The Hand that Trembles (21 page)

Berglund was sitting at the window. He had shunned his hospital clothes and was dressed in jeans, a shirt with a pattern of large squares, and brown slippers edged in fur. Lindell thought he looked ten years younger than at her last visit.

‘Here you are enjoying yourself,’ she said.

Berglund smiled and gestured to the table in front of him, where papers were stacked up.

‘Any strokes of genius?’

He shook his head.

‘No, I’ve gone through this material countless times, always in the hopes I’ll find something, but nothing doing.’

The gaze he shot her was his old one. He had not only changed his clothes.

‘You look rosy.’

‘I was out walking,’ Lindell said.

‘I see,’ Berglund said.

Lindell did not know exactly what he was getting at, but sensed that he realised she was trying to alleviate her cramps while walking. She had done this before, it usually worked, and maybe Berglund had put two and two together.

‘I was coming from a conversation with Sven-Arne Persson’s uncle,’ she said, and sat down right across from him.

He gathered his papers together on the table while she described her visit to Elsa Persson’s neighbour, how Elsa was now admitted to this same hospital, maybe even in this same building.  

‘Yes, it’s a strange story, this Sven-Arne,’ Berglund said, but Lindell could tell his thoughts were still caught up in the old case.  

‘What was he like as a politician?’ she said, trying anyway. ‘His uncle said something about how Sven-Arne never really believed in his cause. What’s up with that? Was he just a fake?’  

‘No, I think people regarded him as honest. He was a champion orator. But it must have dried up. He probably got tired of the nonsense. Or else he just snapped.’  

‘Was he really a plumber?’  

‘Something in the construction field. Then he became an ombudsman.’ Berglund paused, then continued almost immediately.  

‘I remember a meeting in town, shortly before some election. It was when New Democracy was in full swing. I was there overseeing Forum Square. There was some kind of threat, some letter that Persson had received. There was a hellish wind but people stayed and listened. I remember thinking he talked like my old man.’

‘And that felt good?’

Berglund smiled. ‘Yes, actually. I actually voted for the Social Democrats that year.’

‘Because of Persson’s speech?’

‘Maybe not only because of that, but there was something there that …well, you know how it is …’

‘Nostalgia?’

He chuckled.

‘Did he receive a lot of threats?’

‘Not that I know of. It must have been some dingdong who sent that letter.’

‘I was thinking maybe he ran off because he felt pursued or threatened for his life,’ Lindell said.

‘We looked into that, but I don’t think that was the case. We found nothing to suggest it, at least. All politicians get fan mail so I’m sure Persson could handle it.’

‘But maybe there was a threat you weren’t aware of?’

Berglund looked at her.

‘Persson’s got under your skin,’ he said with a smile.

‘I don’t know, unexpected turns of events are always exciting and that uncle made me more curious. He is writing his memoirs. The whole room was full of books, like a research institute. He speaks several languages. And then Persson’s wife, who walks straight out onto Luthagsleden Expressway.’

‘Yes, Elsa.’

‘You mentioned something about her possibly seeing someone.’

‘It’s only a rumour,’ Berglund said.

‘Could it have been the reason that Persson went to India? That there was already a man in Elsa’s life?’

‘It’s doubtful. From what I remember we checked into their lives pretty thoroughly and found no signs of infidelity or marriage problems.’

‘What do you think will happen now? I mean, if it is him – and that’s how it seems – his uncle admitted he knew about Persson’s India stint. How are we going to handle it?’

‘It’s not a matter for the police. Persson is a free man and can go as he wishes. He is not suspected of any crime.’

‘Isn’t it a crime to …’

‘Disappearing is not a crime,’ Berglund said.

‘I know, but …’

‘Forget Persson,’ Berglund said. ‘Tell me how things are going with the foot.’

‘I’m going door-to-door like a salesman. It’s kind of exciting in a way, but hasn’t turned up much. I’m doing the last three houses tomorrow. I’ve talked to them and everyone will be home. Then I’ll wrap up.’

‘How are things with you otherwise?’

‘Fine,’ Lindell said, unwilling to return to the chain of thoughts she had on her way to the hospital.

