The Hand that Trembles

by Kjell Eriksson

  ‘I doubt we’ll get much out of the old man,’ Beatrice said, breaking the silence. ‘He seems more than a little confused. When I—’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Lindell said. ‘He’s clearer in the head than the two of us combined.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Beatrice said, and smiled.

  Bitch, Lindell thought, but did not continue the exchange. Instead she stared pointedly down into her notes. She had not told anyone that she was planning to drive out to the coast again, and while the others were discussing Ante and Sven-Arne Persson, her thoughts were on Bultudden. Ever since the morning she had been wondering if she was wrong. The brief visual impression in Lasse Malm’s shed, and the half-automatic gesture of reaching down for the rag to toss it into the rubbish bag – was that invented in hindsight by her imagination?

  Was it really a pink tank top? She had been thinking so intensely that her doubts were slowly changing her memory. She knew she had to make the trip to the coast, but considering the weather she was not sure how that was supposed to work. Setting out on these roads would be hopeless. Could she call Marksson and ask him to drive out to the point alone? But given that the personnel number of the Östhammar police was so low, and that storms of this kind tended to hit the coast harder than the inland regions, he probably had his hands full. She decided to wait on a final decision until lunchtime. Maybe the snow would stop.

  Lindell heard Fredriksson mention Berglund’s name again and she looked up. He was in the middle of a summation of the murder investigation from 1993. Ann Lindell suddenly felt drained, and sighed. It struck her how bored she was. Why am I sitting here? She recalled Erik’s joy as they had walked through the snow to the car. He had been ecstatic at the snowfall and she was sure he was tumbling around the day care playground with the other children at this moment.

  I want to tumble around too, she muttered. Ola Haver shot her an inquisitive look. I want to tumble around, she mimed. He shook his head and smiled.

  I want to fuck, she thought. Is that the same as tumbling around? The lack of a man’s closeness, a man to tumble around with, hurt. She looked around and an antagonistic feeling grew inside her. She saw Fredriksson’s mouth move, but did not register a word of what he said. She watched Sammy Nilsson, Riis, Beatrice, and the others around the table. Everything so well-ordered, so disciplined, and so damn boring. How many cups of coffee had they drunk? How many words had been wasted in this room?

  Holiday, was her next thought. A long holiday. Sun. No snow. Sun. Heat on my body. Fredriksson kept churning on. Ottosson smiled encouragingly. Fredriksson went on.

  There isn’t much to talk about, she thought bitterly, and when Fredriksson finally stopped, she said it aloud.

  ‘Book the old man, that’s all there is to it,’ she said, unable to conceal her irritation.

  Ottosson looked at her, astonished, but continued speculating what had happened on his own. It was as if he – for unknown reasons – wanted to extend the meeting, but the concentration among the assembled police officers was gone. Sammy Nilsson had pushed the chair from the table, stretched out his legs, and was staring unseeing into the ceiling. Ola Haver was doodling on a piece of paper and smiling in a silly way as if even he was able to think of more pleasant things than murder.

  After another ten minutes of discussion, they concluded the session. Everyone left in a hurry. Lindell lingered, as she usually did. Ottosson and she had a habit of exchanging a couple of words on their own.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Östhammar,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought of something. Or think I have, at any rate.’

  Ottosson nodded absently while he gathered up his notes.

  ‘If the weather improves, I’ll head out there this afternoon. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ottosson said. ‘You should do that. Is it anything in particular?’

  ‘Just a thought,’ Lindell said.

  Ottosson looked up.

  ‘You don’t believe that baker story, do you?’ he observed.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How are you? You seem a little tired.’

  ‘I just want to tumble around a little,’ she said, and left the room.

  The snow stopped falling mid-morning and at eleven o’clock a pale sun shone over Uppsala. Ann Lindell called Bosse Marksson. The weather had stabilised even at the coast. About fifty centimetres of snow had fallen during the night and morning but no significant traffic issues or accidents had been reported. Lindell decided to drive out to the coast.

  They arranged to meet at two o’clock at the police station in Östhammar. If things were still calm at that point, Marksson would come with her.

  FIFTY

  All morning Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson had sat across the table from a sullen Ante Persson. The old man had not protested when they fetched him from Ramund. In fact he had been unexpectedly cooperative. He had put a great deal of care into how he should dress and had finally settled on a pair of grey trousers, a knitted cardigan, and a sport coat over that. One of the nursing home staff members, who had looked at Allan Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson with ill-disguised contempt, had helped him dress while the two police officers waited outside.

  He appeared in the corridor, a smile on his lips, pushing the walker in front of him and refusing any offers of assistance.

  Later, when they had transported Ante Persson to the police station and installed themselves in an interrogation chamber, his mood had changed completely. Ante was visibly distressed and gave brief, curt answers to the policemen’s questions.

  His nephew’s letters, that touched on the events in Kungsgärdet in 1993, he did not so much as comment on other than calling it a ‘family matter.’ He insisted on speaking with Sven-Arne.

  After a break, after Ante complained of being hungry – he wanted oatmeal and sandwiches with egg and roe spread – the session was resumed and Allan Fredriksson again turned to the political angle.

