The Intruder

by Hakan Ostlundh

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. There are cloth fibers in the ash. And look in there.”

  She turned around and pointed toward a smaller bag of brown paper that was on the floor behind her back.

  Fredrik went over and picked up the bag after having removed his shoes. He carefully opened it. At the bottom of the bag were several sooty, small metal objects.

  “What are they?”

  “I’m quite sure they’re rivets, the kind that sit around the pockets on jeans. And the larger ring-shaped objects are two eyelets.”

  “Eyelets?”

  “That are used in clothes to reinforce holes. For example, where a cord runs in a hooded sweatshirt.”

  “Was there a cord on Maria Andersson’s sweatshirt?”

  “Don’t know, but there usually are on that kind of sweatshirt. We’ll have to check that.”

  Fredrik silently observed the small objects in the bag, then closed it and set it down.

  “Let’s say this is the perpetrator. Isn’t it a bit strange to go to this place in particular?”

  Eva finished her work in the fireplace by vacuuming up the last remnants of soot.

  “No, why is that?” she said. “It’s isolated, it’s a long way to the nearest neighbor.”

  “Sure, in that way it’s perfect. But to take off here … You saw yourself what the road looks like. To even expect to find a house out here…”

  “You mean she must have known that it was here?”

  “Yes.”

  Eva turned off the vacuum cleaner. The muffled roar from the motor turned into a brief growl before it became silent.

  “If you’re right, perhaps it’s possible to find her by way of the owner of the cabin, or one of the neighbors.”

  Fredrik nodded toward the kitchen.

  “How long will it take to get an answer to the strands of hair?”

  “A microscopic comparison won’t take long. But even if it matches it won’t hold up in court.”

  “Right now I don’t care about the law. I just want to know if this may be what we think it is.”

  70.

  When Fredrik woke up on Thursday only a quick glance at the blind was needed to see that the fog was gone. The sun drew a shadow image of the window bars on the stiff, pale yellow fabric.

  He pulled on his bathrobe, went into the kitchen, and filled the coffeemaker. He could not help thinking about the cabin by the sea. What would have happened if Bergvall had not been so curious, and imaginative besides, to connect the break-in and the strands of hair with the murders? Presumably nothing. He would have cleaned away the traces without thinking any more about it.

  Fredrik took a quick shower, shaved, and got dressed. In the short distance to the mailbox and back he thought about whether it had all been planned from the start: driving to the cabin to burn the clothes and dye her hair. Or if the perpetrator had panicked, suddenly felt that she had to change her appearance, happened to think of the cabin, bought hair dye, and drove there.

  He called Kalle Larsson, took a chance on Expressen, but it turned out that he worked at Aftonbladet. There were many people, of course, who knew about the family’s summer place, but none that Kalle Larsson could connect with Henrik Kjellander or Malin Andersson.

  If it hadn’t been for the burned-up clothes Fredrik could have imagined other explanations, but now he had a hard time seeing that it wouldn’t have a connection with the murders. Someone breaks into a cabin roughly three-and-a-half hours after the murders, burns clothes, including a garment that could be Maria Andersson’s sweatshirt, cuts her hair, and presumably dyes it. Eva had found traces of chemicals in one of the tubs that indicated the latter. That could not be a coincidence.

  When he came in with the newspaper, Ninni was standing by the counter pouring a cup of coffee. He tossed the newspaper onto the table, aware that he would not have time to read it. He had browsed through the day’s article on the Fårö murders on the way back from the mailbox. That would have to do.

  “You haven’t forgotten that Joakim is coming tomorrow, have you?” said Ninni.

  “Not now that you’ve reminded me.”

  “But I assume we aren’t going to see much of you?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll find time to see him. If he’s not going into Visby and partying every night.”

  “There is that risk.”

  He looked disappointed.

  “Murder is murder,” said Ninni, sitting down at the table.

  Fredrik looked at the kitchen clock. The one that was always five minutes slow, even though he moved it ahead every Saturday.

