Then he started crying, uncontrollable weeping that made his body shake, and the sweat that broke out on his forehead underscored the impression of a fever attack.
Brant thought it was strange to watch the burly construction worker fall apart so completely before his eyes; it was as though he became several sizes smaller.
Brant was embarrassed, a little ashamed on Gränsberg’s behalf, but tried to calm him down, even went around the table and placed his arm around his shoulders, but Gränsberg was inconsolable. This unexpected reaction shook Brant; the former teammate had always seemed solid. Now he was crying like an abandoned child.
Finally Brant had to leave. By then Gränsberg had calmed down somewhat, but sat silently with a hollow gaze and his arms stretched across the table.
He felt like a deserter, even though he did not doubt the rightness of his decision for a second. During the drive home he thought about other ways to support the unfortunate man, who clearly had pinned such great hopes on their renewed contact. But he had no solutions, and to be honest, he firmly doubted the project Gränsberg so enthusiastically sketched and attached such hopes to. “This means my life,” he repeated several times.
There were also few people who could imagine investing money in a homeless person. Judging by appearances his ex-wife was an exception. Gränsberg mentioned being in contact with several banks, but had been rejected at an early stage.
Now it looked like he was in trouble with the police. And then mentioned his name! And in a context that evidently put him in a bad light, judging by the wording of the message. What was it that looked so bad? And returning to Sweden for that reason seemed terrible, to say the least.
When the initial surprise had abated, his irritation grew, not to mention his anger, at the tone of the message. Wasn’t she capable of seeing through an alcoholic homeless person’s fantasies and assertions? Did she really believe he was a corrupt journalist who let himself be bought and sold by anyone?
And then the aside that it looked bad for her too! As if, on the basis of loose talk, maybe Gränsberg had even had a relapse and gone on a bender, she would be soiled by the fact that the two of them had a relationship for a few weeks?
She did not want to believe he had anything to hide, but apparently she did. Anders Brant felt humiliated both as a professional and as a person, and that was a feeling he always struggled with. He was touchy, and he knew it, but had transformed that into a virtue, into fuel that could be used to take down an opponent without any scruples. But he never became irritable or sarcastic. In debates and in opinion pieces he displayed a reasonable tone that could be taken for wisdom and reflection. He would polish an article for days to bring out the apparently casual tone that marked his style. Razor sharp but light as a feather, sometimes almost forgiving, as if by charity he tossed off a few lines for the purpose of correcting an antagonist who had gone astray.
Deep inside however he was often furious, seldom forgot an injustice, and could strike back years after a superficially harmless discussion.
In that state of mind he sent an SMS. About the “experience” he did not write a word. Her interest in where, when, and who seemed completely sick in police terms, an occupational injury. She did not say a word about his troubles, not a word of encouragement. For her, murder was probably everyday fare.
* * *
Ever since his return from Itaberaba Anders Brant had been feverishly active, but without really getting anything accomplished. He could not find the peace of mind to write, and he cancelled two interviews he had previously scheduled with great difficulty. The most important one was with the provincial governor, a hard prey to catch, which he now voluntarily released.
The agrofuel article, commissioned by Aftonbladet, about which they had sent an inquiring e-mail just the day before, was half finished. He poked at it anyway but it would take a few more hours of work to put it into respectable shape, normally an easy match, but now he experienced it as a labor of Sisyphus.
He understood full well the source of his uneasiness. He had witnessed the murder of a homeless person, but had done nothing that might bring justice. He could have contacted the police, he was a credible witness, without personal interest either in the victim or the perpetrator. But he had not lifted a finger.
A homeless man who killed another homeless person, representatives of a group he had written about, collected solid material about in four countries, material that was meant to be compiled into a book.
It felt like a loss. As if the most impoverished killed each other while the injustices remained and increased. He had no illusions, because he had seen far too much irrationality, ignorance, and division among the oppressed and marginalized to be surprised. But that the wrath was so conspicuously directed inward and not against those who created the misery, made him deeply depressed.
On the personal level he had lulled a woman into false hopes, perhaps himself too, and then coarsely betrayed her. Vanessa was a good woman, he sensed that as soon as they met, a perception that only grew. She would have done him good, perhaps he could have been good for her too. They had all the prerequisites, he knew that. Yet he had gone his way. That he now left her in the lurch was a double betrayal besides, against her personally but also against the arrangement that he, colored by political opinions, supported more generally. He thought he betrayed the Brazil he loved when he left Itaberaba. It was an overwrought attitude; sure, love has other conditions than the economic world order, but still the feeling persisted that he seemed to have lost something fundamental, a foundation that crumbled and fell apart.
He felt more uncertain and experienced that he could not assert his opinion with the same precision and force. That was why the articles and interviews were on hold, he realized that. He was talking about the big picture, about the masses, to use an antiquated expression, but betrayed with premeditation a woman from this mass, a woman who without reservation had taken care of him.
