“You didn’t say anything to anyone? Not even Gerd?”
“What would I have said?” She sat down on the bench and slumped. “That they buried the wrong person?” She shook her head. “Yes, I probably should have. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know who I could talk to.”
Vidar waited. It was cool beneath the tree. He would be happy to stay here for a while, just for a chance to breathe.
“Then again,” she continued, “the more I uncovered, the moreconvinced I became that it really could have been him at the farm. Killian, that is. And that he was the one I caught a glimpse of at the encampment, the guy who took off. I guess I just started to accept it, just to myself, that it could be true. That the body in the car belonged to someone else.”
Whoever it was she was searching for now, he remained in the shadows. Alive, perhaps, but at some point during her search Siri began to wonder what that really meant.Alive. Such a beautiful word, maybe the most beautiful of all. If you ignored what it could entail.
“Given the circumstances, I suppose we should have connected the accident with Hampus Olsson. But there was no reason to, really, not from what we could see. They were simply two separate incidents. By the time there was a link between them, it was too late.”
“Until you put the two together,” Vidar pointed out.
“And, like I said, it was too late.”
He supposed you could look at it that way, or at least tell yourself that was so if you hadto.
“Then that’s why you quit,” Vidar said, as though he had only just realized it. “Because of Hampus Olsson and Killian Persson, right?”
She looked up at him. Her gaze was steady and warm but full of regret. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her thighs and burying her face in her hands.
“All I wanted, once,” she said, “was to understand stuff. Then, when I did understand, I couldn’t handle it. And now Filip Söderström is dead. I don’t know what to do. I’m so ashamed.”
Not so surprising, maybe.
Oftentimes, part of being human is living your life on the very edge of shame.
Vidar observed her hunched back and considered placing a hand there. She seemed to need it. Instead, he said: “I have a proposal.”
92
When Siri finished speaking, Adrian al-Hadid glanced from her to Vidar and back again. His eyes wide, he picked up the old photograph from the harvest in Mjäla and studiedit.
Vidar reached for the computer and stopped the recording.
“How do I save this?”
“It saves automatically,” Adrian replied, photograph in hand. “Just wait a sec.”
Vidar muttered something unintelligible.
They were in his office. On the wall behind them was the big whiteboard with Vidar’s hand-drawn map of Skavböke, now crowded with notes.
“So…” Adrian said, putting down the picture. “Killian Persson is alive. Is that the conclusion?”
“It’s a hypothesis,” Siri said reluctantly.
“I think we should assume that’s the case,” Vidar added.
“And he killed Filip Söderström.”
“Maybe,” Siri said.
“There are many reasons to think so.” Vidar again. “But it’s a big…deal.”
Adrian snorted.
“What’s that sound supposed to mean?” Siri asked icily.