  “I have to leave.”

  * * *

  Fredrik had just made it back to his office after the morning’s review when they were called to a meeting again. The forensic lab had sent a report: The strands of hair that were found in the summer cabin could come from the same head as the wad of hair that Malin Andersson had held in a firm grasp even after death.

  “Because Eva has found fingerprints on the broken window, this may be the technical evidence we’ve been missing,” said Peter Klint.

  “Although now we no longer have a suspect,” said Fredrik.

  “No, the fingerprints are not Stina Hansson’s of course. We probably shouldn’t completely rule her out, but it’s no longer defensible to keep her in custody.”

  “Pity,” said Ove, who stood with his arms crossed inside the door. “She seemed like the perfect perpetrator for this case.”

  “Well, that’s how it is, anyway,” said Göran. “Now we’ll have to start over.”

  He took off his glasses with a sudden movement and turned to Fredrik.

  “Do we have the guest lists from the hotels?”

  “Yes, they arrived yesterday. But they weren’t that urgent before Bergvall and the cabin turned up.”

  “And then we have Kjellander’s other contacts. The ones you got from his agent in Stockholm. There must be quite a few?”

  Göran did not wait for the answer. He squeezed his glasses back over his nose and looked around among his associates.

  “We’ll have to divide this up so we pick up the pace. It may be worth questioning the journalist who owns the cabin about who has been there to visit.”

  “The accountant,” said Fredrik.

  “What?”

  “He’s an accountant, not a journalist. Although he does work at Aftonbladet.”

  “Okay,” said Göran. “The accountant. Whatever, even if he couldn’t connect any of his guests to Henrik Kjellander or Malin Andersson we can’t miss that possibility.”

  “There is another person I think we might be able to get something out of,” said Fredrik. “Thomas Bark. He’s known Henrik since student days and they are still close friends.”

  “But haven’t you already questioned him? That didn’t produce very much, as I recall.”

  Göran sounded uninterested.

  “No, but I got a sense that he was holding back something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I asked if he knew whether Kjellander had any relationships on the side. He maintained that was not the case, but I got a feeling that he knew something that he didn’t want to tell. I pressured him about Stina Hansson, but now, of course, we’re searching for someone else.”

  “You mean you want to question him in person?”

  “Yes, I think it might produce something,” said Fredrik.

  Göran rubbed the top of his bald head. He looked moderately enthusiastic, turned questioningly to Klint.

  “I say go,” said Klint. “But go at him properly. Don’t give up.”

  71.

  Malin and Maria’s older brother, Staffan, was surprisingly his usual self. The quick movement with his hand as he brushed aside the dark, shoulder-length hair from his face, the quick, slightly nervous way of moving. It was only the gaze that was different. It did not move around curiously like it usually did, but instead was lost in something else beyond the room.

&nb
sp; “We could have stayed at the same hotel, but I didn’t think about that when I made the reservation,” he said, adjusting his jeans shirt, which had mother-of-pearl snap fasteners.

  Staffan had reserved a room for his mother and himself at Wisby Hotel, a ten-minute walk from the hotel where Henrik, Maria, and Ellen were staying.

  Ewy was like a different person. This happy, talkative, almost professionally pleasant woman was silent and resolute. The summer tan had taken on a grayish tone and she moved stiffly and slowly as if she had aged twenty years overnight. She hugged them, hard but somehow absent.

  Henrik had a hard time meeting her eyes. Staffan’s were easier, but that was because they had been such good friends. Somehow that got the upper hand.

  He found himself thinking they had been friends. As if it was over now. Henrik knew that, but not Staffan. It was not because Malin and Axel were dead, but instead because of that other thing. What would tear what was left of this family apart if it ever came out.

  Ewy took a few hesitant steps up to the desk. She put her hands on the back of the chair and tried to turn the chair out toward the room, struggled and failed. Staffan hurried over and helped her. Henrik stood where he was as if paralyzed. He ought to have been more attentive, should have … Ewy sat down stiffly. She set her bag on the floor and looked around the room.

