When he determined that the boat would not immediately capsize or sink, he felt a sense of calm. This was what Ralf and he had dreamed of, being able to take off like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Admittedly the Fyris River was a very pale copy of the Mississippi, but that was the waterway he had.
Johnny Andersson sat very still on the bench and watched the shore glide past, as if he were a well-adjusted, curious participant on a sightseeing cruise, where everything was arranged and predetermined.
Soon he passed the badminton hall. At the camping site a teenage couple was sitting on a bench. Johnny waved, the couple waved back. At a level with Fyrishov he heard sirens from a patrol car, but he had difficulty making the connection to himself. It was as if the recent events, even the showdown with the old Nordlander woman, had faded away and were replaced by a strange equanimity. Slowly the rowboat carried him closer to the city center.
After the Fyrisvall bridge, the half-finished buildings rose on the right and to the left was the old retirement home where his grandfather had died. A few construction workers had made their way down to the river. Johnny guessed they were on a break. One of them shouted something that Johnny did not catch, but he answered anyway with a wave and a smile.
The vegetation was thick, big trees lowered their crowns toward the water. There was a scent of sediment and summer. Johnny took a deep breath and laid down in the boat. He watched the light clouds sail along, and it was as if everything faded away, now there was only him and the light veils against the blue sky. After a while he got dizzy from staring at the sky and sat up in the boat.
Without thinking of anything in particular, Johnny Andersson was traveling at a moderate pace through his city. The Fyris River passed like a dividing line through Uppsala. In the past the inhabitants were sorted according to which side of the river they lived on. As an illustration of the ancient division, he passed the old shoe factory on the east side, his grandfather’s workplace once upon a time, and to the west the Fyris school, where in his youth he committed a totally meaningless burglary and to top it off was arrested.
It was as if he was floating along in no man’s land, and that feeling made him forget his sorry situation. He caught himself sitting in the rowboat, grinning, suddenly and unexpectedly reconciled with the events of the past few weeks.
It was not until he glided under the bridge by Skolgatan that he remembered the milldam at the Uppland Museum. At the annual shooting of the rapids at the end of April, most of the boats would capsize there, either at the crown of the ramp or as they tumbled along. The homemade boats broke apart and the students ended up in the water. Johnny had never seen the spectacle, but read about it in the newspaper.
Then there were divers ready to fish out the ones who suffered shipwreck, but he suspected that no one would jump in to rescue him today.
He first tried to paddle with the crooked branch, then use it as a steering oar, but with equally meager results. The current placed him in the middle of the river and was steadily carrying him toward the falls.
Now he also had an audience. At the Åkanten Restaurant people were flocking by the iron railing and shouting encouraging words. On the other side a gang of youths was yelling, and outside the museum Japanese tourists were filming as the rowboat approached the edge, tipped over, and disappeared from their field of vision. Those who were standing on the Cathedral Bridge had an even better view, and Johnny happened to see a woman pointing and screaming in terror. Johnny Andersson had become an attraction.
He crouched, preparing for the worst. The rowboat turned over, he was thrown out of the boat and dragged down into the murky water under the Cathedral Bridge.
He had not been swimming since he was a teenager, but instinctively he started vigorously moving his arms and legs, to avoid being thrown against the side stones. He gasped for breath, getting a mouthful of cold water, reached the surface for a moment, flickeringly saw a man up on the bridge. His mouth was wide open. Maybe he was screaming. He reached out his arms as if he wanted to take hold of Johnny, who was however five meters below, inexorably being flushed down toward the New Bridge.
He was sure he would die. The possibility of getting a hold and hanging on to the perpendicular walls was nonexistent, and it was several meters up to the edge. There had been a chance upstream of the milldam where he could have crawled up on land, but now it was too late. He kept taking in mouthfuls of cold water. He was caught and sentenced to drown.
At the New Bridge someone threw down a life buoy but it missed him by several meters and Johnny watched it float away. He was pulled by the current toward the west side, scraping against the rough stones. I don’t care anymore, he thought, but at that moment he glimpsed a figure and felt a hand take hold of his arm.
On all fours he threw up, emptied himself completely. He looked around. He had completely forgotten the stairs down from West Ågatan. He had sat there many times before, drinking beer. Now it was his salvation.
“How are you feeling?”
A young man was leaning over him.
“Fine,” said Johnny, getting up.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Johnny shook his head and went up the stairs on shaky legs. Several curiosity seekers had gathered. The sound of sirens was coming closer and closer. Someone must have called an ambulance, maybe the police too.
He stepped out into the street, stopped a car, opened the door on the driver’s side. A young woman was sitting at the wheel.
“Beat it,” said Johnny. “And keep your mouth shut.”
Fifty
“Give up, damn it!”
Håkan Malmberg sat straddle-legged on his cot, with his back toward the wall and his arms crossed on his chest. He smiled, showing a perfect row of teeth.
Ann Lindell looked at him, trying to find the slightest hint of a crack in the scornful attitude, but, on the contrary, Malmberg showed nothing to make her optimistic.
