Let The Right One In Part 42

Stuffed inside the man's jacket there had been a child-sized bloodstained sweater, and it was reproduced here, laid out against a neutral background. Oskar recognized the sweater immediately.

Aren't you cold?

The text stated that the dead man, Joakim Bengtsson, was last seen alive Sat.u.r.day the twenty-fourth of October. Two weeks ago. Oskar remembered that evening. When Eli had solved the Cube. He had stroked her cheek and she had walked out of the courtyard. That night she and . .

. the old guy had argued and the old guy had left.

Was that the night that Eli had done it?

Yes, probably. The next day she had looked a lot healthier.

He looked at the photograph. It was in black and white but the caption said the sweater was light pink. The reporter speculated that the murderer might have yet another young victim on his conscience. Hang on a minute. Hang on a minute.

The Vallingby murderer. In the article it said the police now had strong indications that the man in the ice had been killed by the so-called Ritual Killer, who had been captured at the Vallingby swimming pool about a week earlier, and who was now on the loose.

Was it... the old guy? But... the kid in the forest... why?

A lightbulb went on in his head. Understood everything. All of these articles he had cut out and saved, radio, TV, all the talk, the fear . .. lightbulb went on in his head. Understood everything. All of these articles he had cut out and saved, radio, TV, all the talk, the fear . .. Eli. Eli.

Oskar didn't know what to do. What he should do. So he went to the fridge and took out the piece of lasagna his mom had saved for him. Ate it cold while he kept looking at the articles. When he was done eating he heard a tap on the wall. Closed his eyes so he could hear better. He knew the code by heart at this point.

I.A.M.G.O.I.N.G.O.U.T.

He quickly got up from the table, walked into his room, lay belly-down on his bed, and tapped out an answer.

C.O.M.E.O.V.E.R.

A pause. Then: Y.O.U.R.M.O.M.

Oskar tapped a reply.

A.W.A.Y.

His mom wouldn't be back until around ten. They still had three hours. When Oskar had tapped the last message he rested his head on the pillow. For a moment he concentrated on formulating words that he had forgotten.

Her top . . . the paper.

He jumped, was about to get up in order to sweep up all the papers that lay out. She would see them . . . know that he . . .

Then he leaned his head back against the pillow, decided he didn't care. A low whistle outside the window. He got up out of bed, walked forward, and leaned against the windowsill. She stood there below with her face turned up to the light. She was wearing the checkered s.h.i.+rt that was too big for her.

He made a gesture with his finger: Go to the door.

Don't tell him it was me, OK?"

Yvonne made a face, blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth in the direction of the half-open kitchen window, didn't reply.

Tommy snorted. "Why do you smoke like that, out the window?" The ash pillar of her cigarette was so long it started to bend. Tommy pointed to it, made a duht-duht duht-duht movement with his finger like he was flicking the ash off. She ignored him. movement with his finger like he was flicking the ash off. She ignored him.

"Because Staffan doesn't like it, right? The smell of smoke." Tommy leaned back in his kitchen chair, looked at the ash, and wondered what it actually consisted of that allowed it to get so long without breaking off, waved his hand in front of her face.

"I don't like the smell of smoke either. Didn't like it at all at all when I was little. But that didn't make you crack the window like this. Oh, see there it goes..." when I was little. But that didn't make you crack the window like this. Oh, see there it goes..."

The pillar of ash broke off and landed on Yvonne's thigh. She brushed it off and a gray streak was left on her pants. She raised the hand holding the cigarette.

"I did so. Most of the time, at least. There may have been times when I had people over or something, when I didn't... and who the h.e.l.l are you to sit here lecturing me about not liking smoke."

Tommy grinned. "But you have to admit it was a little funny."

"No, it was not. Think about if people had panicked. If people had ... and what about that basin, the ..."

"Christening font."

"Yes, the christening font. The minister was in despair over it, there was like a ... black crust over the whole ... Staffan had to-"

"Staffan, Staffan."

"Yes, Staffan. He didn't say it was you. He said it to me, that it was hard for him, with his ... faith to stand there lying to the minister's face but that he ... to protect you ..."

"But you get it, don't you?"

"Get what?"

"That he's really protecting himself."

"He is not, I-"

"Think about it."

Yvonne took a last long drag of her cigarette, put it out in the ashtray, and immediately lit another.

"It was an ... antique. Now they have to send it off to be restored."

"And it was Staffan's stepson who did it. How would that look?"

"You are not his stepson."

"No, but you know. If I said to Staffan that I was going to go see the minister and tell him that it was me, and that my name is Tommy and Staffan is my... sort-of stepfather. Don't think he would like it."

