Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery

by Kjell Eriksson

  Thirty-four

  The mild summer rain dampened her cheeks. She knew she had to pull herself together, there was no other alternative. She slammed the car door behind her. I don’t even have an umbrella, she thought.

  Most of all she wanted to disappear in a fog, just go, leave everything, give up. But Erik was waiting. She had fled the police building, but she could not flee from her son.

  Emma’s mom, Carolina, came walking up. She lived nearby and could walk to the preschool. Ann Lindell opened the car door again, turned her back, and pretended to be looking for something in the front seat.

  “Hi, Ann, did you lose something?”

  I’m looking for a life, thought Ann, wanting to fall head-first into the car and just lie there, but straightened up and turned around.

  “Yes, a piece of paper,” she said.

  “Papers always disappear,” said Carolina. “It’s nice to get a little rain.”

  Ann thought so too, because it hid her tears.

  “Please excuse me,” she said. “I have to make a call.”

  “Sure, about dreadful murders, I understand,” Carolina said cheerfully, and left. When she came up to the day-care entrance, she turned around and called out something like “Have a nice weekend.” Ann waved back.

  Feeling ashamed, she picked up her cell phone. Who should I call? Who would want to listen to what I have to say? She did not even want to listen to herself, so why did she think anyone else would be interested? And what did she have to say? One word said it all: degradation. Maybe shame, even hate.

  She realized that Sammy knew, maybe even Morgansson. No, Sammy was not mean enough to tell the technician about her and Brant. But the very thought that Morgansson had gathered pubic and head hair with a tweezer from Brant’s bed, hair from a dark-haired woman, made her crazy with jealousy and bitterness. Hair that was now in a plastic bag as evidence of his duplicity.

  I’ll kill him, she thought, and she felt a new anxiety attack making her body cramp up.

  Over and over again she played the scene in her mind. How he had gone from her bed to the other woman, whispered words of love, pushed a pillow under the woman’s belly, caressed, licked, and penetrated her. Her too.

  What was her name? Ann wanted to know her name, what she looked like, and how old she was. Probably a young beauty, with a firm body and a smiling mouth. Maybe she was twining her legs around his back at just that moment, panting in his ear?

  Now of course he was sleeping with her in Brazil. Did they talk with each other about the policewoman in Uppsala? An escapade that didn’t mean anything, that would be forgotten and forgiven. She could hear him making his assurances.

  He declared his love to the dark-haired woman, whispered indecencies in her ear, made her laugh and willingly part her legs.

  She was riding him, sucking his cock, massaging his balls. Right at this moment.

  Lindell struck the roof of the car, stroked the finish with her hand and pushed away the raindrops in a wild dance, drawing air into her lungs. Hated. She wanted to throw up in his mouth, kick him, make him suffer.

  “I can’t take this,” she mumbled, but knew that there was no going back. Erik had to be picked up, fed, put to bed, woken up, and taken to daycare and school. Not just today, but every day—ten, fifteen years ahead. He would grow, become a teenager and a man, step out into life on his own two feet. She was the one who would guide that journey. It was her duty. Who else would do it? Who would ask about how she was doing? Who would take her hand and listen to her needs and wants? Who the hell would love her?

  “Are you still there?”

  Carolina’s voice, Emma’s talk, but Anna did not turn around, did not have the energy to be polite, remained leaning against the car. They could think what they wanted to. The rain picked up. Everything was damp. Drops pattered and divided into small cascades on the roof of the car. The asphalt shone black. The crowns of the trees in the little park outside the preschool were moved by a sudden breeze.

  She was submerged in grinding bitter thoughts, unaware of the rain and the world. Her inner drive belts were slackened, gears and wheels turned more and more slowly, there was no drive, the machinery was being turned off.

  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped.

  “Ann, what’s going on, don’t you feel well?”

  “I’m fine,” she blurted out.