She looked down at the floor, closed her eyes for a moment, and made another attempt. She coaxed, shifted perspective somewhat, but once again found herself stuck in the same meaningless repetition. He obviously had no empathy she could appeal to, and if he did he was hiding it very well. Maybe he was innocent? Lindell had gone back and forth on that question. No, he had murdered Klara Lovisa. No one had leaked the information that the girl had been buried, Lindell was sure of that.
Now he was smiling again, this time not scornfully, but more sympathetically, as if he was sorry that she was on the wrong track.
She happened to think of Anders Brant. Why, she did not understand, because there was no connection between them, other than that they were both men.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Håkan Malmberg, interrupting her train of thought.
“I guess I am,” said Lindell. “But that’s nothing compared to what you’ll be doing the next few decades.”
He laughed.
“Decades may be pushing it.”
“You’ll get life,” said Lindell. “Raping and strangling a young girl does not give you any credits in court. The only thing that can help the situation at all is if you cooperate.”
Malmberg shook his head dejectedly.
“Lay off,” he said.
Ann Lindell was overwhelmed with disgust, and not only about Malmberg. It was the whole atmosphere, the institutional shabbiness of the jail and the musty odor that clung to her skin.
Håkan Malmberg smiled again, which made Lindell stand up quickly. She really wanted to spit on him, strike him, see him tortured. Never before had the feeling of hatred and revenge overcome her so.
“Take a vacation,” he said in a derisive tone.
“That’s none of your damn business!”
Lindell turned toward the door and waited for the guard to open and let her out. She felt Malmberg’s eyes on her back. For a fleeting moment she had the idea that he was going to knock her down from behind.
“You need a dick,” Håkan Malmberg whispered jus
t as the door opened.
Ann Lindell left the jail without a word, her body bathed in sweat and her face bright red.
Fifty-one
He was forewarned, but it still came as a shock. They had been snooping around in his apartment, the traces were obvious. A folder that was not where it should be, piles of papers that had been moved a few centimeters, and a closet door that was wide open were some of the signs.
Anders Brant walked slowly around his apartment. It suddenly felt soiled, and foreign in a peculiar way. I don’t want to live here! The little apartment in Salvador, two rooms and a kitchen with minimal furnishings, suddenly seemed like his true home.
He recognized this, a sense upon returning of being at home in two places, and yet nowhere. He knew the feeling would go away, usually within a few days, but this time the rootlessness and alienation were underscored by the visit by the police.
“Vanessa, what should I do?” he mumbled, leaning his forehead against the refrigerator door.
He was tired, had a pounding headache, and did not know what his next step should be. At his feet was the small travel bag.
He laughed at his own pettiness. What should I do? A non-question. He knew what he had to do—transcribe and edit all the interviews, compile texts, get to work in other words, but for the first time he saw no way out of his state of doubt and suspicion of himself.
“Ann.”
He tried her name. He had tried to pump Sammy Nilsson for a little information about what Ann had said, but only got a wry smile and a few cryptic words about patience. What did he mean? Who was the one who should show patience?
Ann Lindell, a very everyday name, police detective, all the more sensational, at least for him. What was it about Ann that he was drawn to? In superficial terms they did not have much in common. She showed no great interest in the issues that had occupied him for almost twenty years.
He could not remember a single occasion when she had brought up a social issue, recommended a book, or commented on a story on the TV news. She had been remarkably passive and evasive. On the other hand he had not been particularly talkative or open either, or for that matter not overly interested in her job. They had made love and cuddled, and enjoyed it.
He opened the refrigerator door and took out a bottle of beer. When he finished it he would lie down on the sofa, pull a blanket over himself, and sleep, hopefully until the next morning. With his head more or less clear and his body rested he would start dealing with all the work that was waiting.
How he would handle Ann he did not know. With an unusually fatalistic attitude for him, he decided that it would work out. Perhaps Ann would resolve it all by making a decision. Based on Sammy Nilsson’s evasive insinuations he could absolutely not predict what such a decision would look like.
* * *
He was wakened by the doorbell ringing. In his dream he had been in Salvador, at the hotel room in Barra. The view had been the same, the harbor, the bay, and in the background Itaparica, but the interior of the room was different—paintings on the walls, thick carpets on the floor, a gigantic bed where someone, perhaps the cleaning lady, had decorated the bedspread with flowers in the form of a heart. Monica was there. From the bathroom singing was heard. A good dream, a dream without guilt.
He got up, but his legs barely held him. Confused and a little shaky he rocked back and forth. The ringing from the door cut into his head and the ache returned like a blow across his skull.
As his dizziness abated he shuffled out into the hall. Just then the door was thrown wide open.
“What the hell, at least you can open the door!”
Anders Brant stared in surprise at the intrusion. It took a moment or two before he recognized Johnny Andersson—homeless, informant, and sought by the police.
“Is it raining?”
Johnny did not answer but instead took off his shoes and threw the soaked jacket on the floor.
