Lindell heard the neighbor yelling behind them, that he was going to report Laura to the police for unlawful threats and Lindell for incompetency.
“He employs an illegal cleaning service?” Lindell asked.
“The whole street does,” Laura said flatly “I’m the only one who does my own cleaning.”
“And you do that with gusto,” Lindell said.
Laura smiled at her. The tics in her face had stopped and her hand was steady as she put the key in the lock.
“You can sit in the kitchen for now,” she said. “I just have to pee.”
Lindell heard splashing from the bathroom. She looked around the kitchen with interest. The old cabinets with stainless steel handles and the low countertops bore witness to the fact that nothing had been renovated for decades.
There were newspapers, bundles of paper, and a dirty pair of panties on the kitchen table and up against the wall a dozen wine bottles arranged in double rows. Lindell thought they looked like a platoon of infantry soldiers on a march.
She picked up a pile of papers and read. The text was in German.
“This is from work,” Laura said, who had snuck back in without a sound and was standing by the door.
“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to . . .”
“It’s not secret. It’s really boring.”
Lindell was amazed that she could switch moods so quickly.
“I see that you keep to Italian labels,” she said, indicating the bottles.
“Would you like a glass? We can celebrate a little.”
“What’s the occasion?’
“That I’ll be free soon,” Laura said and smiled. “I’ve met a man.”
“Is that freedom?” Lindell said with a little laugh.
“His name is Stig and he is absolutely wonderful,” Laura went on, ignoring Lindell’s comment. “He’s a colleague. We fuck. No, we don’t fuck. We make love to each other. If you only knew.”
Laura didn’t look at Lindell. It seemed as if she was talking to herself. She walked over to the window and looked out. She grew silent but Lindell saw her lips still moving.
“He’s mine,” she said after a while.
“Congratulations,” Lindell said.
“He’s married but that doesn’t matter. That can be solved. The essence of freedom lies in solving problems as they arise, don’t you think? If you accept the fact that the problems are unsolvable then you become half a person. An impoverished person. Isn’t that right?”
She turned to Lindell and looked at her for confirmation. Lindell nodded.
“For thirty-five years I have believed that everything was my fault. But it wasn’t! Jessica is her name. She’s no good for Stig. Jessica is no good. She . . . when everything . . . I’ve lived shut up here. Now I’ve paid all the debts.”
“Are they getting a divorce?”
“Yes, I’m the person who’s going to separate them. That has become my task. Stig is too weak for such things. He doesn’t even dare talk to her. He says he has but I can see that he’s lying. He is so scared! Just as I was. If you only knew how much he loved me. He’s loved me for a long time. Maybe several years.”
Laura smiled. Her features softened.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine?”
Laura picked up a half full bottle from the counter. Lindell shook her head and at the same moment took out the picture of Alice Hindersten.
“This is you mother, isn’t it?”
If Laura was taken aback she didn’t show it. She didn’t move a muscle.
“Yes, it is. My mother, Alice Henrietta.”
“I found this photograph in Petrus Blomgren’s house. He was murdered a couple of days ago. Why do you think he had a picture of your mother?”
“I’ve no idea,” Laura said and sat down across from Lindell.
“I asked you earlier if you knew Blomgren but at that time you denied it.”
The phone in Lindell’s pocket rang but she ignored it.
Laura studied the photo.
“Wasn’t she beautiful?” she said in a soft voice voice. “My mother.”
“Did you know Petrus Blomgren?”
“No,” Laura said.
“I think Alice and Petrus had a relationship.”
Laura swallowed.
“I don’t think so,” she said, and Lindell could barely make out the words. “My mother was faithful. The letters!” she cried out suddenly.
She stood up and left the kitchen. Lindell heard the front door open and Laura ran down the steps.
She returned quickly with her handbag.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I was just given some old letters.”
“From your mother?”
“Yes, I visited a cousin and he had some old papers.”
“Have you read the letters?”
“Yes, it was just family gossip but it was fun anyway. It was sweet of Lars-Erik to think of me.”
“If we could return to Petrus. I think he and Alice went to Mallorca together. Do you remember that trip?”
“Of course, that was my mother’s own little excursion, as my father called it. She had been operated on for something that spring and needed cheering up.”
“What kind of an operation?”
“Something to do with her gall bladder, I think.”
“But you didn’t hear of anyone named Petrus?”
Laura shook her head again.
“How do you explain the picture?”
“Is he from Skyttorp or Örbyhus, this Blomgren?”
“No, why?”
“I was thinking perhaps he was a childhood friend of my mother’s.”
“But why would he have such a recent picture of her?”
“Maybe he was in love with her,” Laura said simply and lightly, as if it were a trivial matter.
“If I can speak frankly,” Lindell said, “then—”
“One should be frank,” Laura broke in.
“. . . I don’t believe it. I am convinced that Alice and Petrus had a relationship. That you didn’t know about it is one thing but do you think your father knew?”