  She closed her eyes, wanted to close everything out. Let me be, don’t talk to me, don’t touch me.

  “Are you coming in? It’s raining. We are getting worried.”

  Suddenly Ann turned around and fell into the woman’s arms, sniffling and sobbing. Just then a car pulled up. It stopped right behind Ann’s and Sammy Nilsson got out.

  “Hi, what’s going on?”

  He was noticeably moved by the scene. Ann, his colleague and friend, helpless in an embrace outside the preschool.

  “I’m a colleague of Ann’s,” he continued.

  The woman nodded.

  “She’s not feeling well,” she said.

  “We’re having a tough time at work,” said Sammy. “I can take care of her. I’ll park her car here, then I’ll drive Ann and Erik home. She needs to rest.”

  “Will you do that? Do you know Erik?”

  He saw the relief in the preschool teacher’s face.

  “We’ve met,” Sammy answered, putting his hand in Ann’s jacket pocket and fishing out the car keys.

  Together they made sure that Ann got into Sammy’s car. The preschool teacher went to get Erik. After a few minutes he came running.

  “Hi, there,” said Sammy. “Your mom is a little sick. She has a tummy ache, so I’m going to drive you home.”

  Erik observed him big-eyed, then peeked carefully in the backseat where Ann was sitting. She tried to smile. The boy got into the car without a word. Maybe he thought it was exciting to ride in a newer, sportier car than his mom’s.

  “Drive fast,” he said, as he put on the seatbelt. “Mom never does.”

  Sammy nodded and turned out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  He took command immediately and bedded Ann down on the couch in the living room, draped a blanket over her, let Erik feed her strawberry ice cream. It was good for her stomach, Sammy said. Ann looked at them with sad eyes. Erik held out a spoonful of ice cream and she swallowed dutifully.

  Her silence made Sammy Nilsson nervous. If only she had protested, but she let herself be fussed over. Wordlessly she lay there watching her son as if he were a person she had seen before but had not paid close attention to until now. Sometimes she let out a barely audible whimper or smiled faintly, as if she found herself seeing the comedy in the situation, being fed by a seven year old. But she continued opening her mouth and taking in spoonful after spoonful. At last she held up her hand.

  “Now I think her tummy feels better,” said Sammy.

  “Thanks,” Ann whispered, reaching for the boy with an awkward motion, but too late, he had already slipped away with the container of ice cream.

  Sammy heard him open the freezer and put the ice cream back.

  “I’ll stick around awhile,” said Sammy.

  “I’m a piece of shit,” Ann hissed.

  Sammy understood that she was trying to whisper, but that something went wrong. He shook his head.

  “Yes, letting myself be deceived like that.”

  They heard Erik turn on the computer in his room and then the clamorous sound of a computer game.

  She was stretched out on the couch. The blanket moved very slightly when she breathed. Her bare feet were sticking out at one end, and it occurred to Sammy that all that was missing was a thread around one toe, a thread with a tag and a number written on it.

  “Hold me,” she said quietly, this time with better control over her voice.

  He reached out his hand and stroked her wet hair.

  “We’ll manage this,” he said.

  “You knew,” she murmured.

 
Sammy nodded.

  “Morgansson and I were there, you know.”

  He could not deny that he had seen the package of condoms, the dark hairs, and the semen stains in Brant’s bed, even though it increased her torment that he had known, while she only sensed that something was very wrong.

  “But you didn’t say anything! What a fool I am!”

  “Lie down,” said Sammy, with a touch of irritation in his voice, because while he knew that treachery was the worst blow a person in love could be subjected to, he could not help feeling that her self-pity was tiresome.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s pitiful, but I was really in love. For the first time since Edvard, and that feels like a hundred years ago.”

  There was desperation in her voice, but Sammy was glad that she was talking at all. For a time he feared she would sink into a trance-like state, which would require different measures than he could contribute.

  “Do you want to call anyone? Your friend, what’s her name? Görel?”