“I have to borrow some threads from you.”
“What’s happened? Have you been injured?”
Johnny shook his head, despite the trickle of blood on top.
“What do you want?”
“Clothes,” said Johnny. “Don’t you get it? I have to change.”
“Why come to me of all people?”
He realized that Johnny was in trouble and that he had appointed Brant to solve his problems. He had no time to feel afraid before Johnny’s right fist reached out and grabbed the front of Brant’s shirt.
“Clothes,” he hissed. “I’m cold, do you get it?”
“Okay,” said Anders Brant, putting up his hands.
The grip on his shirt slackened a little.
“Do you have any food too?”
Anders Brant decided to play along.
“I’ll get out some clothes, though they may be too small, so you can change. There’s not much food but I can probably arrange a beer and a few sandwiches. Okay?”
Johnny Andersson released his hold. He looked almost surprised.
* * *
“I’ve been out of town,” said Anders Brant as an explanation for the meager fare.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. He thought it was strange to see the other man in his clothes. He had bought the shirt and pants prior to Vanessa’s visit.
Johnny quickly consumed three pieces of toast and a beer.
“But I heard what happened, that Bosse is dead.”
“He had himself to blame.”
“What do you mean?”
“He talked too much,” Johnny hissed.
Brant chose not to prolong that discussion. He did not want any agitated emotions. Johnny Andersson was not the smartest guy in the world, Brant had figured that out during the interviews he conducted. So why get him riled up? The best thing would be if he left the apartment as quickly as possible, and Brant suspected that gentle persuasion would be most effective.
“Was that good?”
Johnny nodded.
“Unfortunately I don’t have any more beer.”
“That’s okay,” said Johnny generously, placing the empty can on the table. “Did you see the papers Bosse had? The Russian ones? Were they worth anything?”
“I saw them only in passing,” said Anders Brant.
“‘In passing’?”
“I saw them, but I didn’t read them,” Brant clarified. “So I don’t know if they were valuable.”
“Bosse was going to sell them for a lot, he said so anyway, but he talked a lot of shit. I didn’t get a dime for them.”
Anders Brant nodded and made a move to stand up.
“Listen up, sit down! You’re going to help me. Think up something. They’re chasing me, even an old childhood friend who’s a cop. Not a bastard I can trust.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Do you have a car?”
Anders Brant shook his head and got up. He wanted to indicate that he wouldn’t let himself be controlled so easily, even more so not in his own kitchen. While he cleared away the empty can and margarine container, he wondered how he could get rid of the intruder.
“So get a car!”
He’s a caricature, thought Brant, and observed Johnny. It struck him how improbable the events of the past few weeks were. Four deaths—Bosse, Ingegerd Melander, Jeremias Kumlin, and Arlindo Assis. Two separations—one of which definitive—and on top of that he had been mangled by a bus. And now Johnny Andersson.
“I have a buddy who owes me a favor,” he said. “Maybe you can borrow his car. I can call and ask. It’s a piece of junk but it works. He was going to trade it in, but he got so little for it that he kept it. Where are you going?”
Johnny grinned.
“I’m not saying, but it will be on the way to hell.”
“Then my buddy will probably want to get paid, but we can arrange that later.”
“You can forget about that. Call now!”
“I have to pee first,” said Brant, leaving the kitchen, snapping up the wallet that wa
s sitting on the hall table, and went into the bathroom. There he took out a business card and as he flushed he memorized the number, left the bathroom, picked up the portable phone, and returned to the kitchen.
Johnny Andersson was still sitting at the table.
“What kind of buddy is this?”
“A guy I usually—”
“Go ahead and call!”
He punched in the number and had to wait five rings before he got an answer. He made a thumbs up to Johnny.
“Hey, it’s Brant. I’m in a bit of a fix, or rather Johnny is, he’s a buddy of an old bandy teammate, and he needs a car. He has to go away quickly and his car just broke down. I was thinking we could borrow your old Golf.”
He nodded at Johnny and gave him a conspiratorial smile.
“Sure! He’s sitting here waiting in my kitchen. You can come by with the car. You have a few things that … Bring your girlfriend along too, it’s been a while, although maybe she isn’t too pleased with me anymore.”
He fell silent and made another thumbs up to Johnny.
“Great,” he said, ending the call.
“Is he bringing the car?”
“It will take ten minutes max,” said Brant soothingly.
“I need money too.”
“I’m not a bank, but I may have five hundred you can borrow.”
“Are you trying to fool me?”
Anders Brant looked up in surprise.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re sweating so much.”
“I’ve got a headache,” said Brant. “I was run over by a bus.”
Johnny Andersson observed him without a word.
“Do you have to sweat like a pig because of that? And why should you loan me five hundred?”
“I have to take my medicine,” said Brant, leaving the kitchen.
His headache was pounding. He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. He was truly sweating copiously and for the first time he felt scared for real. Maybe there was something wrong. Did he have injuries they hadn’t noticed in the hospital in Salvador?
Black Lies, Red Blood Page 33
