Part 42 (1/2)
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.”