She got up, stretched out her hand, and laid it on her colleague’s shoulder. There was a new kind of closeness between them. She liked it, even if she was uncertain what effect it would have on their future working relationship.

He put his hand on hers.

‘I’m glad you came up to talk for a while. I’ll be going home on Monday.’

She spent the rest of the day writing up her notes from Bultudden. Marksson must surely be expecting some kind of report. She didn’t have much to show for herself, and took her time.

Sammy Nilsson looked in but Lindell pretended to be extremely busy and only gave clipped answers to his questions, and after a couple of minutes he slunk off.

She was done at half past three. She turned off the computer, got herself a cup of coffee, and returned to her office. The activity at the unit appeared to have dropped off. Everything was calm. Friday. Fredriksson and Beatrice were taking the night shift. Ottosson had already gone home. She heard Riis clomp by. Then there was simply silence outside her door.

She thought about Ante Persson and his memoirs. What would they be about? The red thread of his life?

She recalled his gaze, how it changed in the flash of an instant. A dangerous man, it struck her, without being able to offer a satisfactory account as to what this dangerous quality might consist of. Was it his age that had made him in a way unreachable? She had always had respect for older people.

Or was it simply the case that his evident integrity – perhaps an expression of a heightened self-sufficiency – made her feel uncomfortable? She had felt this same feeling of unease many times when she listened to older people. As if she were inferior in experience and knowledge.

But most of the time the relationship was reversed: Most of them felt inferior and pressed in their contact with the police, and this was something every interrogator could take advantage of. She wasn’t the most skillful in this respect. Both Beatrice and Sammy Nilsson were considerably better. Lindell preferred the give and take of open conversation. She didn’t like unspoken threats or traps.

Someone like Ante Persson was a challenge. He was not one to be tempted out onto thin ice. He only shared information that he had picked out and at the pace that he had set.

Riis went stomping in the opposite direction down the corridor and Lindell was startled out of her thoughts. She looked at her watch and decided that the working day was done.

Lindell did not wave to Torsten Andersson as she passed his house. It was a ridiculous protest but she knew he would register it.

As she drove by Margit and Kalle Paulsson she swore quietly under her breath. She had forgotten to talk to Marksson about Lisen Morell. That woman needed immediate intervention. Otherwise she would go under. For a moment she considered stopping by her house before she took on the three loners (as she had dubbed the bachelors on the point) but instead decided to end her tour with a visit to the fishing cottage.

Her first ‘loner’ lived a couple of hundred metres up. She drove into the yard. A line ran from a shed to the main house. She guessed it was a dog run. She couldn’t see a dog but still parked her car at a safe distance.

Thomas B. Sunesson walked out onto his front step the moment she opened her car door.

‘There’s no dog,’ was the first thing he said. ‘I saw you wondering where to put the car.’

‘You never know,’ Lindell said, holding out her hand. His grin was in no way unfriendly.

‘Before we go on, there’s something I have to know: What does the B stand for?’

The grin grew wider.

‘Bertram. Like Dad and his dad and his dad before him, all the way back.’

She returned his smile. Thomas B. Sunesson spoke with the broadest Roslagen dialect one could imagine. Yet another Edvard, she thought; and the fact was that Sunesson reminded her of him. The same open face, the at some moments almost childlike features, an impression reduced somewhat by its angular masculinity. This fateful combination that Lindell had found so attractive.

‘His name was Bronco. The dog, I mean,’ Sunesson added when he saw Lindell’s bewilderment. ‘A greyhound. An angry bugger.’

So you were forced to get rid of it, Lindell thought.

‘He became fourteen years old.’

The man looked over to the shed. Lindell followed his gaze and discovered the dog house.

‘But he was my friend, the bastard.’

The melancholy tendency also underscored the resemblance to Edvard.

‘Shall we go inside?’

He nodded and walked to the door without further ado, kicking off his clogs in the vestibule and disappearing inside.

They sat down in the kitchen. She got the impression that he had cleaned for her visit. A pile of newspapers were neatly stacked on the table, the countertop was wiped down, no dirty dishes were out, and a clean dishtowel was hanging from a hook.