His foundations were shaken. Depression, miscalculations, and dissatisfaction were not unusual, but this worry, downright existential anxiety, was new. His self-image had taken a serious blow.
And now, the icing on the cake, Ann’s desperate message.
Who was she? A police detective, certainly competent, mother of a bright boy, a woman who clearly had not had it easy on the personal level, who mentioned something about a couple of relationships relatively long ago.
Improbably enough she had connected with him, the journalist with a left-wing past, who saw the police department as a tool not only for maintenance of order on streets and squares and within the home, but also as a guarantor of the continued existence of the economic order, or rather disorder.
In the 1960s and 1970s there was talk about the apparatus of violence, and the police could easily be placed there. Police were brought in against demonstrators, to club them down and then take them to jail because they were “disturbing traffic.”
Those who questioned the arrangement had also been monitored during all periods, with their rights taken away by the secret police. Many cases were documented where irreproachable citizens lost positions and career opportunities due to a notation that labeled them as security risks. Perhaps because they participated in a summer camp arranged by a party on the left wing, or for a time subscribed to a certain periodical.
It was not hard for a left-wing sympathizer or even for a rights-conscious liberal to find evidence that the police were just such an apparatus for the maintenance of disorder.
In that machinery Ann Lindell was a cog.
He had fallen in love with that woman and for a few hectic weeks experienced great happiness. For that woman he had betrayed Vanessa.
“A pig,” he shouted, sitting in the kitchen, which had become his retreat when the noise from the street and the view from the living room, where he did his writing, constantly reminded him of the murder.
* * *
He reached for a sheet of paper, chose with care from the jar of pe
ns, and at last picked a red felt-tip pen. He usually used it to mark galley errors and changes in his articles. The easy, even flow of the pen, the distinct lines formed by the tip—size 0.3—and the sharp color, all contributed to a feeling of security and well-being.
With it he would now right himself. That he chose to write by hand and not on the computer felt appropriate. This was not a feature story or an opinion piece, but something very different, which would be brought forth in red, sharp style. What exactly remained to be seen.
He had, for his generation, unusually beautiful handwriting, and the introduction also turned out, according to what he spontaneously thought, if not beautiful, then promising anyway.
For an hour he sat hunched over the table, writing, virtually uninterrupted, before he took a short break to peel and cut up a mango, mixing the beautiful yellow fruit with the insides of a passion fruit and a couple of strands of flowing honey, his usual snack. This too was a routine.
He ate with good appetite and a newfound sense of well-being, while he skimmed what he had come up with, careful not to soil the blindingly white sheet with the red text in the strangely exquisite handwriting, and continued.
Sometimes he looked up. The sun that shone in through the open window moved gradually and bit by bit mercilessly revealed the untidy kitchen—the soiled counter, with an unwashed cutting board, stains on the floor, piles of dishes that threatened to overflow the sink, the drain covered with grains of rice, fruit peels and coffee grounds—and that created a rising discomfort, this messiness and dirt. He was also less focused, his handwriting deteriorated and likewise his prose.
When the sun reached the refrigerator, a snorting contraption that had been there all these years, and which worked more like a freezer, even though the control was turned down to a minimum, he chose to stop.
He carefully screwed the cap on the pen, childishly satisfied that he had chosen this very one, got up, went out into the living room, and up to the window, now better equipped to meet the sight of the wall where the drama, which had such a disastrous finale, had taken place.
The scene was calm; not a person was to be seen. A few garments on a line were all that indicated that there were people in this ruin.
The main street was also relatively quiet, an occasional bus came careening at full speed, braked abruptly at the stop, and then puffed away again. The fruit seller with his small business, squeezed up against a wall on the sidewalk, stood peering down the street; it looked like he was waiting for a particular customer.
The alley below was deserted. The white flecks of paint on the stone pavement had changed hue, but Brant did not want to believe that it was blood from the murdered man that made the paint darken.
A woman came walking up from the buildings at the top of the alley. He followed her with his eyes. The next woman who goes by, he thought, if the next woman who passes by has a white garment on, I’ll go back to Itaberaba and Vanessa. That’s how it will be, chance will have to decide, all the wisdom from his writing at the kitchen table fell away, and he was unexpectedly captivated by this idiotic thought experiment.
Now the chance, or risk, was great that the next person would be wearing a white garment. He glanced down toward the main street and could see that white overwhelmingly predominated.
Should I pick a different color, he wondered, but realized that he could not change colors. That was a whim, playing with the irrational, but once the thought had been formulated the whole thing suddenly became serious. Here and now my future will be decided, he thought, captured by the contingencies and excitement of chance.
Suddenly he thought he glimpsed a movement in the alley, but it was only a dog poking its nose in a pile of trash.
