Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery

by Kjell Eriksson

  Johnny stood by the window and looked out toward the yard, but turned around when Brant came into the kitchen.

  “You thought you could fool me,” said Johnny, smiling, and perhaps it was Johnny’s calm that frightened Anders Brant the most.

  “The cops are coming,” said Johnny. “I recognized them right away. The bitch that questioned me forgot to hide her fat ass.”

  Anders Brant looked around, Johnny rushed forward, took hold of one arm, and threw him down on the floor in a single motion. The pain from his head and the recently repaired ear was indescribable. The scream surprised himself. He perceived the astonished look on Johnny, a surprise that changed to an expression of triumph.

  “No bastard can fool me!”

  Johnny aimed a kick at his crotch, but Brant had instinctively drawn up his legs and turned to the side so that the kick hit one kneecap.

  The next one hit near his kidneys. I’ll die in my own kitchen, thought Anders Brant. He tried to crawl under the kitchen table. The pain and the shock made him belch up something sour. He had the harsh taste of airplane coffee in his mouth.

  Another kick drove him closer to the wall. Johnny turned the table over. A knife that had been on the table rattled on the floor alongside Brant. Johnny immediately reached for it, held it up in front of Brant’s face and sneered at him.

  “I can pay!” Brant shouted.

  Johnny Andersson looked surprised for a moment.

  “What should you pay for? Pay to keep on writing shit about us?”

  Johnny’s face was disfigured by hatred. He spit out the words.

  “I’m writing—”

  “Parasite,” Johnny screamed. “What do you know about me, about us? Not shit! Lies!”

  He raised the knife. Now comes the punishment, thought Brant. He saw Vanessa’s closed face before him.

  Johnny Andersson smiled, aimed the knife, and made a couple of stabs in the air as if he were playing with him. Then he cut Brant on the face. A rapid movement, no pain, just blood that ran down over his face.

  Fifty-two

  “Damn, it stinks,” Riis muttered.

  “Honeysuckle,” said Beatrice Andersson. “Are you allergic?”

  Riis did not reply and she did not expect him to either.

  They were standing behind a screen of climbing plants that enclosed a play area. They were keeping an eye on Anders Brant’s backyard. Second entry from the left, one flight up, according to Sammy Nilsson.

  Two patrol officers were placed at the end and prepared to intervene if needed. Beatrice felt confident. The one, Conny Holmlund, was Swedish police champion on the low hurdles. True, that was a few years ago, but she was sure he could still catch up with anyone trying to get away.

  The idea was that two colleagues from the uniformed police, but in civilian clothes, would go up to the apartment and get an impression of what Brant’s call was about. Sammy Nilsson, whom Johnny had met and would surely recognize, would wait a half-flight down. If no one opened, they would go in with the key Sammy had appropriated after a brief, heated discussion with the building manager.

  “That journalist,” said Riis.

  “Yes, what about him?” said Beatrice.

  There was a crackle on the radio. Sammy Nilsson’s voice: “Screams from the apartment, a fucking commotion. We’re going in.”

  The radio was silent.

  “I think he’s screwing Lindell,” said Riis. “I saw them when I donated blood at the hospital.”

  “Are you a blood donor?”

  Beatrice’s surprise was unfeigned. That Riis would donate blood was completely improbable; it was the first time she had heard of Riis performing a philanthropic act.

  “Are we going to hang around?”

  Riis left their hiding place and set off toward the outside door. Beatrice followed after a few moments of hesitation.

  * * *

  When Sammy Nilsson called her, Ann Lindell had just sat down at the Café Savoy with a cup of coffee and a filled doughnut. She had gone there to try to dampen her fury over Håkan Malmberg’s arrogance, his scornful sneer, and his parting words.

  That he would slink out of the net was an appalling thought. She had expended a lot of energy and much thought to Klara Lovisa’s fate. Twice she thought she had solved the case, but saw her hopes dashed.

  Besides, she hated herself for having felt attracted to the tall motorcycle rider the first time they met. She realized that he had read her thoughts and now could mock her that way too.

