A summer with Kim Novak

by Håkan Nesser

  After he left, my wife and I sat in our armchairs for a while.

  ‘It has something to do with the Gennesaret murder,’ she said suddenly. She poured a finger of cognac for each of us.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘No more cognac for me.’

  ‘The crisis of conscience, of course. His discomfort with the question. It’s related to the murder of Berra Albertsson twenty years ago.’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ I said. ‘Oh, nonsense.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with being part of the clergy.’

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ I asked. ‘Of course something’s happened to him. Someone confessed to a crime and he feels he can’t go to the police. Every priest is bound to face that conflict at some point. It wasn’t particularly polite of you to bring it up.’

  My wife sipped her cognac pensively.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It was rude of me, but I still think I’m right. He’s very nice, anyway.’

  ‘I liked him then,’ I said.

  For about a week I was preoccupied by what had been said and what was left unspoken between Edmund, my wife and me. I finally called him in Ånge and got straight to the point.

  ‘You know what happened that night, don’t you?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Edmund asked indignantly.

  ‘I mean, when you went out for a piss, for instance. That wasn’t all, was it?’

  There was a pause. The line crackled and, for a moment, I thought it might be Edmund’s thought processes materializing in the bad connection.

  ‘I have no reason to discuss this further with you,’ he said finally. ‘But I’d like to ask you the same question, if you don’t mind. Do you know who killed Berra Albertsson?’

  ‘How should I know?’ I answered crossly. ‘I was asleep, you know that perfectly well.’

  We both sat in silence for a while at our ends of the line, and then we hung up.

  Perhaps you could describe running into Ewa Kaludis that same autumn as an event that looked like a fantasy.

  During a conference about educational materials, I stayed at a hotel in Göteborg for two nights, and if I’d had a hard time recognizing Edmund after several decades, I had no problem recognizing Ewa. No problem at all.

  She was standing behind the reception desk when I checked in, and time didn’t seem to have touched her. Same beautiful posture. Same high cheekbones. Same crescent eyes. Her blond hair was now red, a hue that suited her even better—I imagined it was her natural colour. Though she was surely approaching fifty, she was still an astonishing beauty.

  At least in my opinion.

  ‘Dear God.’ The words slipped from me. ‘Ewa Kaludis.’

  She looked at the list of reservations.

  ‘Aha, you’ve arrived,’ she said. ‘Yes, I saw your name.’

  Ellinor and I had been unswervingly faithful since we’d been married, but I knew that in less than a minute, I’d crack. It wasn’t just because I wanted to, but because—more importantly—I could tell Ewa wanted it, too. She called into the reception area and ordered a young blonde girl to take her place at the desk; she clearly held some sort of managerial position at the hotel. Then she flipped up the counter and walked over to me.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said. ‘What fun to see you again after all these years.’

  We rode the lift up.

  ‘Do you remember the last thing you said to me that summer?’ she asked when we were in the room.

  I nodded.

  ‘And what you did?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Do you still have that fourteen-year-old inside of you?’

  ‘Every single inch of him,’ I answered.

  She’d just had her period—and was a bit preoccupied—so on the first night we just talked.

  ‘I want to thank you for what you did that summer,’ said Ewa. ‘Thank you and Edmund for how you acted afterward and whatnot. There was never really the right moment to say it.’

  ‘I loved you,’ I explained. ‘I think Edmund loved you, too.’

  She smiled.

  ‘It was Henry who loved me. And I who loved Henry.’

  I asked how it had gone between her and my brother. If anything had happened in the end, or if it had all run out with the sand after the Incident.

  ‘We did meet up eventually,’ she said after a pause. ‘Here in Göteborg. More than a year later. We didn’t dare before. Then we were together for a while. Did he never tell you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ve barely had any contact with my brother. He moved and we moved.’

  ‘It never really worked,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know why, but what happened, well, it was in the way. The Incident, as you call it.’

  I nodded. I understood. I could see how it would’ve been odd if it had worked out. I hadn’t thought about it that way when I was fourteen, sitting across from Detective Lindström, but now it seemed logical.

  Not only that it hadn’t lasted between Henry and Ewa, but that there was a reason for it.

  A kind of justice.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Was. I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. That’s why I don’t have much time tonight.’

  ‘I remember your hands on my shoulders,’ I said. ‘And I want to make love to you tomorrow night. To try at least.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I have time tomorrow,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll try to meet your expectations, otherwise I think it will be enough to be able to sleep together.’

  Sleeping wasn’t enough. The night between 16 and 17 October I made love to Ewa Kaludis after waiting for over twenty years.

  Making love to her for the first time was the most serious undertaking of my life, and I think that Ewa felt the same. Over the following year we met up a fair number of times—at ever more frequent intervals—and one month after the divorce with Ellinor came through, I moved to Göteborg. I managed to secure a decent job at a college out in Mölndal and by early 1987 we were living under the same roof.

  Me, Ewa Kaludis and her daughter Karla.

