We Know You Remember (52)

“Naw,” he said. “I’m not sure. We’ve got a logbook, of course, but it’s over at Sune’s place—he’s the one who had the stroke. Hang on though . . . I’m wondering whether Mejan didn’t bring one down then. There are still a few people who think the hunt is no place for a woman, so there’s always a bit of muttering whenever they get outdone by one, but was it last autumn or the one before? No, I don’t know off the top of my head . . .”

Eira thanked him for getting in touch and called GG.

“They’ve got two hunting knives,” she said, telling him—possibly a little too excitedly—about the hunting group and the various knives and what it takes to skin an elk. “So it could have been Mejan’s in the cabinet.”

“We’ve got him,” said GG.

He stopped her before she had time to hang up.

“I hope you’ll consider it,” he said. “Next time we’ve got a position open.”





Chapter 29





It was his day off, but August was waiting for her in the lunchroom.

He wolfed down the last of his shop-bought wild mushroom soup, direct from the carton, and got up.

“Come with me,” he said.

Though it disrupted the air-conditioning, someone had opened the window. Eira felt warm. There had been a few too many days of simply bumping into each other in the corridor, in a doorway, without mentioning what had happened.

“I’ve spent a while looking at this,” August explained, opening his computer, his own personal laptop. “In the evenings, I mean. Outside of working hours.”

Eira watched as the screen lit up. It was one of the many Facebook threads calling for someone to cut off Olof Hagstr?m’s dick, the ones August had already showed her a long time ago—was it one week or two? Time felt like it had split into different orbits; it had been an eternity since she’d left him in bed in the Hotel Kramm.

Shove a baseball bat up his arse. Chase him out of the country.

The same comments that had popped up on the timelines of the teenagers suspected of arson, on their phones and their computers.

“Do you really not have anything better to do?” she asked.

“I’m open to suggestions,” he replied with a smirk.

Eira kept her eyes on the screen. The threads had updated since she last looked. People were now talking about Olof Hagstr?m’s house burning down, too. Cheering and sharing enthusiastic little thumbs-up.

Pity he didn’t go up in flames too, one person wrote.

He will if he shows his face again.

She shuddered as she saw an image of the gutted house. It must have been taken fairly early, because there was a fire engine parked outside. The flames hadn’t been completely extinguished, and the cordon was still up.

“I think I’ve found the source,” said August.

He enlarged a photograph on the screen. An image of a smiling Sofi Nydalen, blond hair blowing in the breeze, with her husband and children. It looked like they were in a boat.

“Are you serious?”

“There could be other people, on other forums, but she’s definitely one of them.”

August showed Eira the time and date of her first post. The evening after Olof Hagstr?m was released. Sofi Nydalen had uploaded a photograph in which he was nothing but a shadow in a window.

“I was wondering how it could have happened so quickly,” said August. “How there could be so much detailed information—his name, his past crime, his exact address.”

He kept talking as Eira took the mouse and scrolled through the thread the young Mrs. Nydalen had created, saw it grow increasingly hateful and crude.

“I borrowed an account to trace it back,” he said.

“Your girlfriend’s?”

“Mmm.”

“She must really trust you.”

“I told her she might’ve been breaking the law by sharing this stuff and that it would be in her best interests to help the police. If not me, then an investigator from Violent Crimes.”

He wasn’t facing Eira, but she could still feel his smile. In slight profile, though all she could really see was the back of his neck. The soft down where his hair was growing out caught the light.

“And they’re not the kind of people you want to mess with,” he added.

August had followed the shares back and forth, through the labyrinth of new threads that had popped up. Eira saw comments flicker by, taken out of context, occasionally pausing when he wanted to make a point about something or simply change position. He stopped on one comment that actually disagreed with the others.

You’re such sheep, all running in the same direction, it read.

What about a bit of critical thinking?

Have none of you read The Scapegoat? No, sorry, thought not. Do you even know how to read, you fucking retards?

Those words were followed by a long line of attacks on the person who had dared question the others.

August leaned back, looking out at the sky through the open window.

“Do you know how many people disagree with the majority view here?” he asked. “Not that I’ve counted or read everything, but I’d guess it’s less than one percent. What does that say about humanity?”

“It doesn’t really tell us much about what people think,” said Eira. “People share things with others who agree with them. They get rid of anyone who doesn’t have the same views from their feeds. They don’t have the energy, so they step back, give up, block the people they don’t like—assuming they haven’t been blocked first. You just don’t see them anymore.”