  ‘You have many times claimed that Nils Dufva was a war criminal. Could you elaborate on that a little?’

  ‘It is simple,’ Ante Persson said. ‘He was a registered Nazi. And you let him be! You even gave him a job.’

  ‘We’re not discussing his employment. A war criminal – what do you mean by that?’

  ‘I feel as though I’m going through it all again,’ Ante said, and gestured with one hand. ‘I’ve seen this all before, and I am not afraid.’

  Sammy Nilsson noted that Ante had spilt some oatmeal on a lapel.

  ‘Nor should you be,’ he said. ‘We are simply trying to establish the truth and surely that can’t hurt? You say you have fought for justice and I can respect that, but we also work for justice.’

  ‘What do you know about dreams?’ the old man went on, as if he had not heard the policeman’s comment. ‘I will go to my grave soon enough and I know there’s nothing on the other side. It just ends. Now the final analysis must be made and surely my voice should carry as much weight as any other? I remember too much, and sometimes I wish I had developed hardened arteries and become forgetful, just to get some peace. Why should I trust you? I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You have pursued me and my comrades in all ages. Yes, I killed a Fascist but that was a matter between me and him and my friends. He deserved it. You believe in justice, you say, and what is more just than sending someone like him into the darkness? He was a man of darkness, and I caught up with him. He thought everyone had forgotten, but I don’t forget. I caught up with him.’

  ‘What had he done?’ Allan Fredriksson asked after a moment’s silence.

  ‘That is between him and me,’ Ante said, tired.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘It’s not important,’ Ante answered. ‘Completely irrelevant. He is dead, that is what matters. And now I am going to die. Sven-Arne had nothing to do with this. He is a bewildered coward.’

  ‘It isn’t cowardly to confess to a murder you didn’t commit,’ Fredriksson objected.

 
Ante smiled.

  ‘Maybe that is the definition of cowardice,’ he said.

  ‘Did he help you?’

  Ante shook his head.

  ‘Sven-Arne was never inside the house. How many times do you want me to repeat it? But now I want to go home. I am tired. Or else you’ll have to lock me up and throw away the key.’

  After a consultation with the DA, Ottosson allowed Ante Persson to return to Ramund. It was an unusual decision but they assessed the risk of his escape to be minimal since he had the artificial leg, and they also hoped he would remain more alert in his familiar surroundings.

  Ante Persson was formally charged with the murder of Nils Dufva, then he was taken home.

  Although an old crime appeared to have been solved, Ottosson was not satisfied. He wanted to understand. He wanted facts about how, when, and why. The only question that had been answered was ‘when.’

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ he said for a second time to Sammy Nilsson, who had returned from Ramund and reported that Ante Persson had been returned to his home and that he had immediately laid down on his bed to rest. On the night table next to the bed there had been a Christmas arrangement of hyacinths and a red tulip, a singular greeting from one of the staff members at the nursing home.

  ‘A murderer who gets flowers,’ said Beatrice, who had just joined them.

  ‘I want the two of you to go see Dufva’s relatives in Kungsgärdet. The woman still lives there. Inform her of what has happened. I don’t want her to hear it through the news media. Beatrice – did you reach her?’

  ‘No, but I talked to her husband. She is apparently sick. He preferred that we leave her alone.’

  ‘Does she have the flu?’

  ‘No, she seemed … Her husband said something about her having worked too hard, being burnt out, you know.’

  Sammy Nilsson shook his head.

  ‘Let’s go down there,’ he said. ‘I’m curious to see what it looks like, I mean the crime scene.’

  The small streets of Kungsgärdet were impressively thoroughly ploughed, but apparently the snow crews had had problems with where to put all the snow that had fallen, for at every street corner there were gigantic mounds. All of the cars parked on the street were covered in snow and also sealed behind snowy dykes. On Arosgatan there was an elderly man who was desperately trying to uncover his Volvo.

  As Sammy Nilsson and Beatrice passed, he shrugged helplessly. Nilsson slowed down and considered stopping to help him, but drove on.

  ‘I hope the snow stays for Christmas,’ Beatrice said.

  I hope winter ends tomorrow, Sammy Nilsson thought.

  ‘It lights up everything,’ Beatrice went on, ‘and it’s more fun for the kids.’

  ‘One more platitude and you’ll have to head back,’ Sammy Nilsson said grimly.

  Beatrice turned her head and looked at him. ‘Everyone’s so fucking gloomy around here.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Yes, everyone. It seems like the whole station—’

  ‘It is winter, you know that,’ Sammy Nilsson said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘We’re not built for this.’

  ‘That’s a load of crap,’ Beatrice replied.

  They sat quietly until they reached the house that Dufva had lived in and that Jenny Holgersson and her husband had subsequently taken over.

  ‘Take it easy, now,’ Beatrice said. ‘Think about the fact that she is burnt out.’

  Sammy Nilsson wasn’t sure if she was being ironic or not, and said nothing.

  Niklas Öhman opened the front door before they had even reached the steps.

  ‘I saw you coming. I didn’t want you to ring the doorbell. Jenny is sleeping.’

