The car flies across the speed bumps in the road. If my bad knee is suffering from the motion I don’t notice, I am far too focused on getting us out through the city as fast as humanly possible.
We have just left Letit and Malik, who have taken another car to meet Stina and Björn Svensson, and Pernilla Stenberg in the Stuvskär harbour.
Malin and I drive straight to Susanne’s house.
Malik has done a solid job: the lighthouse that could be seen in Susanne’s blog is called Klockaren. It is one of the oldest lighthouses on the east coast and there is no other lighthouse that looks like it.
Based on what was visible of the open sea, other islands and the position of the sun in relation to the lighthouse, Malik drew the conclusion that the photo was taken on Marholmen, which is a few miles east of Stuvskär. There are only two properties on Marholmen. Malik asked around and found out that one of them is owned by an older lady named Mai-Lis Wennström, who has rented out her house over the last year. She is the daughter of the last lighthouse keeper on Klockaren, but moved into an assisted living facility last year. At the time the house was partially wheelchair-accessible, which likely suited Susanne, aka Rachel, perfectly. Letit spoke to the other person who lives on Marholmen as well, and he could confirm that a woman named Rachel was living there with her son.
‘Malik did a good job,’ I say to Malin. ‘And even though I dislike the fact that Pernilla Stenberg has played private investigator, that does mean we do have two independent sources pointing to this property now.’
Malin looks at her watch.
‘Are you sure it isn’t better to wait for our colleagues from Haninge?’
I don’t answer. I just manoeuvre onto Nynäsvägen and put my foot down.
‘Shall I?’ Malin asks.
I nod and Malin turns on the blue lights and the siren.
‘Why the hurry?’
‘I don’t know exactly how it is all connected,’ I say, ‘but something doesn’t add up.’
I shift down, accelerate and overtake an eighteen-wheeler struggling to make its way up a long, flat hill.
Malin sits quiet and still and then continues: ‘Why did you tell Pernilla Stenberg about that poem?’
‘I wanted to know if she knew anything else about it, if she had interpreted it the same way we had.’
‘And?’
‘It hadn’t occurred to her at all that the animals might symbolise real people. But she did know that Rachel means lamb, or ewe rather, and that Jonah means dove in Hebrew. She seemed pretty well acquainted with . . . biblical matters.’
I think for a minute, then go on: ‘But she was confused.’
‘What do you mean confused?’
‘Talked incessantly about completely unrelated matters. Like how her neck hurt because she’d slept in her car. And that she had a bunch of scouting paraphernalia with her because she was really supposed to be on a hike. But that she never went on the hike because she got in a disagreement with the pastor whom she had trusted her entire life, but now she’d discovered that he was a real creep. Well, as you can tell . . . a few sandwiches short of a picnic.’
Malin considers this silently. Then she says: ‘I called my mum.’
At first I’m so surprised I can’t think of a word to say. Since the investigation in Ormberg last winter, Malin has not been on good terms with her mother. In fact, she said she would have nothing more to do with her.
‘I don’t know,’ Malin says. ‘All these dead and disappeared boys and their distraught loved ones. I just thought that – I don’t know, but I don’t really want Mum and me to lose touch completely. Despite all that happened. She still . . .’
Malin inhales deeply and continues in a quiet voice:
‘. . . raised me. Loved me. All of that.’
‘Good,’ I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. ‘Are you going to meet?’
‘I think I want to take it slowly.’
The traffic ahead of us gets denser and I slow down.
‘Damn it,’ I say.
‘Accident,’ Malin notes without moving.
We end up sitting behind a red Volvo that is loaded to the brim with luggage, kids and a dog that appears to be drooling uncontrollably.
A few cars are honking further down the queue. A motorcyclist passes us at high speed on our left.
I look at my watch and at the queue that isn’t moving an inch. Pull out my phone and punch in Pernilla Stenberg’s number to double-check that she is waiting for Malik and Letit in Stuvskär. But the signals go through, one after another, without anyone answering.
In the end I get her voicemail.
‘Hi, this is Pernilla. Stenberg. Please leave a message and we’ll talk. I mean, I will get back. To you. Later.’
‘Damn it!’ I say again and look at the queue.
‘Should I radio and ask what happened?’ Malin asks.
‘Let’s drive to the front and see what it is,’ I answer, as I turn left and begin to pass the long queue.
I drive deliberately cautiously in the opposite lane, but there are no cars, which does point to there being a complete jam somewhere further down.
After a mile or so I see blue lights and seconds later an ambulance and two police cars parked in the middle of the road. I note that the cars in the queue to the right are empty and that several doors are open, as if the passengers had left the vehicles in a hurry.
I turn off the siren and the lights, open my window and drive up to a police officer who is talking to a woman with a young child on her hip.
‘Hi,’ I say and flash my badge. ‘Accident?’
The young police officer with a dark complexion nods.
‘A van hit someone on horseback. It’s fucking chaos here.’
I gaze ahead but all I can see is a crowd of curious rubberneckers. It looks as if everyone has a mobile in their hand and is either filming or taking photos. Some have lifted their children onto their shoulders so that they can get a better look.
‘What the hell,’ Malin murmurs. ‘What is wrong with people?’
The young olive-skinned colleague nods.
‘The paramedics could barely get through all of the people taking pictures. But not a soul helped the man who’d fallen off the horse.’
‘Can we get through? This is an urgent matter,’ I ask and purposefully use the term that indicates that we basically can drive as fast as we want and also break all traffic rules.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ my colleague says and goes over to another uniformed police officer.
They talk for a while and then one of them shouts something. In an instant people start to scatter.
The olive-skinned officer beckons us forward and I drive slowly through the sea of curious people and first responders. I catch a glimpse of a horse lying on its side on the roadway. It isn’t moving and the ground around it is covered in fresh blood. A fireman is attaching a chain around the horse’s belly. I’m guessing that they’re about to pull it off the roadway so that traffic can resume.
At the edge of the road there is a white van and next to it lies an older gentleman in an old-fashioned tweed riding coat. A medic is crouched next to the man, talking to him.
As soon as we’ve passed the accident site I turn into the empty right lane and accelerate so hard that I am pushed back into my seat.
‘We should be there in fifteen minutes,’ I say. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t too late.’