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Back Bad Apples Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
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  65. Acknowledgements

I look at him with his blond hair and cheekbones and broad shoulders and cupid-bow lips. ‘No,’ I say, and then I soften it. ‘Pre-arranged meeting. Next time, yeah?’

He looks disappointed and who could blame him. He’ll be stuck in Toytown with Netflix at home or else Ronnie’s Bar. I happen to adore both but I don’t reckon he feels the same.

I step into Lena’s office and close the door.

‘Pan Night,’ I say.

‘Peter Pan?’

‘Nooooooo.’

‘Deep-pan pizza?’

I scowl.

She shrugs.

‘Stop messing. You heard of it?’

She nods and smiles. ‘Course I have. Something to do with Halloween. Thought it ended in the ’80s?’

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

‘Stay safe, you hear me.’

I give her a thumbs up and leave for the newsagent across the road. A packet of cheese doodles, a bag of wine gums, a bottle of Coke, an open meatball-sandwich. All the major food-groups covered.

As I drive further away from civilisation, the light leaches from the landscape. The sun sets over hill town in the distance. Melts into the mountain. Then a cooler, bluer light replaces it. The temperature reading on my dash falls from nine degrees to four. Visibility worsens. Drizzle. I use my wipers but there’s not enough rain so they squeak like pigs getting their tails pulled off. The drizzle morphs into fog. I slow down. Past Svensson’s Saws & Axes. Closed. The door bolted. I reach the base of the hill and the fog’s almost as bad as it was that awful night. My engine growls as I begin the incline. Past the white-bike memorial. I get too close to it with my studded tyres and have to swerve into the middle of the road to correct my line. Past the cross; fresh flowers all around it now. I move my head forward to focus, my chin almost touching the steering wheel.

And that’s when I notice the flashing blue lights.

The cop car.

The bus shelter, destroyed. Debris everywhere. The contents of a suitcase spread all over the road. An old truck down in the ditch. Smoking. It’s bonnet dented.

Two body bags laid out on the asphalt.

17

The scent of diesel in the air.

I stare at the body bags.

The Sheriff saunters over to me like a cowboy in a western. Are his thumbs actually through his belt loops?

‘Don’t get too close, Tuva. Stay back.’

He looks flustered.

‘What happened here?’

‘Road-traffic accident. I’m forced to close the road so you’ll have to head back I’m afraid.’

Instead of a gun or a Taser on his belt there’s a row of pens, a mobile-phone holster, a small multi-function knife, and a pair of driving gloves.

‘Is an ambulance on its way? The coroner?’

‘Thord Pettersson’s organising everything.’

I look at the body bags. Feels wrong to photograph them.

‘I need to get into Visberg.’