  ‘It feels like coming home,’ I told Ewa that first night.

  ‘Welcome home,’ said Ewa.

  Not many weeks passed before I had to tell her how Edmund and I had stood and watched while she made love with Henry that night. I’d only been an immature fourteen-year-old at the time, so I hoped she’d understand.

  When I had finished the story she put her hand over her mouth and wouldn’t look at me. At first I was worried, but then I noticed that she was laughing.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ I asked.

  She grew serious, lowered her hand and took a deep breath.

  ‘I saw you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to say, but I knew all along that you were standing there.’

  ‘Oh dear God,’ I moaned. ‘It can’t be. Impossible.’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ said Ewa Kaludis and started laughing again.

  23

  Verner Lindström hadn’t got any younger.

  ‘The statute of limitations will run out on the case in two months,’ he explained as he adjusted his bow tie. ‘But that’s not why I want to talk to you. I’m writing a little memoir. I retired in the spring and you have to have something to keep yourself busy.’

  We sat in the inner room at Linnaeus, a restaurant on Linnégatan. As far as I knew Lindström had taken the train down to Göteborg solely for this conversation; it was obvious that he had a hard time getting through the day as a pensioner.

  It is what it is, I thought. Some people never learn to enjoy their rest; others seem born for it. After we’d eaten Lindström took out his Bronzol tube. I couldn’t remember having seen those pastilles over the last ten to fifteen years, but maybe he had bought a lifetime supply in the early seventies.

  ‘The fact of the matter is,’ he said and put two pastilles in his mouth. ‘The fact of the matter is that I do
n’t have many unsolved cases to investigate. Just one murder. Bertil Albertsson.’

  ‘That’s how it can go,’ I said. ‘Well, you did your best.’

  He chewed and rocked his head slowly from side to side like an old, tired bloodhound. ‘The result,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a toss about all the effort; it’s the result that counts. Someone murdered that damned handball player on that damned clearing twenty-five years ago and in two months he’ll get off scot-free.’

  ‘Someone?’ I said. ‘I thought you’d decided it was my brother? You just weren’t able to lock him up.’

  Verner Lindström sighed.

  ‘He or she,’ he said. ‘That was the thread we were following. I should tell you that we didn’t spare her either. We spent a good part of that autumn interrogating her night and day, but she didn’t crack. Damned fine woman. I wonder what happened to her.’

  ‘No idea,’ I said and shrugged. ‘She probably moved overseas. She was the type.’

  Lindström looked me over.

  ‘I’m mostly interested in knowing if you might have any new information. Now that you don’t have to protect your brother any more.’

  ‘There are two months left,’ I pointed out. ‘You could still put him away.’

  He smiled quickly and shook the Bronzol tube a few times, most likely to get an idea of how many were left.

  ‘On my honour,’ he then said and put it back in his inner pocket. ‘You don’t think that these old pensioner’s hands want to dig anything up that’s been buried for all these years?’ He turned his palms up and looked at them and then at me with an expression of utter innocence. ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in anything at all. It’s not impossible that you held a thing or two back, you and your friend. You were only fourteen. It’s not easy to know what to do in a situation like that.’ He paused and hid his hands under the table, as if they weren’t really living up to his expectations. ‘And it’s also possible that there was another person at Gennesaret that night.’

  ‘Another person?’ I asked. ‘You mean Ewa Kaludis?’

  He sighed again.

  ‘No, the fact of the matter is that we never were sure if she was there or not. Even that is a mystery. She denied it. Henry denied it. It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that. We could never prove that she was with him. But in any case there were indications that Henry had company.’

  I thought for a few seconds. Mostly about the word ‘indications’.

  ‘Who might that have been?’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,’ said Lindström.

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ I said. ‘It would be better if you contacted Edmund. He was awake for a while that night.’

  Lindström picked up a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to him,’ he explained somewhat impatiently. ‘Twice.’

  ‘Did he give you anything?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lindström. ‘Priests are some of the worst to interrogate. Lucky that they’re not often involved … Priests and pimps, I can’t tell which I like less.’

  ‘All right, then,’ I said.

  We sat in silence for a moment. Lindström had a college-ruled notebook lying next to his plate. He ceremoniously folded his handkerchief and looked at it, deep in thought. He didn’t seem to be any happier for it, or more illumined. A sense of gloom spread across the table.

  ‘Most unsolved murders have a number of factors in common,’ he finally said and closed the pad.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘What are they?’

  ‘First and foremost: simplicity,’ said Lindström. ‘With Berra Albertsson … all the murderer needed to do was take two steps forward and then whack him with the hammer. Or the sledgehammer or whatever it was. One single blow, then it’s done. Bury the murder weapon and forget about it … Maybe hope for rain during the morning hours, and rain it did.’

  He fell silent and speared a few stray peas with his fork. He took a long look at them—as if he’d suddenly realized that Berra Albertsson’s murderer was hiding inside one.

  Being a detective your whole life must make you a bit strange, I thought. Another half-minute passed.