Laura didn’t answer. Lindell waited for a while before continuing.
“Your mother died shortly after she returned from Mallorca.”
“My mother’s death is personal and has nothing to do with anyone else. It is my grief. You can’t sully it.”
“I don’t want to upset you but I need to clear this up. Do you think that Ulrik knew of Blomgren’s existence?”
“In that case he never mentioned it,” Laura said gruffly.
“No hints? No word after you had grown up? Some parents love to tar the other just to have the advantage or win the sympathy of the child.”
“Ulrik isn’t like that.”
“How is he?”
“I don’t know why you would be interested in that. Wouldn’t it be better if you found him?”
“We’re trying to, or rather, we have done everything. Your mother seemed very interested in gardening. You can still see that your garden was very beautiful once. While I was waiting for you I walked around in it. There is—for me at least—an unusual tree in your garden. It must be old, at least twenty or thirty years. It has several trunks. Do you know which one I mean? It has a striped bark.”
Laura nodded.
“Who planted it?”
“My mother most likely,” Laura said.
“I saw an identical tree outside Blomgren’s house. Not quite as large, but it grows better here.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s my job.”
“I also have a job,” Laura said and gave a nod to the pile of papers on the table.
“Aren’t you on sick leave?”
“Are you an insurance officer?”
Lindell smiled.
“Where did your mother die?”
“Are we going to dig her up as well?”
“No, I just want to understand how she die
d.”
“I live with that knowledge every day.”
“I know,” Lindell said and wriggled out of her jacket.
She felt the tension and warmth rising in the kitchen. She couldn’t figure Laura out. She was lying about Petrus Blomgren, Lindell was convinced of it. Behind the secure, swift replies there was a person who was on her guard.
“You don’t understand anything about my family,” Laura said. “My mother died. I was left alone.”
“And your father?”
“He lived in another world. He simply happened to live here. There was a summer when I . . . was always swinging. I did lots of childish things, ran around barefoot, tied dandelions together, and everything I had never had time for. Ulrik read his books. It was a beautiful summer. He sat in a wicker chair and read. Sometimes he stood up and gave speed to the swing again. I was almost afraid I would go over the top but he just laughed. In the evenings we sat up late, played games, and listened to Verdi. Should we go down?”
“Go down?” Lindell asked.
“Into the basement. That was where she died.”
Laura smiled sadly and for a moment Lindell hesitated. Something about this woman didn’t add up. Lindell had seen it before, an unpredictable rage lurking behind the controlled surface.
She pushed aside her doubts and followed Laura into the hall.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said. “I can’t afford an illegal Polish cleaning lady.”
“That’s allright,” Lindell said. “I won’t remark on the dust.”
Laura pulled the door open and was about to walk down the stairs when she turned around.
“Wait a minute, I need to get a flashlight. The light down there isn’t working.”
Lindell peeked down into the darkness.
“Take this,” Laura said and held a flashlight out to Lindell. “I’ll get one more. It’s probably in the kitchen,” she said and left.
Lindell turned on the light. The battery was low and in the faint light she saw the contours of the steps and the little area at the bottom. There was the gleam of a large number of wine bottles. Most of the remaining space was taken up by cardboard boxes.
Lindell leaned forward to get a better view. On both sides there were openings that led to dark recesses. It smelled musty.
Laura returned.
“I can’t find the other flashlight, but why don’t you go ahead. Be careful, the third step is a little treacherous.”
Lindell looked down. Laura nodded and smiled. Lindell took another step and let the flashlight illuminate her way. The third step swayed.
“Careful,” Laura said behind her back. “It was that exact step that became my mother’s death.”
“Was she on her way up or down?”
“Up, I think, because she was carrying a jar of lingonberries.”
Laura giggled and Lindell turned her head.
“Now you die,” Laura said tonelessly and gave Lindell a shove in the small of her back so she fell headlong down the steep stairs.
Thirty-nine
The red-haired nurse came walking down the hallway She was talking to herself, unaware of the fact that Ola Haver was looking at her. She placed one hand behind her neck, leaned her head back, and stretched.
“Are you sore?” Ola Haver asked.
She looked up, startled.
“Yes, I know, I kind of blend in with the walls,” Haver said.
“Maybe you’re the secret police,” she said and smiled.
Ola Haver immediately fell in love. This sometimes happened to him. It usually passed quickly but the feeling was equally pleasant every time. He saw it as a guarantee against boredom.
“You have to work hard,” he observed.
“Everyone does, don’t they?” the nurse said matter-of-factly “How is your colleague?”
“He mostly mumbles stuff about birds.”
“As long as there are policemen who are bird-watchers there’s hope,” the nurse said and fired off another smile.
“There are policemen for everything,” Haver said.
“That’s just it, isn’t it?” she said. “For everything.”
He got the impression she didn’t like policemen. In another context he would have asked her to elaborate.
