He conversed for a while with the blackbird, which so unexpectedly found its way home. Bertil took that as a sign that there was still time, not hope exactly, but a reprieve anyway, together they would get to experience one more spring and summer. His anxiety subsided a little. He saw his neighbor disappear into his house. We’re relics, he thought, old-timers on the way out. One morning we will no longer exist, but that will be in the winter, when the birds have fallen silent. No one would sit with him, he would die alone, he understood that, it was as if inlaid in his system. No one would keep him company once he’d grown cold, the way people did before.
Of course there were things he regretted, but it wasn’t possible to put things right after the fact. Astrid had been saying that for decades. His sister knew, had always known, but loyally kept silent. She was actually the wisest person he had encountered in the village, not counting old schoolteacher Gauffin.
“I’ll go to the police,” he said out loud to himself, stealing a glance at the bottle, but let it stay there. Perhaps he would finish the day by emptying the last third. On the other hand he did take the glasses in and washed them before he got ready in the bathroom.
Thirty-Three
When he was passing Hökhuvud he called Ann. He heard the news blaring in the background. The whole country probably has the TV on. She sounded tired, but wished she could go with him to the Rönn brothers, like before, when she and Sammy were a couple, as she put it.
Ann thought a solo raid was a dumb idea. “A SWAT team would only make matters worse,” said Sammy, even though he wasn’t sure of that. “And I want something to happen.”
They talked for several minutes. He was happy that she didn’t ask where he’d spent the night.
After clicking off the call he phoned Bodin. His colleague listened and then said that they could meet at the church. Sammy was about to decline the offer, but something in Bodin’s voice, a new sharpness, changed his mind. He only had to wait twenty minutes, Bodin must have put a heavy foot on the gas pedal. In the meantime he called Angelika, who had taken the leap over the sound and was in Hørsholm, north of Copenhagen. She complained about the heat, her sister’s unpredictability, and that the garden was in bad shape; the garden help had been missing for a month. He was silently happy that the poor Bosnian had finally fled. Sammy had never met a more timid person. He always dutifully performed his tasks with stoic calm, but Sammy had seen the mutiny in his eyes. Perhaps Angelika would drive over to Jutland. She had nothing more than that to say, and Sammy, what could he tell her?
“I’m standing in a graveyard,” he said at last.
Bodin showed up, reported that the day before he had visited Norberg, his hometown. It had evidently done him good, because despite the circumstances he looked rested. They discussed how they should proceed. They agreed that Sammy would visit Björn Rönn alone. They wouldn’t bother with the younger brother. His time would surely come. A hundred meters from the farm they drove the cars onto a forest road, where a spruce plantation concealed them from the house.
Bodin got out. Sammy explained where the houses were in relation to each other. Bodin pulled on a jacket. “They’re violent,” he said. “Are you armed?”
Sammy nodded and tried to smile, as if that were routine.
“I’ll follow you, go around the houses, so that I can keep an eye out. Take your time so that I make it there,” Bodin said, pointing with his whole hand. He was showing a new side, more decisive than Sammy had ever seen him before.
“I hate Nazis” was the last thing Bodin said. Sammy smiled to himself as he walked up the gravel road. His colleague was more and more surprising. He had some of the temperament that Sammy himself had once had, the drive that had once made him a good policeman. Later he’d settled down, disarmed, as it felt, become one of many, slowly, with soul-deadening routines.
* * *
Sammy found Rönn where he’d left him before. He was standing with a bare torso, his T-shirt hanging over a sawhorse, and had just set a massive piece of spruce on the chopping block. Sammy could see how it already put up resistance, twisted and straggly. It was evident that he spent quite a bit of time chopping wood; there were drifts of freshly cut logs. He was sweaty and his hair was standing on end, giving him an almost wild impression. He did not look surprised, calmly set aside the ax, grabbed the T-shirt and dried off his face and chest, as if someone had called him in for a bite to eat.
