“I’LL BE BRIEF,” said Hallin. “I don’t want you to publish any more of that serial.”
It came as no surprise that Jan Hallin didn’t want his crimes to be described in a form that got people seriously engaged, got them to empathise with the victim’s suffering and condemn the actions of the perpetrator. Sandra dared not and could not answer—she lay there trembling on the bed waiting for his next statement.
“You’re probably well aware of that,” he said. “But I still want to make it clear that I’m being publicly hung out to dry just because it suits you. Rapists and hit-and-run drivers aren’t normally identified in the press, so I would say you’re abusing your authority.”
Hallin certainly had a point there, but it was about more serious crimes than that, crimes that would remain unsolved if Sandra didn’t prove that they were all connected in this way. Something the police would never have pulled off on their own. What was more, she hadn’t given Hallin away, since there was no crucial detail relating to him personally. Funnily enough, he seemed to be reading her thoughts.
“I know you haven’t named me or anyone else involved. And I guess you probably consider the book to be an extensive, detailed police report. Smart move—and you’re generating a lot of interest around the case too. The cases, I should say. People will follow as it unfolds and find out who’s who on their own. I’ll be particularly harshly condemned in the eyes of the public since you’ve given them so much understanding of those events that you describe. That’s why I’m begging you, Sandra. Please let me set things right, but don’t ruin my life.”
“You’ve done that all by yourself,” Sandra couldn’t help herself from saying.
She said it slowly and with emphasis on every word, hoping that the message would get through, even though she was talking as if she had a mouth filled with porridge. Hallin frowned and looked at her with suspicion.
“I admit the rape,” he said unexpectedly. “I’m sorry—it was a terrible thing to do and I’m ashamed. I’m prepared to pay the child support that you’ve asked for and stay away from the boy, if that’s how you want it. But stop that serial now, give it an ending that people like, but that has nothing to do with reality. I’ll admit to the hit-and-run, if that’s important to you—but don’t force me to be pilloried as a rapist when it was just a one-time step over the line, an isolated incident. At least give me some humanity.”
He said the last bit while bending forward with his eyes fixed on hers, and with a tap on the laptop at the foot of the bed with his clenched fist. Despite the fact that she had hidden it under the covers, he had still figured out where it was. Sandra opened her eyes wide in horror and shook her head in protest at what he had demonstrated he was capable of and what he presumably intended to do.
“For the love of God, give me some humanity,” he begged again. “For what it’s worth, I also think you ought to consider very carefully whether you really want to publish this, for your own sake. Given you’ve got the wrong end of the stick in a lot of places. Especially on some of the more important stuff, I’d say. Your credibility will be gone if you pursue that line.”
“Which line?” Sandra asked, and this time she was met with an almost scared look.
“That I supposedly murdered Peter Norling. And buried his body. That I sent funeral flowers and sabotaged the brakes on your car. That I kidnapped a child. Was he meant to die? Without knowing any of the details, I would guess so. Would I attempt the murder of a three-year-old? My own son? I can tell you in all certainty, Sandra, that’s out of the question.”
“Who else could it be?” said Sandra with an attempt at a sneer.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said,” Hallin said.
“Who?” Sandra said unambiguously.
“Who did if I didn’t?” Hallin interpreted suspiciously. “You should have had the decency to find that out before you wrote your fucking serial.”
Darkness was descending before Sandra’s eyes—she was unsure whether it was the poison or the horror of what this man intended to do to her.
“Who’s guilty?” Sandra persevered. She could no longer see who she was talking to.
“What are you saying? What’s wrong with your speech?”
Her balance was failing. She collapsed back on the bed, no longer able to keep playing along.
“What’s wrong with you, Sandra?” Hallin cried out. He stood up and grabbed her shoulders. “What the hell is going on?”
Sandra was no longer capable of communicating, but that didn’t matter either. She wasn’t in a state to protect either her son or herself from external dangers, and she would never see the computer again. If she ever woke up, which didn’t seem all that likely.
She closed her eyes and glided into the darkness.