  “How long are they thinking the three of you should stay here?” she said in a voice emptied of all joy.

  Henrik turned completely cold. He felt a scratching in his throat. He coughed a couple of times with a croaking sound. It was something about the words “the three of you.” That he and Maria were a unit. It sounded so revealing. But perhaps she didn’t mean that.

  “I don’t know.”

  When he heard his own feeble voice he realized how tired he was of being in the dreary, impersonal hotel room. All he and Ellen had brought with them from home were a few items of clothing. Things they hadn’t even packed themselves. It was as if his world was dissolved into different time axes that were moving at completely different rates. It was ten seconds since he had opened the outside door to the bloody hall in Kalbjerga. It was a month ago, at least, since the police placed them at the hotel by the harbor.

  “I’ll go home with you tomorrow,” said Maria.

  Henrik and Maria had not talked about it, but when she said that it felt completely obvious. This was not her place. She had a life somewhere else, only happened to still be here.

  “I see, yes, of course,” said Ewy.

  Henrik did not understand what she meant by that and didn’t intend to try to understand, either.

  Staffan mumbled something about the flight, occupied with Ellen. Staffan’s niece climbed steadily up his legs while he held firmly onto her hands. She made a backward somersault and landed with a dull thud on the soft hotel room carpet. That was something she always wanted to do with just Staffan. Because she was so small for her age it still went well.

  Henrik lost himself for a moment in their play. What would he do without Ellen? What if she and Maria had not gone down to swim? Think if both Axel and Ellen … He closed his eyes hard.

  “But it must be monotonous for the girl, don’t you think?” said Ewy.

  Henrik opened his eyes and turned toward his mother-in-law.

  “I’ll try to arrange an apartment,” he said. “Or else the police can arrange that. And bring a few of Ellen’s things here.”

  “Have they said anything about the house?”

  When he heard Ewy gather her fragile, joyless voice and ask the practical questions he thought that she shouldn’t have to go through that. That she ought to be able to lie down and close her eyes and keep silent, which presumably is what she wanted to do most of all. Plucky, thought Henrik. A word you seldom use.

  “I’m sure they’ll be done with the house soon. But perhaps you don’t even want to—”

  She made a little movement with her mouth as if she wanted to take back the question.

  “I don’t know,” said Henrik heavily. “I really don’t know. But you’re right of course. We can’t go on living here.”

  Ewy reached for the purse and took out a tin of throat lozenges. She put a lozenge in her mouth and then extended the tin in the direction of Ellen. After a slight hesitation Ellen went up to her grandmother and started fishing for a lozenge.

  “You can take the whole tin,” said Ewy.

  She smiled tenderly at Ellen and then looked at Henrik again.

  “There are a lot of things we ought to talk about, but I don’t know where to start.”

  She turned the lozenge in her mouth with a faint smacking. Staffan suggested that they should go with them over to their hotel so they could drop off their bags and then they could have lunch at the hotel. If the policeman outside had no objections?

  Henrik had a hard time imagining that he could consume more than a glass of water in the company of Maria, Ewy, and Staffan.

  He would be forced to tighten his inner straitjacket to the bursting point not to scream all the secrets right out.

  No, that was not true. He would not say a word. Ever. They would have to torture him first. But it felt as if he was about to fall apart. That something could leak out, against his will. The policeman who was assigned to protect them had no objection, but to be on the safe side made a call to his superior at the police station.

  They took the upper street. Henrik did not know whether that was because it was closer or because it should somehow be better. Safer. Did they really need to be protected? The police no doubt knew what they were doing, he assumed, but he had a hard time feeling threatened. The picture of Malin and Axel, battered and bloody, overshadowed all else. There was no room for dark fantasies about what could happen to them. The worst had already happened.