  ‘How could the murderer know that Albertsson was going to be there?’ I asked. ‘It seems odd. I’ve always wondered.’

  ‘There’s another possible scenario,’ said Lindström. ‘Berra Albertsson could have been hit by a person who was in the car with him. Someone who might have been in the back seat, for example.’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Who would that have been?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Lindström. ‘Regardless of who hit him, the motive is problematic.’

  ‘If it wasn’t Henry?’

  ‘Or Ewa Kaludis,’ said Lindström.

  I thought a while.

  ‘How do you know that an unknown person was at Gennesaret that night?’ I asked.

  Lindström hesitated.

  ‘An eye-witness account.’

  ‘An eye-witness account? And whose was that?’

  ‘I can’t reveal that,’ said Lindström and shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I stared at him, surprised.

  ‘And the forensic evidence,’ I asked. ‘Clues and murder weapons and what not, how did that turn out?’

  ‘Poorly,’ said Lindström. ‘On all accounts. The rain destroyed all the evidence at the crime scene. It wasn’t even possible to see which of the cars had arrived first, your brother’s or Berra’s. Even if their positioning suggested that Henry had arrived earlier.’

  ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘It was never found,’ Lindström stated. ‘No, it is what it is. As long as no one comes forward, Bertil Albertsson’s assailant will go free. In two months he’d be free in any case … but it would be a bonus to be able to write in my memoir that the case is solved. And I know who did it. That’s why I’m here. Hmm.’

  He paused again. Drank the last drop of wine and wiped his mouth. Collected himself before making his final plea.

  ‘And you don’t have anything that might shed some light on the story? Something you held back or that you remembered later?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought about this for twenty-five years and I know as little today as I knew then. A madman who carried out the murder by chance, that’s my suggestion. Have you explored that possibility thoroughly?’

  Lindström didn’t answer.

  ‘Of course I would have come to the police if I’d known anything,’ I added.

  By now Lindström was starting to look resigned and I noticed that I didn’t have much left of the respect that I had felt for him at the start of the sixties. I also understood that you’re probably not a very good judge of character at fourteen, even though my brother had complimented me on it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry, but it looks like this trip to Göteborg is going to be a waste of your time.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Lindström. ‘The food wasn’t bad and I have another conversation scheduled.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘With whom?’

  He adjusted the Bronzol tube in his breast pocket and looked out of the window.

  I never worked out if Verner Lindström really did have another subject to interview during his Göteborg trip, but two months later the Bertil Albertsson case was statute-barred. It was September 1987, and only afterward did Ewa and I discover that on the same night as the statute of limitations ran out we’d shared a lobster and a bottle of champagne.

  As if we’d known about the date and deemed it worthy of celebration, somehow.

  The real reason was that Karla had travelled up to her dad’s in Eslöv and for once we had the flat on Palmstedtsgatan to ourselves.

  24

  Then the years passed and some things slipped into oblivion. Ewa Kaludis and I never had any children: for that time was too short. She was forty-seven when we met again and we both felt it was too risky. Her daughter Karla lived with us u
ntil about 1990, when she went off to study something or other in Paris, met a dark, wavy-haired Frenchman, and stayed. The frequency of my own children’s visits increased at about the same rate as Ellinor’s ire dissipated, and my eldest son Frans lived with us for a few months one autumn during his first term at the journalism college.

  Even though Ewa’s periods stopped a few months after she turned fifty, our love life didn’t go through any corresponding changes. As far as I could tell, from discreet conversations I had with colleagues and others, we had an unusually robust sex life. No one ever guessed that there were ten years between us; I often have a hard time getting my head around it myself.

  I suppose that’s how it is. Some people aren’t touched by the years, and on others you can count them double or triple.

  The final chapter in the history of Gennesaret—or the Incident, as I liked to call it once upon a time—was written in the spring and summer of 1997.

  One day in early May, from my ex-wife Ellinor, I found out that Father Wester up in Ånge had suffered a heart attack and was in hospital at Östersund. He was most likely on his deathbed, and because he still had Ellinor’s phone number from the visit twelve years before, he’d called her and expressed a desire to speak to me.

  I wasn’t surprised that Edmund had had a heart attack; I thought about his enormous body and I decided to travel up to Östersund as soon as possible.

  The opportunity arose a few days later, on Ascension Day, and I had four days of leave. I considered my travel options—plane, train or automobile—and settled on taking the car. I set off early on Thursday morning and about ten hours later I took my place in a tubular steel chair by Edmund’s side.

  He hadn’t got any smaller since our last meeting; he lay beneath a yellow blanket like a stranded walrus and a considerable number of tubes were stuck into his arms and legs, pumping nourishment through his tremendous body. His face was a greyish purple like a mouldering plum, and it was hard to tell if he would survive or not.

  Whatever the case, he seemed relieved to see me.

  ‘So, tell me: how did things go with your father?’ I said. ‘Your real one. Did you ever look him up?’