving Patrik a poke in the side.
‘Sorry.’ Patrik laughed. ‘I must be getting tired.’
‘You’re taking it easy, aren’t you? I heard that you hit the wall hard, so to speak. It can take a while to recover from something like that.’
‘I don’t really like that phrase “hit the wall”,’ muttered Patrik. ‘But you’re right. It was definitely a warning signal.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re paying attention. You’re not exactly old and decrepit yet, and we’re hoping you’ll be working with the police for many years to come.’
‘What do you make of the evidence you’ve collected so far?’ asked Patrik, attempting to steer the conversation away from his health.
‘As I said, we’ve collected a few things. Everything will be sent over to the lab now. It’s going to take a while to get the results, but I’m owed a few favours, so with a bit of luck, I’ll be able to speed things along.’
‘We’d be grateful to get the results as fast as possible.’ Patrik was freezing. It was much too cold for June, and the weather continued to be unpredictable. At the moment it felt like early spring, yet during the day it had been so warm that he and Erica had been able to sit in the garden without putting on a sweater or jacket.
‘So what about you? Have you and your colleagues made any progress? Did anyone hear or see anything?’ Torbjörn nodded towards the block of flats.
‘We’ve knocked on every single door, but so far with only limited results. One of the neighbours thinks that he heard a sound in the early hours on Saturday, only he was asleep in bed when it woke him, so he’s not sure what it was. Other than that, nothing. Mats Sverin appears to have kept to himself, at least when he was at home. Because he grew up in Fjällbacka and his parents still live here, most people knew who he was and were aware that he worked for the town, and so on, but no one seems to have really known him. His neighbours were nodding acquaintances, nothing more.’
‘At least the gossip mill is alive and well in Fjällbacka,’ said Torbjörn. ‘With luck, that should give you a few leads.’
‘Perhaps. At this point it seems he lived a hermit’s existence, but we’ll try to drum up some