“Better than spinning,” said Sammy.
“I’ll get a fresh one,” said Rönn. He disappeared and came back after five minutes, dressed in a loosely fitting Hawaiian shirt. In the meantime Sammy had inspected the edge of the forest to catch sight of Bodin if possible.
“Hökarängen,” said Sammy. “Have you ever been there?”
He saw immediately that the shot hit the mark. Björn Rönn’s character was such that he had a hard time concealing a lie; Sammy had already understood that the first time they met.
“At least seven dead, two of which were children.”
“I saw the news,” said Rönn, focusing on buttoning his shirt.
“Is that how the struggle will be conducted?”
“I don’t know anything about this.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“You’re chopping wood in sheer desperation,” said Sammy, making a gesture over the quantity of wood.
“I don’t know a thing.”
“Sometimes you have to be unfaithful,” said Sammy. “Last night I was for the first time.”
Björn Rönn looked straight at Sammy, which he hadn’t done before.
“It was necessary to be able to go on. You have to realize when life takes a turn in a direction you never could foresee, maybe not even imagine or want, but that nonetheless becomes the only conceivable thing to do. It’s time for you now. Be unfaithful.”
Rönn did not say anything. Sammy waited.
“You lose something, but—”
“I know what you’re trying to say.”
“If that’s the case—”
“You’re so fucking predictable,” Rönn hissed.
Sammy felt a cramp in his crotch, like a forceful contraction of the muscles. Therese had not been gentle and he was out of practice.
“Who did you call?”
“Huh?”
“When you went to get your shirt.”
“Am I under arrest?”
The question was so horribly American that Sammy could not keep from laughing.
“You’d like that, huh? Become a martyr. No, you’re not, but you will be. It’s a matter of time. The question is how many more innocent people are going to die before that. You have a single chance, and that’s today. Now. Talk with me. Now. Then it’s over. When the SWAT team comes.”
“I don’t know anything,” Rönn said quietly.
“You don’t want this,” said Sammy after a long silence.
In the distance church bells were ringing. Rönn gave him a quick look before he took off the shirt and reached for the ax. At the same moment branches were snapping and Bodin was visible in the thicket. He mostly resembled a lost mushroom gatherer who was forcing his way forward, until you could make out his facial expression. Rönn straightened up. “Who the hell is that?”
“It’s Bodin from Norberg, the one who hates Nazis. The one who’s going to torment you, pick you up from jail, again and again, make sure that you get nausea, diarrhea, and heartburn from your anxiety. He’s going to talk with your brother and your sick mother, your relatives, neighbors, and coworkers. The policeman who acts folksy, but hates Nazis. The policeman who’s going to see to it that you end up in the big house for ten or fifteen years.”
Bodin came up to the woodpile, observed the surroundings as if he were trying to work out how a raid could be set up, sent a demonstrative gob of spit in the direction of Rönn before he left the yard without having said a single word. Sammy was astounded, but at the same time impressed by the performance.
* * *
; “My wife has left me, I don’t know if it’s for good or not,” Sammy said when they’d returned to their cars. “So I’ll keep going. There’s no one waiting at home.” He felt a need to talk about it. With all due respect to Lindell, but he needed to talk with a man, wanted to hear a male colleague say something, maybe offer something strengthening and edifying, something along the lines of how “they” could never understand how “we” were doing, all the shit “we” were forced to see and experience.
“My wife came back,” said Bodin. “So you never know.”
“Capricious,” said Sammy, but Bodin didn’t take the bait, so Sammy told him about his visits with the rabbit man Sam Rothe, that there seemed to be an opening, in any event where the school fire was concerned.
“Then maybe it will be possible to wrap the whole thing up, I mean the school fire too,” said Bodin, who followed up Sammy’s own train of thought.
“What do we do with Rönn?”
“We have to talk with our colleagues in Stockholm, of course. And then we’ll bring Rönn in first thing tomorrow and maybe that guy Lindell was tipped off about.”
