The Blood Spilt Read Online Free PDF Page A

fibromyalgia,’ ‘how do we reach an economically sound deal with entrepreneurs,’ the whole package. I don’t really know, but I think there’s a long-term plan to work together with a broker and grab the capital administration. Anyway, Torsten’s going up to give the sales pitch to the church council in Kiruna.”
    “And?”
    “You could go with him. You know what he’s like. He’d think it was really nice to have some company.”
    “I can’t go to Kiruna,” exclaimed Rebecka.
    “No, I know that’s what you think. But I’m wondering why.”
    “I don’t know, I…”
    “What’s the worst that could happen? I mean if you bumped into somebody who knows who you are? And what about your grandmother’s house, you miss that, don’t you?”
    Rebecka clenched her teeth.
    I can’t go there, that’s just the way it is, she thought.
    Maria replied as if she’d read her mind.
    “I’m going to ask Torsten to ask you anyway. If there are monsters under the bed it’s just as well to put the light on and turn over onto your stomach and have a look at them.”
    *                  *                  *                  
    Dancing on the hotel’s stone terrace. Abba and Niklas Strömstedt pouring out of the loudspeakers. Through the open windows of the hotel kitchen comes the sound of porcelain crashing and the rush of water as the plates are rinsed before they go into the dishwasher. The sun has taken her red veils down into the water with her. Lanterns hang from the trees. A crush around the outdoor bar.
    Rebecka walked down to the stone quay. She’d danced with her table companion then crept away. The darkness placed its arm around her and drew her close.
    It went well, she thought. It went as well as anybody could expect.
    She sat down on a wooden bench by the water. The sound of the waves lapping against the jetty. The smell of rotting seaweed, brine and diesel. A lamp was reflected in the shiny black water.
    Måns had come over to say hello just as she was about to sit down at the table.
    “How’s things, Martinsson?” he’d asked.
    What the hell am I supposed to say to that? she thought.
    His wolfish grin and the way he called her by her surname was like a great big stop sign: No confidences, tears or honesty.
    So it was head up, feet down and an account of how she’d painted the window frames out at Torsten’s place with linseed oil. After Kiruna it had seemed as if he cared about her. But when she couldn’t work any longer he’d completely disappeared.
    You’re just nothing then, she thought. When you can’t work.
    The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. At first she couldn’t make out a face, but she recognized that high-pitched voice. It was that new girl, the blonde one. What was her name again? Petra.
    “Hi Rebecka,” said Petra, as if they knew each other.
    She came and stood far too close. Rebecka suppressed the urge to get up, shove her out of the way and scurry off. You couldn’t really do that sort of thing. So she stayed put. The foot on the end of the leg that was crossed over the other leg gave her away. Jiggled up and down in annoyance. Wanted to run away.
    Petra sank down beside her with a sigh.
    “God, I’ve just had three dances one after the other with Åke. You know what they’re like. Just because you work with them they think they own you. I just had to get away for a bit.”
    Rebecka grunted some kind of acknowledgment. In a little while she’d say she needed the bathroom.
    Petra twisted her upper body toward Rebecka and tilted her head to one side.
    “I heard about what happened to you last year. It must have been terrible.”
    Rebecka didn’t reply.
    Wait for it, thought Rebecka nastily. When the quarry won’t come out of its hole, you have to lure it out with something. It ought to be some little confidence of your own. You hold out your own little confession and swap it for the other