Page 83 of The Living and the Dead

“He didn’t say anything at all that time, though? Karl-Henrik, I mean.”

“He was absolutely convinced it was Sten.”

Sander’s gaze was firm and direct. “And it was, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jakob said, folding the shirt gently. “Maybe this doesn’t mean anything.”

“Have you had it this whole time?”

“I didn’t know what else to do with it. For years I forgot I even had it.”

“You never considered turning it over to the police?”

“No, I did—years ago, when Alice and I were getting ready to move to our current place. I found it in a box and thought, well, what the hell, maybe I should give it to the police. Better for them to have it. But then I heard the Oskarström station had closed and Gerd Pettersson was retired. Siri, if you remember her, she didn’t stay. I didn’t know who else to turn to, so I just never got around to doing anything. I didn’t think about it much either, it was so long ago. And everyone agreed Sten did it. But now that Filip…oh, I don’t know. I just happened to think of it tonight. You know, out there, everyone, I know it’s not a fresh wound or anything, like people sometimes say. But it still hurts. So I just wanted to take care with this.”

It still hurts. The words flew past Sander like sparks. If he reached out to touch them, his hand would be singed.

“Why didn’t you hand it over when you found it, though?”

“Everything was chaos after the landslide. I just never got around to it. Everyone wanted to move on.”

Sander watched him dubiously. Was that true? A thought flared inside him, a possibility he hadn’t recognized before.

“You should turn it over now,” Sander said. “There might still be traces on it.”

Jakob picked at the label on his bottle.

“Maybe that’s why I came here. To hear you say that.” He seemed to be considering his words carefully before he spoke again. “Didn’t Filip write something about blowing his house sky-high?”

“Kind of, but not in so many words. The police questioned Filip, I know, and after that they were pretty sure it was Sten.”

“Oh. Okay then. It’s a goddamn mess, in any case.” Jakob finished his beer and exhaled loudly, as if trying to expel something. “By the way, is it true you still haven’t been to his grave? Killian’s?”

“No. I’ve been there.”

“Good. That’s good for you, I imagine.”

“That’s what my therapist says too.”

“You go to therapy?”

“My wife thought we needed to. Apparently I have a hard time opening up about certain things.”

“That’s understandable, after everything you went through. Isn’t it?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t help. Understanding why you have problems doesn’t make those problems go away. At least, not always.” He considered something, glanced at the bundle Jakob had placed on the table between them. “That looks kind of large to me. Filip was pretty slight. Didn’t you have a shirt like that?”

Jakob was taken aback.

“No, no. Filip did.”

“I seem to recall you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Outside the kitchen window, the light was finally fading. Twilight over Halland.

Jakob had said something more, but his words were far off, muffled.