Liselotte Roll

Good Girls Don’t Tell

Translated from the Swedish by Ian Giles

World Editions

Published in Great Britain in 2016 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Liselotte Roll, 2013

English translation copyright © Ian Giles, 2016

Cover design Multitude

Image credit © Tracie Taylor/Trevillion Images

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published as Tredje Graden in Sweden in 2013 by Alfabeta Bokförlag AB

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-040-0

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may

be made of the information contained herein.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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To my family,

who always lift me to the next level.

Have you ever dreamed that you’re dying?

No, you haven’t. You’ve thought: I’m going to die now. Then you’ve taken a deep breath and woken up. You didn’t experience the actual moment of death or what came after. The second before, you opened your eyes, gasped for breath and felt relief that your heart was still beating.

No one has dreamt their own death and told the tale.

Why is that? Why shouldn’t a dream about death continue? The imagination is limitless. But perhaps you’re not meant to know, not until you truly are dying. Then you find out—but you won’t be able to explain.

For some people, that day comes sooner than they expected.

Prologue

Lying on his back on the kitchen table, Erik Berggren awoke from the final bender of his life. His eyes blinked in confusion at the pitch-black room. It was so dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face—or, that is to say, wouldn’t have been able to if he could get his hand free. Both of his wrists were in fact tightly lashed together above his head. He gave a cry and stared around, wild-eyed. However much he tried, he couldn’t see anything ... but he could hear. Someone was breathing very close by. Watching him. Examining him.

Still fuzzy from the gin, it took a while for the words to take shape—and when his voice eventually emerged it was cracked and shrill: ‘What are you doing? Who are you?’ No reply. Just silence. Then someone roughly taped his mouth shut. The rank smell of plastic penetrated his nostrils and panic rumbled through him like a runaway freight train.

He awkwardly wrenched his arms to try and get free, but it only made the ropes dig even deeper into his skin, puffy from the alcohol. He writhed. His breaths were becoming gasps and his red-rimmed eyes were—for the first time in many years—filled with salty, burning tears. The darkness was somehow akin to a dreamlike vacuum, where the only thing that was real was the cutting pain he felt. It was dead silent, yet at the same time there was a hum of uncertain danger in the atmosphere—as if anything could happen.

His big body shook in a fit of shivers. He wanted to scream. Make the person there stop. But he couldn’t. Not a sound came out of his lips—and it wasn’t just the tape that was stopping him. He was paralysed with fear. The only movement was from the beads of sweat slowly seeking their way down from his grey hairline. It was as if the whole room was waiting for what was going to happen next. Erik wished the searing pain would go away. Nothing else mattered any more. Nothing. He listened to his own breaths—each one was a tiny, agitated squeak from his nose—together they sounded like a weird tune. And somehow he almost found the noise soothing in the silent darkness.

But then there was a sound. A low clicking and a ... a fan? He froze. The sound intensified, then it slowly began to howl, as if it were taking a run up at a roaring fit of madness. But all that happened was that something reached the boil. Bubbles burst like small, aggressive firecrackers somewhere in the black darkness. It took him a while to realize what it was, but once he finally understood, his heart turned to stone.

In a last, hopeless attempt to get free, he tensed his body into an arc, lifting himself off the table. The pain hit him like a bomb blast. His limbs were strained to their limit. His skin was being torn apart, but the nylon rope wasn’t budging—not even by a millimetre. With a tormented groan, his body fell back onto the tabletop. Now he had given up. Time no longer existed—all that was left was pain.

He waited. And that was when it came. The water. The sensation as his skin was boiled to shreds was so sweeping that it made his body shake. The tape muffled the scream, but somewhere deep down it still sounded like he was crying.

Erik closed his eyes, then he sank away. Against his will, he vanished—numb—swirling like a leaf in a stray autumn wind. He was freezing, but the lethargy washed away. It was the memories that were surging forth instead, rebounding off the walls like fireflies in the expansive darkness.

He was back on the farm again—just like in many other dreams. Standing there on the gravel looking toward the red-painted wooden cottage. The black cat gently rubbed against his legs. The mist had thickened into a dim grey fog and there was a raw chill hanging in the late autumn air. Above the roof, nuances of sulphuric yellow slowly wandered across the sky. The sun would soon be setting. It went down early at this time of year, sometimes before he had even got back from school.