"You should talk to him yourself."

"No, not today anyway."

"You don't dare."

"You sound like a little kid."

"And you're behaving like one."

"But it was a little funny, wasn't it?"

"No, Tommy. It wasn't."

Tommy sighed. He knew his mom would get p.i.s.sed, but he had still thought she might be able to see something comical in it. But she was on Staffan's side now. Had to come to terms with it.

So the problem, the real problem, was finding somewhere to live. When they got married, that is. For now he could crash in the bas.e.m.e.nt those evenings when Staffan came over. At eight he was going to finish his s.h.i.+ft at Akeshov and come straight out here. And Tommy had no intention of listening to some d.a.m.n moralizing lecture from that guy. Not on his life.

So Tommy went to his room and got his blanket and pillow from his bed while Yvonne still sat there smoking, looking out of the kitchen window. When he was ready he stood in the kitchen door with his pillow under one arm, the rolled up blanket under the other.

"OK, I'm going now. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him where I am." Yvonne turned to him. She had tears in her eyes. Smiled a little.

"You look like when ... when you would come and ask ..." The words caught in her throat. Tommy stood still. Yvonne swallowed, cleared her throat, and looked at him with clear eyes, said quietly: "Tommy. What should I do?"

"I don't know."

"Should I?..."

"No, not for my sake. Things are what they are."

Yvonne nodded. Tommy felt that he was also going to get really sad, that he should go now before things went wrong.

"And you won't tell, that-"

"No, no. I won't."

"Good. Thanks."

Yvonne got up and went over to Tommy. Hugged him. She smelled strongly of cigarettes. If Tommy's arms had been free he would have hugged her back. But he didn't, so he just put his head on her shoulder and they stood like that for a while.

Then Tommy left.

Don't trust her. Staffan can start going off on some d.a.m.n thing or other and. . . and. . .

In the bas.e.m.e.nt he threw the blanket and pillow on the couch. Put in a wad of chewing tobacco and lay down to think things over.

It would be best if he got shot.

But Staffan probably wasn't the kind of guy who ... no, no. Was more like the one who would plant a bull's-eye right in the killer's forehead. Get a box of chocolates from his police friends. The hero. Would turn up here later looking for Tommy. Maybe.

He fished out his key, walked out in the corridor and unlocked the shelter, took the chain in with him. With his lighter as a lamp he made his way through the short corridor with the two storage units on either side. In the storage units there were dry goods, cans of food, old games, a camp stove, and other things to make it through a siege.

He opened a door, threw in the chain.

OK, he had an emergency exit.

Before he left the shelter he took down the shooting trophy and weighed it in his hand. At least two kilos. Maybe he could sell it? The value of the metal alone. They could melt it down.

He studied the pistol shooter's face. Didn't he kind of look like Staffan?

In that case melting it down was the right option.

Cremation. Definitely.

He laughed.

The absolutely best thing would be to melt everything down except the head and then give it back to Staffan. A solid pool of metal with only that little head sticking up. Was probably too hard to arrange. Unfortunately. He put the trophy back in its place, walked out, and closed the door without turning the wheels of the lock. Now he would be able to slip in here if he had to. Which he didn't really think would happen. But just in case.

Lacke let it ring ten times before hanging up. Gosta sat on the couch and stroked a striped orange cat over the head, didn't look up when he asked: "No one home?"

Lacke rubbed his hand over his face, said with some irritation: "Yes, d.a.m.n it. Didn't you hear us talking?"

"You want another one?"

Lacke softened, tried to smile.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to . .. sure, yes, what the h.e.l.l, Thanks." Gosta leaned over carelessly so the cat on his knee was squeezed. It hissed and slipped down onto the floor, sat down and stared accusingly at Gosta, who was pouring a touch of tonic and a good amount of gin in Lacke's gla.s.s, holding it out to him.

"Here. Don't worry, she's probably just. . . you know .. ."

"Admitted. Thanks. She's gone to the hospital and they've admitted her."

"Yes ... that's right."

"Then say that."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Cheers."

"Cheers."

They both drank. After a while Gosta started to pick his nose. Lacke looked at him, and Gosta pulled his finger away, smiled apologetically. Not used to having people around.

A large gray and white cat was lying flat on the floor, looked like it barely had the energy to lift its head up. Gosta nodded at it. "Miriam is going to have babies soon."

Lacke took a big sip, made a face. For every drop of numbness the alcohol gave him, the smell of the apartment lessened.

"Whadya do with them?"

"What do you mean?"

"The kittens. What do you do with them? Let them live, do you?"

"Yes, but mostly they're dead. Nowadays."