  The first thing Sammy Nilsson registered was the exhaustion. Niklas Öhman looked like he had been awake several nights in a row, which he immediately confirmed.

  ‘You will have to excuse me, I haven’t been able to get much sleep lately, but come on in. We can sit in the kitchen.’

  The air in the hall smelt stale. A faint scent of thinner or perhaps floor polish could not mask the fact that the house felt unfresh. Sammy Nilsson leant forward and peeked into the living room. So that was where it had happened.

  They removed their coats in silence and then followed their host into the kitchen.

  ‘Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Beatrice said.

  Niklas Öhman sank down on his chair.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s as if the bad time has returned, and I don’t get it.’

  ‘Which bad time?’

  ‘The one after the murder. Jenny took it very hard. She felt guilty because she had not looked in on Dufva that evening. If she had done so, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Were they close?’

  ‘“Close” is a bit strong,’ Niklas Öhman said, ‘but she was the one who found the guy.’

  ‘And now the old thoughts have returned,’ Sammy Nilsson observed. ‘She isn’t burnt out at all, is she?’

  Öhman didn’t reply, but made a face and inclined his head, as good an answer as any.

  ‘We have a new confession,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘New? What do you mean?’

  ‘Sven-Arne Persson’s uncle has confessed to the murder of Nils Dufva.’

  Niklas Öhman stared, confounded, at Beatrice and then at Sammy Nilsson, as if for an assurance that his colleague wasn’t being serious.

  ‘We wanted you to know before it reached the media. As you can understand, this is candy for them. You will most likely have visitors.’

  ‘What kind of visitors?’

  ‘Reporters,’ Sammy Nilsson said.

  Niklas Öhman drew a deep breath and glanced through the doorway to the hall.

  ‘We have already had a visitor,’ he said.

  ‘Who was it?’

  Öhman told them about Sven-Arne Persson’s unexpected intrusion.

  ‘He seemed a bit crazy. He was wearing sandals and looked completely worn out. He attacked Jenny when she came home, but I threw him out.’

  ‘Attacked? What do you mean?’

  ‘He started talking to her.’

  ‘That was a mild attack,’ Beatrice said with a smile.

  ‘Jenny isn’t well!’ Niklas Öhman said emphatically. ‘This whole episode is making her suffer.’

  ‘Why do you say that about me?’

  The three people sitting at the kitchen table flinched. In the dimly lit hall they could see the outline of a person. Öhman quickly rose and went out. The police officers heard him whisper something, and then a woman’s protests.

  ‘Are you Jenny?’ Beatrice asked.

  The woman detached herself from Öhman and gingerly stepped into the kitchen, blinking in the strong light and stretching out her hand to steady herself against the door frame.

  ‘I have already told you all I know,’ she said flatly.

  Beatrice explained the purpose of their visit. Jenny listened without moving a muscle. Her blotchy face, with its poorly healed acne scars, was as if carved in stone. Only her tongue moved nervously across her lips. Her hair was combed back and gathered in a marginally clean ponytail. She was barefoot, wearing an oversized jumper and wrinkled sweatpants, and had a noticeable smell of body odour.

  In the old case files Beatrice had seen a photo of Jenny Holgersson from twelve years before. A young and pretty woman with serious eyes who gazed into the camera with an almost defiant look. Now she had been transformed into a wreck.

  Öhman laid a hand on her shoulder but she immediately shook herself loose with irritation.

  ‘They’re lying,’ she said with a raspy voice, coughing, and shot Beatrice a look that made her want to reach out for the young woman.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Öhman pleaded. ‘It’s over now.’

  ‘It will never be over!’ Jenny Holgersson screamed.

  ‘Who is lying?’ Sammy Nilsson asked.

 
; ‘Everyone,’ Jenny Holgersson muttered.

  ‘Will you sit down?’

  ‘Jenny has to rest,’ Öhman said.

  ‘Can’t she speak for herself?’ Beatrice asked sharply.

  ‘It will only get worse,’ Öhman said.

  ‘It can’t get any worse,’ Jenny said, almost inaudibly.

  Niklas Öhman took hold of her arm and she allowed herself to be led out of the kitchen. Niklas stared back at the two police officers before he disappeared into the inner recesses of the house.

  Beatrice and Nilsson exchanged looks. He shook his head.

  ‘What do you think?’ Beatrice whispered.

  ‘She needs care,’ Sammy said.

  ‘“Everyone is lying,”’ Beatrice said. ‘That’s a good way to put it.’

  ‘Who is “everyone”?’

  Beatrice shrugged her shoulders as if implying that ‘everyone’ simply meant all concerned.

  FIFTY-ONE

  On the way to Östhammar, Lindell counted eight cars that had careened off the roads, cars that lay in ditches and, in a couple of cases, a fair way out into the surrounding terrain. The snowstorm had claimed its victims.

  She drove with unusual care, even though the roads were now decent, in order to have time to think. A long line of cars built up behind her. Shortly before Alunda, half a dozen of them managed to overtake her, and just as many blew past on the straight before Gimo.

  The mobile phone rang as she passed Börstil Church. Unknown caller. She considered ignoring it, but after the fifth ring her curiosity won out.