Erik bent down and stroked the cat’s back. It was a beautiful little cat with round cheeks and calm eyes. Not like him, with his angular appearance and his wavering gaze. As he ran his fingers through the depths of the animal’s fur, he reflected that if he had been a feline he would probably have been a worm-infested alley cat. He let the soft hairs twirl between his fingers. She was so soft, like cotton wool.

The cat purred contentedly, its eyes half closed, and he was about to bury his face in all that cuddliness when he heard something. Someone was crying, quiet whimpering sobs. He stopped for a moment, then he slowly—hesitantly—began to move toward the sound.

The gravel crunched underneath the soles of his shoes as he walked toward the barn, but he paid no notice to it—all he could think about was the crying and the anxiety that had now begun to gnaw away at his insides like a frenzied rat. What was in there?

Erik took a deep breath and grasped the handle. He stood quite still for a brief moment before slowly pushing the barn door open. Of course, he had anticipated what he would see, but he couldn’t help himself.

Troubled kids always end up in trouble. It’s impossible to feel alive if everything is normal all the time—not if you’re used to everyday life being hell. And for him it was. Every day was a new hell.

It was dark in the barn, but the light that pierced between the planks of wood made it possible to make out shapes. He blinked a couple of times before he realized what he was seeing.

The girl was sitting on a chair, her face sodden with snot and tears. He so desperately wanted to run away, but even when he took a few clumsy steps back he couldn’t let go of her terrified gaze.

Then came the blow; there was a flash in his head and his legs folded as if they were made from paper. He fell headlong onto the stable floor—prostrate—and scraped his hands in the gravel. He knew he couldn’t get away. Out of the corner of his eye, he had already glimpsed the familiar figure and it frightened him more than anything else.

‘You stay!’ The voice was harsh and sharp as it cut through the darkness. It was too late. Erik had never understood why he had turned out the way he had. Now, tied up on a table, he understood, and he thought it was a shame. He blinked. The dream about the barn disappeared and a glaring light furiously sought its way in through his closed eyelids. His head was pounding and it felt like he was going to throw up. Who had left the shopping bag filled with booze on the step yesterday? Two bottles of Gordon’s London Dry—he had barely been able to believe his eyes ... but who would do something like that? He didn’t know. Somewhere inside him there was a faint warning bell telling him not to open his eyes, telling him it was best to keep his eyes shut.

But his befuddled brain couldn’t remember why, which was why he—with great effort—opened his eyes and immediately recognized the allotment hut. A candle had been lit behind him and he could just make out the contours of the furniture. He had never been happy, but now that life was hanging by a thread he was arrested by a strong will to live.

Tears stung his eyes as the figure approached in the flickering light. Another figure, another time, but the same scene. It was over now—there was nothing left. He was looking at the damp stain on the ceiling when he was stabbed through the heart. And then there was nothing more.

Part 1

Thursday 16 October

1

Magnus and Linn didn’t get to bed until a little after midnight. They lay there for a long time, twisting and turning silently under the bedclothes. The chilly night air wafted through the open window and reached them as a series of small, refreshing puffs. Magnus rolled over onto his side. He could feel the tension beneath Linn’s skin as she lay beside him. She wasn’t moving, but he knew she was awake—he could tell from her short breaths and the fact that her body was tense.

He reached out and touched her with his hand. Her nightie was warm and silky. He carefully let his hand rest on her hip for a minute or so and then allowed it to go on a slow caressing voyage of discovery across her body. She gave a tired murmur. The scent of her hair was incredibly arousing. He kissed her mouth, cheek, and throat and soon they were lying facing each other under the duvet. They could be interrupted any second now by the kids bursting in, but they still couldn’t help themselves. Even though they had been through so much over the last few years, the passion was still there.

Not long after, they were lying side by side, exhausted. Linn kissed Magnus on the cheek. His stubble stung her lips lightly. A narrow ray of moonlight penetrated through the blinds and revealed his beautiful face, the big green eyes that could appear so determined and the tousled, dark hair that was beginning to be mixed with fine streaks of grey. There wasn’t a trace of the skinny little guy with thick glasses that he had been once upon a time. He had all the attributes of a man. Linn’s own mother had once described him as a real man’s man, and that was probably how most people perceived him. All Linn saw was a person she loved. She had never been particularly interested in masculinity or femininity.

‘Go to sleep, we’ll probably get woken up soon,’ he whispered softly.