  She pushed aside the cup of coffee. Johnny Andersson at Anders Brant’s apartment, Sammy’s message said. She had heard about Johnny’s escapades at the Tuna allotment gardens and how he came climbing up the stairs from the river just south of the New Bridge, jumped right into traffic, a stopped a car on West Ågatan, forced the driver out, and without further ado took possession of the car. The car was found twenty minutes later on Svartbäcksgatan, crashed into a tree. According to the witness the driver had left the scene running east on Sköldungagatan.

  From Savoy it was not far to Svartbäcken and when Ann Lindell arrived she saw Beatrice Andersson and Riis rushing out of their hiding place and running toward the back entrance. Lindell drove up onto the grass to quickly park, leap out of the car, and follow her colleagues.

  In the stairwell clamor and yelling was heard. Between the thin railing she glimpsed Bea’s legs disappearing through a door. At the same moment a shot rang out, immediately followed by a howl. It was Sammy Nilsson’s voice. Lindell ran up the half-stair and into the apartment.

  The odor of gunpowder. Once before she and Sammy Nilsson had been involved in gunfire. That time a man had died, shot in the head by her.

  * * *

  In the report that Sammy Nilsson wrote that evening he described, in the best police prose, how the kitchen floor was “bathed in blood.” Ottosson asked him to change the formulation. He thought it was more likely Anders Brant and Johnny Andersson who were bathing in blood on the floor.

  Johnny Andersson was lying with his head at a strange angle toward the radiator under the window. The strange thing was that he had Brant’s checkered shirt on, the one he’d had on the first time he came to see her. Johnny’s eyes were unfocused. Shock, thought Lindell.

  The other body was only visible from the waist down, but Lindell knew who it was. She recognized Anders Brant’s worn sandals.

  Sammy said something she did not catch. Johnny Andersson turned his head a little and spit blood out of his mouth.

  Riis was on his knees, leaning over Anders Brant.

  “That looks really bad,” he shouted. “See about getting a couple of ambulances here. As soon as possible!”

  “Ambulance en route,” said Beatrice.

  The odor of gunpowder was mixed with the raw smell of blood.

  For a few moments a kind of stillness rested over the kitchen, before Beatrice rushed in, pulled on her plastic gloves, crouched next to Johnny Andersson, put her hand under his neck, and moved his body somewhat so that the head was at a more comfortable angle. Then she started unbuttoning the shirt that was already stained dark with blood.

  “I need bandages!” shouted Riis. “He’s bleeding like a pig. He has abdominal injuries too. I think he’s dying.”

  The ambulance sirens came closer and closer. Sammy Nilsson had lowered his gun but remained standing in the doorway. One of the patrol officers took the pistol from his hand.

  Ann Lindell registered all of this before she turned on her heels, went into the bedroom, and sank down on the bed.

  Fifty-three

  “Often all it takes is a single stab for a person to stay lying down for good,” said the surgeon.

  The surgeon Bertil Friis told that Anders Brant had been stabbed nineteen times—four on his arms, one in the throat, six on his legs, and eight on his upper body, not counting the cut on his face. He had lost more blood than anyone Friis had heard of. The injuries in his abdomen were the most serious.

  Several
times during the operation the doctor thought about the foreign minister Anna Lindh, who with similar injuries had been lost on the operating table. Brant’s injuries were even more extensive.

  For eight hours the surgical team was at it, a total of four doctors and just as many nurses.

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “We don’t dare say anything.”

  Although the doctor was beyond tired, he did everything to appear fresh, but hinted that it wasn’t going that well. The woman before him also looked hollow-eyed, to say the least.

  “Are you related to Anders Brant?”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  She stared at him as if it were his fault the prognosis was uncertain.

  “Police,” said Friis.

  Ann Lindell nodded.

  “I want you to save that man,” she said, and then turned on her heels and went her way.

  Sammy Nilsson caught her just as she came out in the fresh air. It was an unusually lovely day. Right outside the entry stood a group of smokers.

