* * *
Lindell knew she had to do something. And Klara Lovisa’s disappearance was something. Otherwise she would only obsess about Brant.
She left the police station, got in the car, and drove north on Svartbäcksgatan. An hour later she was there.
Eleven
It started like a play with comic elements and ended as a tragedy.
By late afternoon the exchange of words had already escalated. Powerful explosions, outbursts of fireworks, interleaved the quarrel, which played out over several hours, coming in waves, temporarily subsiding, then suddenly picking up again with renewed energy and intensity.
The curtain that was gradually lowered by the setting sun made no difference. The men seemed inexhaustible. What was the quarrel about? Impossible to say. Anders Brant could only sporadically make out what was being said, and perhaps it was long-term accumulated enmity about a number of unrelated things that now exploded; when one conflict was thrashed out, the next one began.
Alcohol was surely fueling the flames. At one point Anders Brant saw one of the men disappear down the street and return a short time later with a bottle of Mulata Boa. He recognized the label at a distance: a seductive mulatto in a bikini strutting and holding up a bottle.
The bottle was passed around. In that respect no distinction was made between the different parties; everyone got their allotted share of the devastatingly strong liquor.
It was like a staged play, with actors who were only periodically visible on the stage. A stage which once had been a floor and now nothing more than a concrete surface, exposed to sun and heavy downpours, covered with miscellaneous junk: some rusty tin cans with plants, a stack of iron pipe, broken lounge chairs, a parasol without canvas, a cracked toilet seat, and much more which in other countries would have gone to the dump.
He had been drawn to the window by the furious shouting, went back to the computer, but then returned to his lookout point. There was something engaging about the whole thing, as if it wasn’t serious, as if they were just performing a stage play, and only for him. It would not look good if the only available audience left.
During the entire performance three younger men acted, going in and out of the part of the building that was still somewhat intact. An older man sat in a discarded beach chair placed against a wall. He did not take part in the exchange of words, but followed it attentively, twisting his head as if he was watching a tennis match. And then the woman, the one who was now screaming in agony. During the quarrel she had tried to mediate at first, but was finally drawn into the dispute. It was hard for him to determine which party she favored. Perhaps her loyalty shifted?
When the fireworks were at their most intense the parties took a break. One of the men, perhaps the one now stretched out in the alley, laughed at one point and said something to the old man in the beach chair, who joined in the laughter and did a thumbs up, a gesture that could mean anything in this country—a greeting, general approval, or a positive response to a direct question.
Now he was no longer laughing. His neck was broken, you didn’t need to be medically trained to realize that. The old man got up from the beach chair and stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where the young man had stood before.
It was murder. Anders Brant had seen the hand. Or was no one there?
“He was pushed!” he called out in Swedish, without thinking about it. The old man heard the scream and raised his eyes.
Or what had he seen? He glanced at the sky as if to check whether this might involve some kind of weather phenomenon. There was a full moon and perhaps some clouds had quickly moved past and placed a temporary curtain over the moon, and in doing so created this shadow-like, reptilian movement. But no, the sky was clear and innocent, the moon a secure cheese-yellow.
True, the light from the street was faint and only cast a pale glow over the remains of the building, but from his outlook, a window perhaps six meters right above the alley and a few meters above the level from which the man fell down, he had the best imaginable view. It was not a mirage!
Perhaps it was not a premeditated act, with an intent to kill, but the hand had pushed mercilessly. It must have made contact somewhere between the shoulder blades. So if not homicide, then it was manslaughter.
No muscular strength was required, as the man who gyrated down and broke his neck against the stone of the alley had been leaning over the low wall with his center of gravity past the top, which perhaps reached his thigh. A little tap, then it was done.
The perpetrator had been hidden behind a higher section of wall, what had once held up a roof, and not all that long ago.
So easy to kill, it struck him, as he observed the commotion in the alley. It was an old truth, a blow that goes wrong, an antagonist who takes a bad fall, then it’s over.
He was strangely calm, even though a human being had just died before his eyes. He registered it all with ice-cold precision: the old woman who came running; the excited children—where did they come from, so many, so quickly?—loudly babbling and gesticulating; the crowd at the bus stop at the corner where the alley came out at the main street, curious, their necks craned, but not wanting to miss the bus; the woman who stood leaning over the wall and screamed uncontrollably; and then the man, the one who stepped out of the darkness, placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder and said something. Was it him? Was that the hand, which now consoled, but which half a minute ago was an instrument of death?
Out of the dead man’s mouth and ears blood was running over the uneven cobblestones, blood mixed with the white paint that had spilled the night before and stained the pavement.
Anders Brant happened to think of peppermint sticks. Then he raised his eyes and looked at the man again. He was still standing quite passively, with his hand on the woman’s shoulder. The question was whether he had looked over the edge of the wall at all. Suddenly he removed his hand from the woman’s shoulder and made a gesture that could mean anything at all. He threw out his arms and lowered his head as in prayer; he looked almost dejected.