‘Hmm ... ’ Linn already had her eyes shut. The beautiful, tiny crow’s feet around her eyes made her look happy even when she was sleeping.

Magnus set the alarm clock. He was going back to work tomorrow. He sighed in disappointment. Every time he had been at home for a few days, it was always tough to go back to work. He somehow had a feeling that he had done himself some harm. It was a feeling that often began somewhere around his stomach before gently settling on his chest and applying pressure. Where had all the motivation gone? He had been proud to be a policeman and felt joy in helping people. Now it just felt like he was rowing up and down shit creek without getting too much of it on himself.

His emotions turned into a sticky mess. The disappointment and anger about people’s selfishness got mixed together with sorrow about all the hurt people out there. How had a normal boy from the suburbs ended up here? How naïve his dreams must have been. The only thing time had shown him was that nothing got better. He couldn’t get at the evil. It was like pruning an apple tree—the next season saw even more new shoots than there had been before. Disturbed parents continued to bring up disturbed kids, and it all carried on for eternity. Criminals who didn’t have a disturbed upbringing to blame their actions on were even worse—they were generally really fucking disturbed. But if he weren’t a policeman, what would he do instead? He had no idea.

He pulled the duvet tighter round himself and turned toward Linn in resignation. A blonde lock of hair had fallen across her cheek. He carefully pushed it to one side. It was so good that he had her. That he had met a proper person. She was more intelligent than he was, but that didn’t bother him. She excited him with her wild temper and fresh perspectives on practically everything, and he gave her calm in return. That was their unspoken deal and it worked.

2

‘Moa and Elin have got streptococcal infections.’ Magnus spread his hands apologetically.

He was twenty minutes late and his colleague Roger Ekman looked at him grumpily as they walked in through the entrance to Forensic Pathology.

Magnus’s dark hair was all over the place and he had dark bags under his eyes. He had the impression that this somehow delighted Roger.

‘This is apparently not much fun,’ said Roger.

‘What? Is it worse than usual?’

‘Yes, the body was found in an allotment hut. I guess you’ve heard that. But there was something about the way he was lying and so on. Tortured. Tied to the kitchen table with a rope.’

‘Oh really.’ Magnus looked gloomy.

Roger looked down at his dirty trainers.

‘But at least you’re here now ... or do you need more time off to look after the kids?’

‘No, Linn is at home for the rest of the week.’

Magnus suddenly felt completely exhausted by Roger’s sulky allusions. They had worked together for almost twelve years and their relationship had come in waves. At his best, Roger could be a good friend, but he was often a tedious bastard and Magnus preferred to avoid him in the corridors. But that was probably just relationships—he had never managed to get things running like clockwork. If anyone got too close to him, he would often be stiff and unsure of himself. Apart from with Linn, that was.

Roger coughed.

‘Well, to update you a bit. The victim’s name is Erik Berggren and he’s just turned forty. He’s signed off from work, an alcoholic, some learning difficulties. He seems to have been living in the hut, which belongs to his old mum.’

Magnus nodded.

‘What did the neighbours make of it?’

‘They’ve apparently made a few attempts to get rid of him, but he doesn’t really seem to have been bothering anyone.’

‘People are so damn picky. Well, they don’t have to worry any more.’ Magnus gave an askew smile and opened the door to the autopsy room.

The light in the room was cold, but forensic pathologist Eva Zimmer was beaming like a hot sun when she looked up from the body she had in front of her. The broad smile exposed her charmingly crooked teeth.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it? Lovely sunshine!’

She took a big bite out of a cinnamon bun.

‘Do you want one? I bought plenty.’

Neither Magnus nor Roger felt especially tempted by a bun at this juncture.

‘As you wish—but these aren’t dry things from the supermarket. They’re from the patisserie.’

The inspectors smiled.

The forensic pathologist swung round toward the bier behind her and pulled away the sheet with a dramatic tug.

Magnus felt a brief flutter in his stomach. On the bier was a naked man, his skin covered in fluid-filled blisters. The skin had fallen off in places, revealing the red flesh below.

‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Eva shook her head in consternation.

‘The person who killed him poured boiling water onto him before he died. He’s basically been blanched.’

Magnus forced himself to focus on the body, which was pale as a wax doll.

‘Only around the lower parts ... ’ he interjected with a look of disgust.

‘What’s that?’ Roger pointed at a stab wound on the chest.