  “No, not her,” said Ann.

  She closed her eyes; he continued stroking her hair. It was as if the two of them were calming each other. From Erik’s room plinging and clamor was heard from the computer.

  “Take a few days off. I know it sounds silly, but you need to rest. You’ll have more energy, and things will look different.”

  “I can’t,” said Ann.

  “You can’t go on like this, with this tension, and you know it too. You’ll break down.”

  “Work is the only thing I have outside these walls,” Ann replied, opening her eyes.

  “That’s what’s wrong.”

  “I’ve tried,” Ann sobbed.

  “I know,” said Sammy. “I know you’ve struggled. But have you done it in the right way, on the right grounds, and with the right means?”

  Instead of answering she raised herself up on her forearms and started telling about the experience of finding Klara Lovisa, about how at the edge of the pit she promised Klara Lovisa to find her murderer.

  “We shouldn’t make those kinds of promises,” said Sammy. “That’s the sort of thing that hollows us out.”

  Ann shook her head and sank back on the couch, closed her eyes, and grimaced in pain.

  “Should I go get some pizza?” Sammy asked after a while.

  Ann opened her eyes in confusion. She looked dazed and was barely able to keep her eyes on him. Sammy realized that for a few seconds she had been somewhere else.

  “I’ll take Erik and get some pizzas, okay? We have to get a little food in our stomachs. I’ll call home and say—”

  “Not a word about me!”

  “I’m working late,” he said, smiling. “Angelika will understand.”

  She observed him thoughtfully a moment before her gaze fluttered away, and he realized that she was trying to imagine a man she could call, a man who would understand.

  * * *

  Erik did not go with Sammy to the pizza parlor, but instead stayed in front of his computer. He did not seem to understand how far down his mother had fallen into the black hole at whose edge she had tottered for so long.

  Or else he did understand, thought Sammy, in that instinctive way children have. Maybe he had seen the tottering, seen her torment, and now he was silently rallying by her side, and by not showing any visible worry he was safeguarding their day-to-day life, the fixed points that Ann could connect to. If she lost her footing, he would stand steady.

  They were eating at the kitchen table. Sammy asked questions about what Erik thought about starting school in August. Erik explained that he already knew all the letters and could read, and that he was not a bit nervous.

  Sammy observed Ann. She cut up her pizza with slow movements and ate slowly. But at least she’s eating, he thought, and wondered what he would do. He had called home and explained the situation, and that he did not want to leave Ann alone. He understood that she did not want to contact anyone who might come and keep her company. Ann had always been careful to show a controlled exterior. She was the one who could manage everything—work, Erik, and being single—without cracks. It was bad enough that at the preschool they had seen her fall apart.

  That she was extremely bad at talking about herself, her needs and desires, Sammy believed was one reason for her problems. He had never heard her talk about dreams and plans for the future, never about desire and men, at least not more than in brief, self-ironic comments that she nonchalantly threw out in passing. But he had seen through her for years. Behind the self-sufficient, cocky surface, tumult reigned. Alarm bells were ringing inside Ann Lindell.

  She never invited anyone over, never flirted, seldom took any initiative to break her isolation. Instead she sat at home, swilled wine, and gnawed on the bones of loneliness. He knew that Olofsson had discussed her drinking habits with her, most likely very cautiously in his low-key way, careful not to criticize her. He had also discussed the issue with Sammy in confidence, and had been worried and irresolute. That was two or three years ago, when Ann’s life appeared to be falling apart, when she showed up hollow-eyed and uninspired almost every morning.

  Ann put down her knife and fork after forcing down half a pizza and now sat and observed Erik putting away the last pieces of his. It was slow going, but he seemed to be making an effort not to leave a single crumb on his plate.

  “Well done,” said Sammy.

  Erik gave him a smile. Sammy realized how like his mother he was, that slightly wry smile and momentary expression of mockery in his eyes, a moment that in Ann’s case could light up the darkest corners, and that made people smile back. Sammy could not remember when he had last seen that in her face.