Then he raised his head and met the gringo’s eyes for a few moments, before he unexpectedly smiled, turned on his heels and in a shuffling gait disappeared into the ruins, as if he was completely exhausted.
He was part of the multitude of homeless, one of many in this country. Was he a killer? Who was the man in the alley? Were they related to each other?
Anders Brant forced himself to look down at the corpse once again, which someone had now turned on his back. Brant could see the whites of his eyes shining. His hands were resting against the surface, with the palms open and fingers extended. Perhaps they were brothers; there was a certain resemblance.
Someone pulled out a cardboard box from the pile by the wall. Perhaps the man had picked it up himself. The family that was staying in the half-razed building collected junk. Brant understood that from the carts in the alley.
Now a cardboard box that had once contained a Consul brand freezer became his shroud.
The sound of sirens came closer and closer, and soon a police car drove into the alley. The blue light on top was pulsing. Two men got out and stood quietly for a few moments observing the scene, before they went up to the body. The one pushed the box aside with his foot.
Should I go down, he wondered.
The other policeman peered up toward the facade, looked indifferently at the woman who was draped over the wall, in utter despair, no longer capable of screaming out her desperation. Anders Brant saw her upper body contract as if in convulsions.
“Is this your husband?” the policeman shouted, but got no answer.
A man from the crowd took a few steps toward the policeman and said something, pointed at the lifeless body and then toward the building.
I am actually a witness, perhaps the only one, Anders Brant continued reasoning to himself. Should I tell about the argument and the hand I thought I saw?
Suddenly the old man, the one Anders Brant had seen sitting in the beach chai
r earlier, stepped forward. A woman sobbed and tried to hold him back, but he freed himself and with stiff joints fell laboriously down on his knees beside the dead man. He extended his hand and closed the wide-open eyes.
The crowd was quiet. The one policeman crossed himself and that served as a signal for the others, who all crossed themselves.
Even the traffic stopped before the calm that spread out over the alley.
The old man placed his hand on the dead man’s chest, held it there several seconds before he pulled himself up in a standing position, with the assistance of helping hands.
“The gringo is crying,” shouted one of the boys in the crowd and pointed.
* * *
Anders Brant closed the window, backed into the room, and sank down in front of the computer, just as it was going into sleep mode.
The voices on the street had become louder, the death had become a concern for the whole neighborhood, the minimal favela that was interspersed among the more regular construction.
He had stayed at the simple but well-run pousada on many occasions over the years and could study how the surroundings had changed. The first few years he was often afraid about coming home too late, always took a taxi up to the entry. He never carried large amounts of cash, and definitely no rings or gold chains around his neck.
The horror stories of robbery and assault marked his initial time in the city. Now after several trips in the country he was experienced, knew how to behave, and security had also gradually improved.
The death in the alley of course did not fundamentally change conditions in the area, but he was still brought back to the aching uncertainty of earlier years. He had experienced a murder, he no longer doubted that he had been a witness to a violent crime. The hand had been there, the shove likewise.
What frightened him, and made him increasingly agitated, was the man’s indifference. Even the hand on the woman’s shoulder seemed like a mechanical action without any deeper meaning, scornful.
Then the smile, when he left the woman alone by the wall. He had looked down across the gap of the alley, observed the gringo in the window, and then smiled. What was the meaning of that? Perhaps it was a grimace, of disgust or sudden pain, perhaps of regret?
The man’s serene calm was the most frightening. The message was clear: I know you saw what happened, but that doesn’t matter. No one will believe you, and more important: You will never dare say anything. It was a concealed threat, that was becoming increasingly obvious to Brant.
He moved nervously in the creaking chair, considered peeking out, but did not want to expose himself more. The boy’s shout that he was crying, moved as he had been by the old man’s clumsy but also very dignified manner, created an unwelcome interest in his presence.
Perhaps the police would pay a visit? What should he say? That he was drawn to the window by the noise that the crowd was making and had not seen any of the preliminaries?
The incident would of course affect his remaining time in the city and definitely his writing. He was known for writing sharp, but somewhat dry and factual prose. He did not try to fan the flames, but instead let facts speak for themselves. Would he be able to describe the situation of the homeless in this country in his quiet way, an assignment for the Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter that would surely produce enough surplus material for several more articles?
Could he simply take the incident in the alley—now in his mind it was an “incident,” not a murder—as the starting point for the article? Could he do that without mentioning his own passive but still central role in the drama?
He got up from the chair, forced himself not to look out, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The usual, secure puttering with the coffeemaker, the characteristic aroma of the scouring powder the landlady had used all these years to clean the floor, and the liberating feeling that the kitchen window faced in toward the courtyard, all together meant that he relaxed somewhat.