‘Yes, well, that must be what killed him,’ Magnus suggested.

‘I meant the shape, of course. It’s unusual.’

Eva tossed her head.

‘I’ve not had time to check it yet, but it certainly is an unusual shape. I’ll get back to you on that ... as well as how long he’s been dead. I’m leaning toward a week or so.’

Roger bent over the wound and inspected it. Behind his wide-rimmed glasses there was a gleam of interest.

Magnus spent the rest of the morning on routine tasks like trying to get hold of Erik Berggren’s keys, passport and ID. Normally, he would have checked up on activity on the victim’s credit cards or calls on their mobile, but in Erik Berggren’s case there was no mobile or credit cards. Erik seemed to have been a man living completely outside normal society.

Magnus had just sat down at his desk again when he felt the niggles in his legs—worse than usual. He really ought to make an appointment to see the doctor to find out what it might be, but in spite of the fact that the unpleasant sensation had been there for months by now, he had no desire whatsoever to go to the doctor.

He glanced at the mobile on his desk, which showed three new messages. All of them were from Linn and her voice sounded more and more strained in each call she made. He wanted to go home and help, but Roger would probably flip if he even mentioned it, so he gritted his teeth and did nothing.

Magnus was quite aware that he was already at the limit of what was reasonable at work. He almost always arrived late, left early, and always took long breaks just to get out of the office. It wasn’t that he was a bad policeman—it was just that he was so awfully tired and worn out. It was a miracle that he and Linn had been able to have sex last night, he thought. A complete miracle.

3

At lunchtime the sun began to make its presence known from behind the thick clouds. Magnus passed a couple of crowded restaurants before choosing an Indian on Kungsholmen. The colourful strings of fairy lights on the walls immediately transported him into something not dissimilar to the atmosphere at Christmas. The scents of the aromatic spices hung over the restaurant like mist, while you could almost cut through the muffled murmur of conversation with a knife. He felt satisfied despite knowing he would have a stomach ache later. There was something about the chilli—but it tasted so good that he didn’t care.

Even though he always ate lots of everything, he was constantly hungry. Probably something to do with his metabolism. At school, he had been the shortest, thinnest kid in class right up until high school. The others had called him the Skeleton. But plenty of hot chocolates and loaves of bread had yielded results, and although the school nurse claimed he would only manage the bare minimum on the height curve, he had run away as a teenager, reaching two metres. Now all that gave away his original build were his skinny calves.

Shaking with hunger, he eased his stout body into the busy restaurant and took a seat at a small, round table at the back.

He had just received a piping hot tikka masala when Roger called.

‘We’ve just received the forensic pathologist’s report. We’re having a meeting straight away.’

‘But ... I’ve only just got my food.’

‘Chew fast—the others are already here.’

Magnus rubbed his face in resignation.

‘Okay, I’m on my way.’

He took three quick bites, got up, and paid.

4

Magnus, Roger and the relatively new Detective Inspector, Sofie Eriksson, were already crammed into the meeting room—each with a boiling cup of coffee to hand—when Superintendent Arne Norman entered. He looked satisfied. His hair shone white in contrast with his chocolate brown tan thanks to his recent return from the Canary Islands.

‘Welcome everyone. The conference room was double booked. It’s a bit of a squeeze in here, but it’ll do,’ said Arne, before smiling.

Sofie gave him an appreciative glance and Magnus couldn’t help thinking that she approached her work a little too energetically. But since Arne loved brown-nosers, she’d very probably become a favourite.

‘I’ll try and summarize,’ Arne began.

‘If you have questions, keep them for later. I get so distracted when I’m interrupted. Firstly, I want to praise the vanguard. They did a good job over the first twenty-four hours after the body was discovered, which means that now we’re taking over we have really good foundations to build on. Unfortunately, there are only four of us—everyone else is working on the murder of that former neo-Nazi last week. I’m going to try and release another investigator as soon as possible if I can.’

Arne picked up a pen and began to write on a large whiteboard on the wall.

‘So, the victim’s name is Erik Berggren and he was found in his mother’s allotment hut in Eriksdalslunden a little over twenty-four hours ago. The man who found him is a retired computer technician called Lennart Wingedahl. He has the next allotment along and there was nothing else to connect them apart from being neighbours—that we know of.’

Magnus raised an eyebrow.

‘How was he found?’

‘Wingedahl says the door to Erik’s hut had been banging in the wind for several days, and that he eventually went there to check what was up.’

