The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [136]
Her thoughts and yearning for Erik were the worst. At a few points she had sniffed her right shoulder. When she carried him he would rest his head there and sometimes his scent lingered, but now she picked up nothing.
Does terror smell? It must be sweat in that case, she thought.
She ended up standing by the staircase, crouched down, and brushed her hand over the first step. If I sit at the very top, she thought, and hold a piece of wood in my hand I can hit her as soon as she opens the door.
In the midst of her misery she laughed at the thought of getting free. The rats quietened again. They were apparently sensitive to sound. God, how she hated rats. Were there more detestable animals?
The closer she got to the woodpile the more it stank. In order to control her revulsion and urge to vomit she tried to imagine which state of decomposition the corpse was in. Ryde could have informed her. He could have given her a long lecture about the various decomposition processes of the human body depending on temperature and other factors, if he was in the mood. Otherwise he would simply snort.
She recited the names of her colleagues while she searched for a weapon. She had thrown some logs to the side and after a while her foot bumped up against a heavy piece of wood, which she quickly bent down and picked up.
She crept carefully up the stairs and sat down on the top step, extremely pleased with her new position, raised above the rats and within striking distance of Laura.
Normally she didn’t hate the criminals she came into contact with, even if she at times had wanted to castrate some of the rapists she had arrested. But she hated Laura without reservation. Not because she had killed her father and most likely three other men but because she had robbed Ann of her freedom in the most ignominious way. The feeling of having been tricked probably played into this, but Ann convinced herself that Laura was an evil person through-and-through who deserved to get a piece of wood in the face.
Hell, how she would strike! That witch would get a real bonk on the nose. Then down into the basement with her and only after a good long while would Ann alert the rest of the police corps. Red alert. Bring the bitch to jail. Lock her up. A cell. Under lock and key. High-security prison. Rats. Bleached bones that are raked away after fifty lonely and painful years.
Thoughts of revenge were the nourishment to keep Ann’s spirits up, at least at such a level that the anxiety did not completely get the upper hand.
“Erik,” she said softly.
Why do I expose myself to this? she thought and the anger at herself that had been lurking beneath her venting at Laura broke out. She had acted in such an amateurish manner. She had broken her own ground rule: to always maintain contact.
She could hardly keep still in the darkness. The air seemed more stale and smelly for every minute that went by. She had the strange feeling that the stench of Ulrik Hindersten would follow her for the rest of her life, seep into her pores and constantly make itself known.
Perhaps it was her own aching arm that made her think of Allan Fredriksson. Bird-watching was for sissies. She shook her head in the dark. It was envy, nothing more. Fredriksson had an interest outside of his work. Ann felt as if she didn’t have anything, except caring for Erik. Not mushroom-picking and bridge, like Sammy; or gardening, like Bea, with her flourishing vegetable beds that she was always talking about; or Ottosson with his summer cottage where he happily pushed a lawn mower around in shorts and a straw hat.
Ann was like a robot with three stations: her home, day care, and the station. She snorted when a thought of Charles fluttered by.
She retreated into self-pity and nodded off with her head against the door.
Forty-five
As if by a miracle Laura Hindersten arrived at the house in Kåbo without crashing or driving off the road.
She felt empty, like a shell. It felt as if the last ounce of humanity had drained out of her. She