  “I wish I smoked,” he said, mostly to have something to say.

  Lindell tried to smile. She appreciated his concern. Ever since the bloody showdown in Brant’s apartment, he had followed her closely. It struck her that perhaps this was also for his own sake. He was the one who fired the shot that dropped Johnny Andersson. Johnny’s life was not in danger, and he would not have lasting injuries, but a policeman is normally put on leave after a shooting.

  That was also Ottosson’s obvious decision, but nothing could keep Sammy Nilsson from keeping Lindell company. They could say that the visit to the hospital was personal.

  “Will he make it?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Will you make it?”

  “I have to pick up Erik,” said Lindell.

  Görel had picked him up at preschool and Lindell knew that Erik was not lacking for anything, but she had a bad conscience anyway.

  They stood quietly a moment. Sammy Nilsson let out a big yawn. The group of smokers broke up. A great emptiness came over Ann Lindell, as if she were only a walking shell.

  She slipped her arm behind Sammy’s back and leaned her head against his arm.

  “He’ll make it,” said Sammy.

  Autumn

  Anders Brant crept next to her. His thin body was shaking. Ann Lindell realized that he had been dreaming. Perhaps he was still dreaming. He whimpered.

  Like so often they were lying front to back, usually him behind her, coiled together, naked.

  It was still dark outside. Ann did not want to lean over to check the time. She guessed four o’clock.

  The nights had been unsettled ever since he left the hospital. He had incorporated his anxiety, sleep betrayed him. Sometimes he woke up screaming, sweaty and filled with a pounding anxiety.

  Even his body failed him. He caressed her. He himself was often limp.

  Anders Brant spent the days in Ann’s apartment. He seldom went out.

  The texts flickered on his computer screen. He talked about what he was writing, and what he wanted to write, but Ann suspected that not much was getting accomplished.

  They had not talked about Vanessa. He mentioned her name, but nothing about their relationship, other than that he had left her for good.

  She wanted to believe him, chose to do so. His obvious helplessness made such hope easier. Earlier in the year, when they met and started their relationship, he was the stronger one. Now, after his return from Brazil, the knife attack, and the hospital stay, he was like a disheartened child.

  Many times she was irritated at his passivity, even at his anxiety, but also saw how he suffered, so she could never get really angry.

  One day when Ann came home, he was sitting on the balcony, smoking a cigarillo. That was the first time since he left the hospital. He had obviously not heard her, because he continued talking to himself, with himself, it looked like he was arguing with himself. He argued and gesticulated. She took that as a good sign.

  And gradually he had come back. At the end of September he had an article accepted in Aftonbladet, which made him, in Ann’s eyes, ridiculously exhilarated.

  * * *

  She needed to sleep, but realized there would not be much more of that. Carefully she slipped out of his grasp and left the bed, closing the door behind her and hoping that he would not wake up.

  The kitchen clock showed 5:14, much better than she had feared. The vigil before Erik would get up would not be very long. He was like a clock and always woke up around six thirty.

  She retrieved Upsala Nya Tidning and sat down at the kitchen table, but did not open the newspaper. Instead she sat with a cup of tea before her.

  In the morning the trial of Johnny Andersson would begin. He was indicted, in part, for two homicides and attempted homicide. During the first round of questioning he had already confessed that he clubbed down Bo Gränsberg. He had hidden the murder weapon, an iron pipe, in a pit, where it was later also recovered. The reason for their fight was the so-called Russian papers, which Gränsberg had stolen from Jeremias Kumlin’s house. Johnny, like Gränsberg, believed they were very valuable.

  When Johnny later looked up Jeremias Kumlin to blackmail him for not revealing the contents of the documents—he had threatened to go on TV—Kumlin laughed in his face. That laugh became his death.

  Henrietta Kumlin also identified Johnny Andersson as the “Russian,” the man who stood outside their villa in Sunnersta. Johnny had entered the garage and slept there. In the morning, when Kumlin came to get his car and go to Arlanda, Johnny was waiting in the semidarkness.