“I’m a nice policeman,” he said and smiled.
“I’m a nice nurse,” she countered.
“What a pair we make!” Haver said with enthusiasm.
She laughed and that was what he wanted, to hear her laugh.
“What do you think?” he asked and inclined his head toward the hospital room where Allan Fredriksson was.
“They’ll probably operate tonight,” she said.
“That means he’ll definitely be gone for a couple of hours, won’t it?”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to get some coherent sentences out of him tomorrow morning.”
“Well, we’ve never managed that before,” Haver said. “That reminds me of the story of the patient who asks if he will be able to dance after his operation and when the doctor says there shouldn’t be any problems the patient lights up and says: Great! I could never do that before!”
The nurse laughed again.
“Yes, I know. It’s an old one,” Haver said.
“Very old.” She smiled and kept walking.
He returned to Fredriksson who was still sleeping. He went to the foot of the bed and studied his colleague’s face, the way one can’t do otherwise. Fredriksson’s relaxed features gave an air of great calm. Haver suddenly felt uncomfortable watching him and walked over to the window and looked out. Traffic on the thoroughfare outside the hospital had intensified. A veritable stream of cars went by, people came walking along or half ran to the bus stop, and staff members in white coats jaywalked with an utter disregard for death.
As always when Haver was in a hospital he experienced a slightly sentimental sense of gravity and gratitude. Inside these walls, behind the windows to all of the hospital rooms, a struggle was going on. An army of doctors, nurses, subnurses, technicians, cleaners, janitors, and God only knows, were struggling on behalf of life. Like that nurse in the corridor, the red-haired one, who with her smile had probably assuaged the suffering of multitudes.
What is it that human hands cannot accomplish? he thought, almost devoutly and moved against his will. He twirled around and looked at his colleague in the bed. Allan Fredriksson returned his gaze.
“You’re awake?”
Fredriksson nodded and his eyes were clear. Nothing remained of the earlier confusion.
“We were worried,” Haver said.
Fredriksson smiled but also looked serious.
“Hospitals always get me down,” he said.
“Still, you managed to get through this pretty well.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past three.”
Fredriksson shut his eyes and Haver sensed he was trying to remember what the time had been when he drove out to Alsike.
“Where did you find the pawn?”
“On a shelf in the hall. I saw it as soon as I came in. It’s strange we missed it.”
“We always miss something.”
“No prints?”
Haver shook his head.
“Has the machine been set in motion?”
“You can count on it,” Haver said. “You knew this would stir the pot, didn’t you? The highest level of response with the National Guard, bomb squads, and the whole shebang. Ottosson almost shit his pants.”
“What does Ann say? She was so grumpy about this whole chess thing.”
“She’s been swallowed up by the earth.”
“The Savoy,” Fredriksson said.
“I said that too, but she’s not there. Otto actually called them to check.”
“Have you checked with Blomgren and Palmblad?”
“Of course,” Haver said, “there are no chess pieces there. But why did you go out to Alsike?”
Fredriksson told him about the
lost cell phone and how on the way back to Uppsala he had caught sight of the buzzard and lost control of the car.
“I think Ann is up to something,” he went on.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what she’s like. I talked to her this morning and she was being all cryptic. It was like she was having trouble talking to me, as if she was hiding something.”
“Like what?” Haver asked and sat down on a chair next to the bed. He trusted his colleague’s tracking instinct and could imagine how he had picked up on Lindell’s behavior. Haver also knew Lindell so well that he took her intuition seriously. It had brought success to many previous investigations.
“I don’t know what it was, but it was something,” Fredriksson said.
“Nothing concrete?”
“No, not at all, just hints.”
Ola Haver dropped the topic.
“I’m going to call Otto,” he said. “You’ll manage now, won’t you? They’re probably going to slice you open tonight.”
Fredriksson smiled faintly.
“Has Majsan been here?”
“She’s been here the whole time,” Haver said. “She’s having a cup of coffee in the cafeteria right now.”
Fredriksson shut his eyes as soon as Ola Haver had left the room.
Forty
“Now you die,” echoed in Ann Lindell’s head. The words resounded again and again as she slowly floated up to the surface of consciousness. It was a long return, edged with a searing pain and confused words that circled like black birds above her head.
She took stock of the situation, how she had plunged down the stairs and landed among bottles and boxes. She had registered glass shattering against the floor and how everything at that point went dark.
Blood was trickling down one cheek. The birds shrieked. Her right shoulder was throbbing. “Now you die.” She stretched out the uninjured arm and fumbled for the flashlight. The concrete floor was littered with slivers of glass. She cut herself and cried out.
The basement was dark. It smelled stale, raw, and moldy. There are probably a lot of vermin in this place, she thought groggily, and imagined long-legged spiders crawling over her body, and she dragged herself into a half-sitting position.
The Cruel Stars of the Night Page 28