He offered Lindell coffee but she said no, having already drunk two cups that morning.

‘You’re involved in a manhunt,’ he said.

News about the foot had spread, even if the macabre find on the other side of the bay had surprisingly not been made much of in the media.

She launched into her usual spiel about questioning any people in the area who may have observed something. As she talked he watched her intently, as if he did not want to miss a single word. She assessed his age as around forty. There was a small but marked scar above one eyebrow. He was noticeably tanned, or rather, weather-beaten.

‘No, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary,’ he said when she stopped. ‘There’s not much that happens around here, and if against all odds someone did turn up we would notice. Especially if it was a woman,’ he added, and smiled imperceptibly.

‘No unknown cars have driven by?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, maybe last summer; there are always confused Stockholmers who come by. They’re either looking for summer houses, or else they are just lost. Sometimes they stop and ask if you know anything that’s for sale.’

‘Anyone in particular that you remember?’

‘No, they all look the same. There was one,’ Sunesson said, and chuckled, ‘who wanted to buy this old dump. He offered me a million on the spot. When I said no, he raised it by half a million. Bronco was barking like crazy. He doesn’t like city slickers.’

‘How much do you want for it?’

His smile widened. ‘Interested?’

‘Not really.’

‘I’m not selling,’ he said, suddenly serious.

‘Any red cars drive by here lately?’

‘Frisk has a red car. He lives at the end of the street, as we say. And of course then we have the magpie in the fishing cabin.’

‘You mean Lisen Morell?’

‘Not the sharpest tack, if you ask me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She calls herself an artist, but she can’t paint, that’s for sure.’

‘You call her the Magpie.’

‘She’s always dressed in black and white.’

Lindell dropped Morell. ‘So Tobias Frisk has a red car?’

He nodded. ‘Are you looking for a red car?’

‘We have a witness who saw a red, unfamiliar car on the other side of the bay. That’s all.’

‘But Frisk isn’t unfamiliar.’

‘Maybe on the other side.’

Sunesson snorted. ‘In other words, you don’t have much.’

Lindell acknowledged as much.

‘Do you have a saw?’

He looked taken aback. ‘Of course I do.’

‘A chainsaw?’

He nodded.

‘Can I see it?’

‘I’m not following any of this.’

‘Maybe you even have a bandsaw?’

‘That too. And a wood cutter, and a skidsteer, and a trailer and a—’

‘Thanks, that’s enough,’ Lindell interrupted.

The chainsaw was a Stihl.

‘No, don’t touch it!’

Sunesson quickly pulled his hand back.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take that with me,’ Lindell said, and fished a pair of gloves out of her coat pocket. She donned the right-hand glove and lifted the power tool down from the workbench.

‘Now I get it, you think I severed that foot.’

He stared at her with suspicion and disapproval, as if she had revealed she was the bearer of an infectious disease.

‘We have to check it out,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe anything. It is simply a routine check. Where is your cordwood saw?’

She got him to remove the blade and treated it as carefully as the chainsaw, wrapping it in a rubbish bag she had in the car.

Sunesson observed the whole process in silence. There was no trace of innocence left in his face when she left the house.

The next loner on the point, Lasse Malm, was perhaps two or three years younger than his neighbour. He was already out in the garden when Lindell found her way to his place. She parked behind Malm’s ancient pickup. There was a boat engine in the back of it.

No one, not even the most enthusiastic Stockholmer, would offer one and a half million for his house. Lindell had the feeling one bad autumn storm could blow it on its side.

The panelling was faded, the window frames spotted black with mould, the roof – where the tiles were in uproar – dipped alarmingly around a badly beaten-up chimney, and the front steps had settled at least ten centimetres, more on the right side.

If the house was in terrible condition, its owner was just the opposite. Lindell estimated that he was close to six feet four inches in height, and his broad shoulders bore witness to strength. His handshake reinforced this impression of power. The almost sinister small eyes – the only thing diminutive about him – peered at her with curiosity and scrutiny. She pulled up the zipper on her jacket.