  Beatrice Andersson had expended great effort to bring clarity into what happened the night Ingegerd Melander died. Her theory that Johnny Andersson pushed her down the stairs could never be proven. If on the remaining points of the indictment he was, if not cooperative, at least grudgingly compliant, he loudly denied that he was responsible in any way for Ingegerd’s death. Johnny asserted that “you don’t kill an old lady,” which Beatrice was quick to point out was just what many do.

  Ann Lindell had nothing to do with the case. Anders Brant on the other hand would be called as a witness, but that would not happen for another day or two.

  * * *

  She opened the newspaper and read the headlines. The only thing that caught her interest was an assault in Årsta. A seventy-year-old homeowner had quarreled with his neighbor, about a tree branch that was hanging over the property line and which had caused discord for several years. The exchange of words ended with the retired bank official striking his antagonist on the head with a rake.

  Ann could not help but smile. There was something almost laughable in the fury of the middle class. In Johnny Andersson’s hatred and flashes of violence there was no comedy, his actions, his whole being, were only frightening. Now he had clearly resigned himself and was strangely silent. It seemed as if he wanted nothing more than to crawl into an institution for life.

  Suddenly the phone rang. She threw herself forward to stop a second signal from sounding.

  “Good morning, Forsberg here. Excuse me for bothering you so early, but something has come in that I think will interest you.”

  “I see.”

  “Håkan Malmberg is dead.”

  “What?”

  “It seems as if a kind of justice has been rendered. The girl’s father has confessed. He called half an hour ago. We sent a patrol car and it’s true. Malmberg is done.”

  “Klara Lovisa’s dad?”

  Could that little mouse-gray man have murdered the powerful Håkan Malmberg?

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He went to see Malmberg yesterday evening and shot him in the head. Then he sat with the dead man the whole night. Maybe he intended to shoot himself too but changed his mind. Allan Fredriksson is at the scene. He asked me to call you. True, it’s early, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

  * * *

  After the
call, Ann Lindell went out on the balcony.

  Håkan Malmberg was dead. In the end Klara Lovisa’s father, a taciturn man her own age, had snapped. How did he get hold of a gun?

  It suddenly struck her that perhaps he had murdered an innocent man. It had never been established that the thread in the shed really did come from Håkan Malmberg’s bandanna. The only thing that argued against Malmberg were his own words that Klara Lovisa had been buried. He had stubbornly maintained that he heard that from someone, but could not remember from whom, not when or where either.

  According to the prosecutor it could not be ruled out that he spoke the truth, and Håkan Malmberg went free. Now he was dead.

  Ann Lindell realized that she would never be certain who had murdered Klara Lovisa on her birthday.

  * * *

  On the balcony was the ashtray with three butts neatly lined up on the edge. There was also Aftonbladet open to Anders’s article. He had made notes in the margin, underlined and crossed out. She read the introduction. It was clearly a polemic aimed at Green Motorists, an organization she had never heard of. But there were many things she did not know about in Brant’s world, what sugar cane looked like or a plundered rainforest, for example.

  Lindell understood that he was on his way back. What if he could write about Klara Lovisa, Gränsberg, Sammy Nilsson, me, and all the others? What Sammy Nilsson had talked about, what couldn’t be written.

  Leaning over the balcony railing she started to cry. Uppsala was bedded in a cold, gray October fog. The whole city was weeping.

  “Stay with me,” she whispered.

  Also by Kjell Eriksson

  The Hand That Trembles

  The Demon of Dakar

  The Cruel Stars of the Night

  The Princess of Burundi

  About the Author

  KJELL ERIKSSON is the author of the internationally acclaimed The Princess of Burundi, The Cruel Stars of the Night, The Demon of Dakar, and The Hand That Trembles. He won the Best Swedish Crime Novel Award for The Princess of Burundi, and his work has been honored by many other countries around the world. He lives in Sweden, France, and Brazil.