“Let’s bring in both of the Rönn brothers,” said Sammy, who felt ill at ease. He would like to have a Björn Rönn who, if not innocent, was nonetheless unaware, who hadn’t realized what the theft at his workplace would lead to, if it was the Austrogel after all that exploded in Hökarängen.
“We don’t know if there’s any connection,” he said.
Bodin gave him a look before he got in the car. Sammy was not capable of reading what it expressed. Was it sympathy or contempt?
“I’ll talk with Stolpe first, he’s the one who’s investigating, and then we’ll have a chat with Stockholm,” Bodin said. “I think a morning raid would be good here, maybe at five o’clock. I’m sure he goes to work early and I like waking people up.”
“Maybe he’ll take off before that.”
“Wouldn’t think so,” said Bodin, who was starting to get insufferably sure of himself. Sammy exerted himself not to show his irritation, and simply nodded instead.
“Maybe I’ll bring in the lads Ottosson and Sanberg, exploit the situation so to speak. Frighten them, suggest that they’re bomb terrorists too.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” said Bodin. “I’ll talk with Stolpe about putting surveillance on Rönn’s house. Now when we’ve scared them a little, maybe he’ll think of something. Maybe he’ll get a visit.”
“The phones? Listen in a little,” said Sammy.
“Thought about that too, and it shouldn’t be any problem. Seven dead. But it takes time to arrange.”
Their eyes met. Sammy wanted to be just as effective as his colleague. He would like to believe that Bodin was the one who could drag him up out of the mental and professional ditch he seemed to have driven into.
“Forget about your old lady now,” said Bodin, and it was so unexpectedly and pointedly brutal that Sammy started.
They separated, each in his own car, and when they reached the highway they drove in opposite directions, Bodin toward Uppsala, Sammy northeast.
* * *
The landscape was smiling at him, which despite his quandary he had sense enough to see. The morning gave a promise of a beautiful day. Sammy got the illusion that he was on an outing in the Uppland landscape, perhaps one of all those rounds to exhibits and artisans that he and Angelika had made over the years. Not everything was good, many times he’d been bored, even angry, but there had been many professionals who passed muster. He remembered in particular a blacksmith who could tell about the old ways, the regional tradition he worked in, and the new, which actually was the same, but under quite different working conditions. The blacksmith had radiated something that Sammy lacked, but had a hard time putting into words. Joy in work perhaps, and the will to communicate a thought about the iron in his hands, but there was also something else, something more subtle, which had strongly moved him. Angelika had not been as affected as he was, that was noticeable when he later tried to talk about the visit. She thought his work looked “heavy,” whatever she meant by that. He sensed that she wanted to say “clumsy.” Iron did not speak to her.
He had an impulse to turn off the highway to look for the blacksmith, but put that out of his mind. Maybe he would be disturbed on a beautiful Sunday in May, it was different to open up his smithy and studio in an organized art tour, and Sammy had work to take care of. He felt alone and abandoned. The meeting with the alert Bodin had not improved his condition; on the contrary. And even worse, the visit to Therese had not healed anything, instead it had opened up wounds, old as well as new. Both literally and figuratively he had been disrobed. She had desperately ridden him through the night, perhaps just as exposed and alone too. He tried to see it from outside, tried to factually examine what had happened, but his crotch was still sore, as well as his shoulders that she gripped during her violent ride. And it would surely get worse, when Angelika returned home and the nagging aches would assume other proportions and occupy other places in his challenged body. Deep down he knew, there wasn’t much to think about. He’d been unfaithful, he’d betrayed his wife, it was that simple. He could close and archive that investigation.