  But Erik’s smile made him remember what it was like when Ann came to the unit. Then she shone; she was eager and curious, she loved life, and could not get enough. The contrast to the Ann of the last few years was suddenly so clear. Life had truly treated her roughly. Sammy took a deep breath to conceal his emotion, got up, and started clearing the table. He turned his back to them, moved by how things were for all of them, how fragile life was, how those few seconds of the deepest warmth and love in life so easily and so often were crossed by pain and desperate fumbling.

  He scraped off the plates and rinsed them, to break the silence with rattling and the rushing of water, painfully aware that after all it was these moments of connection and perceived love that were the only things that could save a person, that made you a person. All the rest was struggle. All talk about work satisfaction was bullshit, if the other person wasn’t there. At arm’s length or on the other side of the ocean made no difference, if only the other person was there. But even as he was thinking that, it felt like a simplification, almost a lie.

  “Maybe love is all” he had heard a choir sing once, at Culture Night many years ago. He and Angelika were on the square listening in a downpour. Then, even though Angelika took his hand and squeezed it, the words felt false, but the phrase had taken hold in his mind. Now he didn’t know what to think. Every person was the designer of his own life. There was no solution that suited everyone. But was love really all?

  Ann’s transformation was a deconstruction. She was slowly but surely collapsing; she struggled against it but the collapse continued. The moments of joy, eagerness, and curiosity had been replaced by duty; only if she solved the murder of Klara Lovisa would her existence be justified, but Sammy knew from his own experience that the satisfaction was shallow; only if she was able to give Erik love and care, bring him up to be a well-adjusted person, then her life would be meaningful, but Sammy sensed that the task in itself was no guarantee that she herself would feel like a whole person. There were many things troubling her.

  He was roused from his thoughts by Erik, who thanked him for dinner and left the kitchen to resume his computer game.

  Ann was still at the table. Sammy felt her gaze and guessed what she was thinking.

  “I have a dishwasher,” she said suddenly.

  Sammy turned his hea
d and smiled.

  “I like doing dishes.”

  He folded up the pizza cartons and scrunched them into the trash bag, wiped off the table and counter, and closed the door to the hall, before sitting down across from her.

  “Tell me about Brant’s work with Russia,” he said.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Ann answered after a moment’s hesitation, “other than that he’s been there. He doesn’t like the country, that much I understood. What about it?”

  Sammy did not know whether this was the right tactic, but he hoped that by disrupting her line of thought he could get her to talk about Brant from a police perspective, and then perhaps bring up their brief but intense relationship. He was convinced that it was in conversation, in talking about what she had experienced and felt, that she might find relief.

  He told about Jeremias Kumlin’s business deals, the little he knew, and Henrietta Kumlin’s conviction that it was a Russian who had murdered her husband.

  “What does this have to do with Brant?”

  “He’s been in Russia, he’s an investigative journalist. In his apartment we found material about Russia—books, lots of computer printouts, newspaper clippings, and such.”

  “You think that Brant ran into Kumlin there?”

  “Or his deals, shady or not. He did know Kumlin.”

  “You want to link him to the murder of Gränsberg and Kumlin?”

  Sammy shook his head.

  “At first I thought he had something to do with the murder of Gränsberg, but not now. I guess he’s in Brazil, right? He hasn’t come back, has he?”

  “No, not as far as I know.”

  They sat quietly for a moment and Sammy assumed that Lindell too was thinking about the possibility that Brant had quietly returned.

  “We’ve found his fingerprints in Ingegerd Melander’s apartment, so he’s certainly still relevant in the investigation. He has connections to both Gränsberg and Melander, and through bandy to Kumlin. He e-mailed you that he had interviewed Gränsberg for an article about the homeless, and it is conceivable that he was at Melander’s to meet him on the job, so to speak.”