He waited; two, then three minutes passed. No one came by. It started more and more to resemble a drawn-out torture, he recalled all the contradictory thoughts that had darted through his brain the past few days. If he did return to Itaberaba, would Vanessa really take him in after having been so humiliated? Did he love Ann? What was it about her really that captivated him so? Could he ever live together with a police detective?
He leaned his forehead against the frame that surrounded the window, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
He started sweating, more and more tormented. Why, why did I get this stupid idea? He hardly dared look down at the alley anymore. With each second his game stood out as a threat.
At last he gathered his courage and looked out at the whole extent of the alley in a single sweeping motion, then yielded, and took a few steps away from the window.
“Now I’ll never know,” he murmured, filled with a strange mixture of relief and self-contempt.
Twenty-six
Four digging tools of various types, snow shovels included, were the average holdings of the five properties that Fredriksson and Nyman visited.
The first question they asked was whether any of the property owners thought they were missing any tools. Everyone understood the seriousness of the question. The news had quickly spread that the young girl who had been written about so much in the papers during the spring had been found in the area.
Sheds and outbuildings were inspected, all unlocked, the police noted, but no one thought they were missing anything.
While Nyman labeled and packed the tools in garbage bags they had brought along, a task that he performed with great zeal and with an enthusiasm that only a trainee can demonstrate, Fredriksson questioned the residents.
They reminded him of the three monkeys, Fredriksson said later, none of them had seen or heard anything, and none of them was particularly communicative. All of them were obviously sorry about the young girl’s tragic fate, but it was as though they thought it was a bad thing that the murder took place within their own domain.
“Did it really have to happen right here?” was an opinion that one of the villa owners expressed.
Another thought that now property prices would surely go down.
“Who wants to live where there’s been a murder?”
“The rate isn’t all that high,” Fredriksson objected, but the woman he was speaking with maintained with emphasis that “one thing leads to another.”
Nyman, who overheard the conversation, snorted and got a sharp look from the woman.
“You don’t know anything about the real world,” she said, turning her back to the two policemen.
* * *
The forensic investigation of the tools produced nothing. True, there was organic material on several of the spades, but nothing that could be directly linked to the discovery site. A concrete shovel had dark stains on the blade, but that turned out to be paint.
“If the murderer were so ice cold that he stole a spade and then returned it, he was certainly careful to remove all traces,” Nyman said sententiously, when together with Fredriksson he visited the tech squad. Eskil Ryde reported on the lack of anything substantial, and Nyman added something about waste of work time.
Fredriksson recalled a different tune when they were collecting the tools, but chose not to comment, aware that the old technician would surely take care of that.
“You don’t know squat, not about police work anyway,” said Ryde with such sharpness in his voice that Nyman thought better about making a reply.
Instead, his face turning beet red, he turned and left.
“Which fucking quota did he come in on?” Ryde asked.
Fredriksson shrugged his shoulders.
“We had a Nyman before, and he didn’t last long, do you remember?”
Fredriksson remembered. Through his work on the vice squad, Nyman the First had come in contact with an escort service that supplied young women as dinner companions as well as for more physical activities. That Nyman chose to close his eyes, and for his silence was offered services that he eagerly took advantage of. This went on for a few years before the whole thing was uncovered. Nyman was encouraged to resign, but the case was kept quiet, even though a young journalist at Upsala Nya Tidning
was on the trail of the “prostitution affair.”
There was whispering that the whole thing was too sensitive, as several bigwigs within the academic administration also made use of the services, not personally, but by supplying suitable telephone numbers to foreign guest lecturers, among others, in one case to a Nobel Prize winner unusually active for his age.
Whether all this was true neither Ryde nor Fredriksson knew, but they devoted a minute or two to it.
“But we have found something else,” said Ryde. “As you recall, there was a chair in the hut. The veneer on the back of the chair was cracked and there was a red thread stuck to it. I don’t know if this has anything to do with the case, but it’s the only foreign thing we’ve been able to find. Do you want to see it?”
Ryde took Fredriksson to Johannesson’s office, picked up a plastic bag from the desk, and held it out. Fredriksson viewed the thin thread.
“Cotton,” said Ryde. “Seven centimeters long. And it doesn’t come from the girl’s clothing.”
Fredriksson sighed. He realized that a thin thread was not much to go on, but did not want to disappoint Ryde. Because even though the technician was an experienced policeman, he often showed unbridled enthusiasm where the possibility of moving forward in an investigation was concerned, primarily if the basis was a detail that the tech squad had fished up.
“Nice,” said Fredriksson. “Now it’s just a matter of finding the rest of the garment.”
Ryde carelessly tossed the bag back on the desk.
“Of course you will,” he said and smiled.
“Okay, Eskil, I’ll send Nyman up. He gets to escort the spades back.” Fredriksson concluded his visit to the tech squad and left a contented Ryde.
Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery Page 18