But the worry came back: When thoughts of the “incident” were pushed aside by everyday impressions, he returned in his mind to why he originally sat down at the computer. It was not often he turned on his cell phone, and this time among all the expected reminders and inquiries there was Ann’s brief message, distinguished both by the slightly desperate tone and the affectionless address. She had not even added an “XOX.”
What could get her, a woman he had gotten to know as a very level-headed person without a lot of fuss, to send such a message? Only one thing. And he felt very tired, perhaps even scared, even if he did everything to stow that feeling away in a distant, inner corner.
He had meant to send an e-mail and try to explain his headlong flight from home, in any event present some kind of half-truth. She certainly perceived it as running away, what else could be expected?
Could he explain how it all fit together, and do that without having her push him away? A single mistake and he would be punished. Because there was a punishment waiting. He feared that he had definitively lost Ann, a woman who in a rare, unexpected way had taken hold in him.
When had she figured out the truth? And how? Did she know the whole truth? He didn’t know. If she had only given him a little more information in her message, it would have felt better. And how successful would it be to offer a half-truth if the whole picture was now clear to her? He would be exposed immediately as a notorious liar.
“Isn’t that what I am?” he asked himself.
The water started boiling and he made his coffee; sat down at the kitchen table, listened out toward the alley, where it was still noisy.
I’ll wait, he decided, and immediately felt better.
Twelve
The coffee shop outside Laxå was just as rundown as the exterior promised. Håkan Malmberg had hoped for a surprise, that the cracked canary-yellow paneling, the rusty sheet metal roof, and the misspelled sign along the side of the road was a front.
But the interior was even more decrepit, with broken chairs and tables, worn textiles, and incredibly dusty plastic flowers. The coffee was lukewarm and the cheese sandwich dry as dust, the only thing he dared buy because of the obvious risk of food poisoning where the other sandwiches were concerned, sweating behind a smudged plastic cover: meatballs with red beet salad and shrimp sandwiches swimming in mayonnaise.
He was alone in the place. He understood why.
Despite the meager snack, he felt satisfied and did not let himself be discouraged by the fact that he would probably need to stop for food once more before Uppsala.
It had been a fine trip, a mini-vacation of over a week. He went to Koster for the first time in his life and visited an old acquaintance who had moved there permanently, spent a few days in Gothenburg, and unexpectedly ran into a childhood friend he had not seen for at least fifteen years. The last two days he camped at Kinnekulle, swam in ice-cold Lake Vänern, and finished the red wine he had bought in Gothenburg.
Now he turned on his cell phone for the first time since Koster. Five voicemails and eight missed calls.
He listened to the messages. The first few were not sensational, two from motorcycle buddies, who like him were out and about and wondered where in the world he was, two from his sister, who wanted help moving. The fifth message was all the more worrisome.
A woman from the police, Ann Lindell, was looking for him in “an urgent matter.” It was about Klara Lovisa.
Håkan Malmberg pushed aside the plate with the remains of the roll, got up immediately, and left the place.
“Bye now and welcome back,” a voice was heard, but he did not turn around and did not answer the greeting. There was nothing to say thank you for here either, he thought bitterly, suddenly enraged at the whole place. How the hell can you work in such a dive! Not even keep it clean. He resisted the impulse to go back in and scold the woman behind the counter.
“All these bitches can go to hell!”
* * *
It was more than a two-hour drive home. Just as he was kick-starting the moto
rcycle, he got the idea to turn west instead on E18 and go to Oslo. There he had bike buddies and could disappear for a week or two. Then maybe it would blow over. He had nothing waiting in Uppsala.
“She can move herself,” he muttered.
It was the third time in as many years that his sister was moving, always in the summer, and she always expected him to help out.
He pulled out on E20 and placed himself aggressively close to the centerline and the cars he would pull up alongside of and, one after another, put behind him on his ride.
Thirteen
Bernt Friberg’s and Gunilla Lange’s relationship could be summarized in a single word: skin.
They crept together like two animals in darkness. Gunilla breathed against his shoulder and he hid himself behind her ear.
He’s a fine person, Gunilla would think, when she heard his heavy breathing. She knew what he did during the day, felt the weight of his body, the twitching muscles.
I love you, Bernt might mumble, before he passed out.
The hours of skin counterbalanced much of what felt incomplete.
She stared into the darkness. They were lying close together, he with one leg over her thigh, she with her arm resting on his shoulder. It looked like any late evening, they always lay close together, wordlessly storing up skin from the other.
“What is it?” he said, twisting his head. She felt his words against her throat, and she heard that he was worried. Not angry, just worried, a feeling he often expressed in darkness.
“I’m thinking about Bosse,” she said without fear.
What else could she say? Betray Bosse by saying: “Nothing?”
“Don’t think like that,” he mumbled.
What do you mean by “like that,” she wondered.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Now you have me.”
Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery Page 9