It was with a feeling of loss and emptiness that he drove into the village. Several cars were parked by the creamery. He knew that they were open on weekends to sell their products directly to customers. They had opened a little café too. The creamery had become a popular destination, Ann had told him. “How people carry on,” Sammy said out loud to himself. Some children were racing toward some swings mounted in an old tree. Their shrieks of delight could be heard from far off. There was a stab in his chest. Much of what he loved in life was over. The blacksmith had demonstrated something different. Over the years he had not only refined his professional knowledge, but also captured a sense of peace in his life, a kind of meaning with the passing years, that stood out clearly to Sammy. The craftsman had used his years well, stored them, while he had used his up. Maybe that was what he’d seen in the craftsman’s studio, a view and an impression that made him dejected, envious, and exhilarated all at once.
I should have become a blacksmith, an unreasonable and almost ridiculous thought, for that reason possible to express.
He drove past Ottosson’s house without giving it a look, sneaked a glance at Efraimsson’s, came up to Ann’s, drove in through the gateway, parked, and got out. The snow-in-summer was still blooming. It pleased him to have learned a new word, and the name of a flower at that. Ann was visible through the window. He sat down in the hammock, and cautiously started it swinging. She came out with a thermos and two mugs, dressed in an improbable yellow rag decorated with fire-breathing dragons.
“Tea ceremony,” said Sammy.
“Be my samurai,” said Ann.
They rocked, drank coffee, conversed about Rönn.
“Angelika then?” she interrupted, when his discourse about the woodpile at the Rönn brothers’ was idling.
“It’s probably over.”
She did not comment on that. He tried to empty his mind of thoughts, let go of Rönn and the blacksmith, start over. He glanced at Ann, who had done just that, started over. It was a long time since he’d seen her so balanced.
“When you mentioned that I should contact the Tax Agency and check up on the Mattsson family background, what were you thinking about?”
“Something’s not right,” she said.
“There’s that in all families.”
“I don’t think Andreas is Mattsson’s son.”
Sammy smiled to himself. If it hadn’t been for Daniel Mattsson’s death, maybe he would have laughed out loud. The thought passed quickly that it serves them right, the rich farmer Mattsson and this bloody village too.
“Who’s the father? Do you have any idea or are those only loose thoughts?”
“It struck me when I was at Astrid’s birthday party, Andreas is indifferent about the farm and it’s not only because he doesn’t
like agriculture.”
“He’s completely uninterested, according to Therese.”
“He has no peasant blood in him,” Ann said with a smile.
“What kind of blood does he have?”
“Who does he resemble?”
“How should…” Sammy fell silent. Who does he resemble? The answer was obvious, there weren’t that many to choose from.
“Bertil Efraimsson, our local preacher.”
Ann nodded. “Similar body build, aquiline nose, they even have a number of expressions and gestures in common. It became so obvious when I saw them together.”
“Does Mattsson know about it?”
“I have no idea about that. But Bertil knows, of course, or it would surprise me greatly if he didn’t.”
“In other words Andreas was conceived in sin.”
“That can be shown in the family background. Or else everyone, above all mother Mattsson, kept quiet, pretended. That’s not to say that Mattsson knows, maybe he thinks he’s the father.”
“Did everything that happened, the fires and the murder of Daniel, affect that?”
“Maybe not,” said Ann. “But it creates bonds, loyalties.”
He wondered whether he should tell her about Therese’s suspicion that Andreas made an outing the night the smithy burned, but preferred not to talk about his own adventure in Östhammar. He stood up, took a few hesitant steps.
“What is it?” Ann asked. Sammy grinned, and then told her what Therese had said.
“When Erik and I drove to the fire, a car disappeared in the other direction,” said Ann. “I didn’t think about it then, I was so focused on turning up toward Hamra, taking the right driveway.”
“What model?”
“Not a clue. A small personal vehicle, not a pickup. I only saw the rear end of the car disappear. It was maybe a hundred and fifty meters away, and there was semidarkness.”
“The rear end.” Sammy sat down, took out his phone, and tapped in a text message. “A picture is coming,” he said.
The Night of the Fire: A Mystery Page 22