  The wheels on Staffan’s carry-on bag rattled across the cobblestones as they passed through Skansporten’s rugged gray limestone arch. Ewy looked quickly up toward the tower ruin alongside the gate opening. Henrik took a couple of deep breaths and fixed his gaze somewhere at the end of the street. He felt dizzy. Apart from climbing into a car and being driven to the police station, this was the first time in five days he had left the hotel. They had walked around in the Harbor Hotel’s back courtyard. Like prisoners. Perhaps they could have taken a walk outside if they wanted. He had not thought to ask.

  Ellen was holding his hand. Staffan, Ewy, and Maria walked in a row ahead of them. Order was restored. The Andersson family by themselves and then his own semi-family. The police officer came last.

  When they came into the dark, stone-paved lobby of Wisby Hotel and Henrik saw the walkway that connected the hotel with Friheten it was as if he lost all control of his legs.

  They got so close. The restaurant. He and Malin. The key card in his pocket, which would be a surprise. Maria at home with the kids.

  On sheer will he took three swaying steps up to the nearest couch and sat down with a clumsy motion.

  “What is it?” asked Staffan with a worried frown.

  “I can’t eat lunch here,” he whispered. “I—”

  His mouth was dry; he had a hard time saying the words.

  “Malin and I…” he said, trying to turn around with a gesture toward the restaurant.

  “We’ll go somewhere else,” said Staffan, leaning over and placing a hand on Henrik’s shoulder. “Or would you rather go back?”

  “No. Not back,” Henrik mumbled and felt how the hand burned against his shoulder.

  “We’ll just quickly check in, then we’ll go,” said Staffan.

  He rolled away with the bag to reception, leaving a cold hollow in Henrik’s shoulder. Maria went with Ewy up to the reception counter and Ellen sat down beside him on the couch. He heard their voices. Their names. The scraping of a pen against paper.

  After an eternity they were done. Staffan and Ewy could, of course, not suggest any place to eat. That became Henrik’s task. Why should they eat? It seemed absurd that they should sit together and
eat food. But even grieving people have to eat. Perhaps it was the only thing grieving families could do together. Cling to the practical things. Survival. Sleep. Food.

  He took them to Bakfickan, the little fish restaurant by the church ruin on the main square. Henrik used to eat there when he was in Visby. The staff recognized him. He noticed how the waiter looked startled as they came in, uncertain how to greet them.

  They were early. The little restaurant was empty and they got a table by the window to the left. There were only a small number of tables in the tiled former butcher shop.

  “You’re welcome to eat with us,” said Staffan to the policeman.

  “Thanks, but it’s better if I wait outside,” he answered.

  After a quick glance around the place he went back out.

  Strangely enough, Henrik could eat when they got their food. All of the grilled salmon and some potatoes. Over coffee, Ewy started talking about the funeral. She would prefer for Malin and Axel to be buried on the mainland. That was her personal wish. But she thought that Henrik should decide. If he preferred Gotland she would not object.

  “But that depends, of course, on what you intend to do now.”

  Henrik looked at her perplexed.

  “If you intend to stay here. It would feel wrong if…”

  She stole a glance at Ellen and searched for a suitable formulation.

  “If they’re buried here and you and Ellen move home later … or, I mean … back to Stockholm. Then they’ll be alone here.”

  “No, it’s true. That would be strange.”

  He promised to think it over carefully. Staffan had no opinion. He left the whole decision to Henrik. Maria simply mumbled a “no, no, sure,” and nodded at him.

  Henrik had actually not given it a thought before. Fantasies about the burial itself had forced themselves on him, but they had played out in an unknown church that he had not connected to any particular place.

  He visualized Fårö, the church in the middle of the island. The sea that would soon be cold. The barren beaches with knotted prickly pines. Did he want Malin and Axel to rest there? Was it better if she got to return to the mainland? Return? She was already there. He lost himself in images of Malin at the coroner’s office, of Malin being conveyed back in a coffin on the car deck of the Gotland ferry. How she would be left alone between the echoing metal bulkheads while all the other passengers walked away up the stairs and settled down in heated lounges.