‘When was that?’

‘Yesterday morning. He was at his allotment hut to pick his winter apples, apparently. Anyway, when he arrived he decided to take a look inside, which was when he saw the victim tied to the kitchen table. This is all according to the witness statement he provided yesterday. He’s coming in this afternoon and then we’ll hear what he has to say again.’ Arne looked at Roger expectantly who reluctantly groaned.

‘Of course, I’ll take it.’

‘Good. Wingedahl claims he didn’t take more than a couple of steps inside the hut, so the crime scene still has something to offer. The whole office and part of the gravel road outside is cordoned off and forensics have been in, of course.’

Magnus took a gulp of coffee and tried to look more interested than he was. Alkies being put to death wasn’t particularly uncommon and even if he didn’t want to admit it, he had an internal ranking system. Worst was obviously when children came to harm. Dead, middle-aged addicts rarely made him weep tears of blood.

Arne continued.

‘The body has been there for around a week. The autopsy indicates that he probably died as a result of the stab wound, but that he was tortured prior to that with boiling water around his genitals—he has serious burns. We don’t know whether he was unconscious or not when he was killed.’

‘Okay, anything else?’ Roger leaned forward.

‘Yes, they’ve tested the decomposition liquid in the eyes too. Erik’s blood alcohol level was sky high, but part of that is of course because of the body’s bacteria—they create a lot of alcohol post-mortem.’

Magnus looked disgusted.

‘Why did they need to dig around in his eyes—there must be rotten liquid elsewhere?’

Arne shrugged his shoulders.

‘Apparently it’s cleanest there. Anyway, we can assume that Erik was drunk as a lord when he died. His neighbour, Lennart Wingedahl, claims that wasn’t unusual.’

Arne cast his gaze over the group. To his dismay, Magnus was fiddling with the edge of his notepad in disinterest while Roger was staring longingly toward the door.

He sighed.

‘Yes—Eva Zimmer has checked the chest wound. She’s not certain yet, but the murder weapon isn’t a knife and it isn’t a screwdriver. She’ll get back to us on that. Apart from that we don’t know much yet. Forensic analysis is being done right now. I suggest we continue interviewing people.’

He turned toward the group.

‘Sofie, can you look for similar cases in our records and continue checking out who Erik Berggren hung out with?’

Sofie nodded.

‘Roger, interview Wingedahl, as I said, and then you might as well take the other allotment holders while you’re at it.’

‘It’ll take ages, there’s around one hundred and forty huts,’ Roger protested.

‘Do you have something better to be doing?’

Roger pushed his chair back violently and got up.

‘No.’

‘Well then.’

Arne arranged his facial expression. He didn’t want the others to see how nervous small controversies like this made him.

‘Magnus, can you inform the victim’s mother? She’s called Gunvor Berggren and lives in the Vårdbo old people’s home in Åkersberga ... see if you can get any information out of her as well,’ he added lamely.

5

Despite the sunshine, there was a biting chill in the air. It was as if winter was biding its time, as if it were waiting to grab hold of the red glow of autumn with its iron fingers and wring the life out of it. Magnus found it difficult to know whether he should dare to look forward to nature’s grey-white slumber or whether he would—as usual—simply clamber straight into a winter depression where he would remain.

He got the map out of the glove compartment and anxiously checked the address. The care home was at the Åkersberga shopping centre, so he would have no trouble finding it. It was the task that made him uneasy.

He shook his head, as if he was shaking off the thought of how Gunvor would react to the news of the death, then he got out his mobile and called home.

‘Hi darling.’ Linn’s voice sounded thin.

‘How are things?’

‘Monica is going to buy groceries for us.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, because the kids and I are sick and it’s impossible for me to drag two kids with fever around the shops. For starters.’ Linn had something of a sharp tone in her voice. ‘I’m really struggling here. Isn’t it good that she offered?’

His bad conscience stung like the bite of a horsefly, but since there was nothing he could do he mostly felt irritated. It didn’t feel right to need your neighbours to pitch in and help out. They’d always got by on their own.

There had never been any grandparents standing up to be counted. Magnus’s mum lived in a nursing home and his dad was long dead. To begin with it had been difficult without support, but now they had got so used to it that they even dealt with the difficulties as part of their routine.

Linn had no contact with her parents. Somewhere along the way, she had reached the point where she felt so bad meeting them that the kids had started to be affected, at which point she made the decision to break contact with them. It had been tough for her—and it still was—but it had been worse before. He wasn’t sure exactly when he had got sick of his trying in-laws himself. Perhaps it had been when his father-in-law had driven the kids to the zoo while drunk, or maybe it was when he and Linn had been obliged to drive him to casualty after he had mixed his spirits and sleeping pills. It no longer mattered: his parents-in-law were a closed chapter.

‘Hello! Magnus, are you still there?’ Linn shouted down the phone.

‘Yes, sorry, was just thinking. It’s great that Monica offered to help.’

‘Yes, I think so too.’

‘I’m in Åkersberga and have to deal with something, but I’ll be home as soon as I can after I’m done.’

‘Okay.’ Linn’s voice sounded distant at the other end.

‘Will you be all right?’

‘Yes ... although I reckon this is the crappiest illness the kids have had. But Moa has at least slept for a bit now. How are things with you?’

‘The usual.’

‘Murder? Perhaps we can have a glass of wine and watch a film this evening?’ Linn regained her vitality.

‘That would be lovely, I’ll shop on the way home.’

Magnus hung up. It had begun to rain and the road turned slippery and shiny. He turned on the news on the radio.

A lorry honked persistently. The Åkersberga shopping centre—or rather, an enormous, brown car park—was visible before him. Magnus took a sharp turn across the railway and continued along Åker’s canal. On the other side of the water he glimpsed a red brick building through the pounding rain. It adhered to the norms of old people’s homes in every way. Big, worn out, ugly. Soon the news of the death would be delivered. Somehow, there was never a good way to do it. It was a baptism of fire and the only thing you knew for sure was that it would be unpleasant—even for him.

It was just before four o’clock when he parked outside the doors of the nursing home and got out of the car.

The buzzer crackled before a man’s voice became audible:

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. My name is Magnus Kalo and I’m from the county CID ... ’

There was a brief beep and the door opened automatically. The hospital-like environment and odour of linoleum reminded him of the transience of everything and he felt his heart sink a little in his chest.

A young woman, her hair dyed blonde, with a slightly ruddy face, appeared in the foyer. Her hair was short and she was wearing a wine red blazer in a style he hadn’t seen since the eighties. He stretched out his hand.

‘Hi, Lise Evertzon. I’m the HR Manager. I heard you’re from the police?’

‘Yes, I have sad news for Gunvor Berggren. Unfortunately, her son has died.’

Lise’s face seemed to get a little redder, but she quickly collected herself.

‘What a shame.’

‘Yes.’

‘Gunvor is up on the second floor watching TV in her room. It’s worth you knowing that she has dementia, so she may not understand ...’ Lise stopped for a moment, as if taking a run up at a difficult question. ‘Is it really necessary to tell her this? She probably doesn’t have long left, you know.’

Magnus grimaced apologetically.

‘Regrettably, the family must be informed.’

Lise’s face fell.

‘That’s a pity,’ she said briefly.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘She’s in room fourteen. Come down and let me know when you’re done. She may need someone to help her afterwards.’

‘Of course, I’ll do that.’ Magnus was already halfway into the lift, he wanted to get it all over with as quickly as possible.

Gunvor’s room was at the other end of the corridor on the second floor. Magnus knocked timidly, but there was no reply so he nudged the door ajar.

‘Hello—Gunvor?’ he said cautiously.

No response. Magnus opened the door and stepped in. The sour scent of old, dusty furniture and urine struck him, strangely supported by the sickly sweet sterile smell of care institutions that he so deeply despised. He tried to hold his breath. The blinds were down and apart from the flickering blue light from the TV—where an advert for some skin product was being shown—the room was dark. A pair of feet in support stockings was sticking out from behind the armchair that was facing away from him.

For a brief moment, he thought Gunvor Berggren was dead too—but then he heard her give a low wheeze. He took a few steps forward.

‘Hello, Gunvor. My name is Magnus Kalo and I’m from the county C ... ’ He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

The woman staring back at him expressionlessly had spatters of blood on her face, and the lower part of her body was a maelstrom of red flesh. She was looking at him in confusion. Her eyes expressed no pain—they were shiny and questioning.

Magnus could feel his stomach wanting to flip. He picked up Gunvor Berggren’s frail body in his arms and shouted. His voice was hoarse and pitiful, but help came.