The Hand that Trembles (39 page)

‘Lasse,’ Torsten pleaded. ‘The two of us have to stick together, you know that. I just want some clarity.’

Malm shrugged himself out of his grasp but made no attempt to unload the car on his own. He stood staring out over the yard.

‘I sold it to Frisk,’ he said finally. ‘Sold? I more or less gave it to him. He gave me a couple of nets. I didn’t want to see that damn gun, not after … How the fuck could I know he would shoot himself twenty years later. How could I! It’s not my fault.’

‘No one is saying it’s your fault,’ Torsten said. ‘Only Frisk is responsible and everyone out here knows it. No one is blaming you for what happened.’

He felt a wave of gratitude. That explained it.

‘Let’s finish this,’ he said, and climbed up on the back wheel, swung a leg over the side, and climbed up onto the cargo area. ‘Now I know, end of story.’

Lasse Malm was motionless for a moment longer, then grabbed the package and pulled it forward so that only the very edge rested on the tailgate.

‘You can get down,’ he said. ‘It’s not so heavy.’

On the 11th of December, Sammy Nilsson and Allan Fredriksson completed an interrogation session with Ante Persson, this time with a tape recorder and video camera. They had decided to hold it at the nursing home. There was no point in transporting the ninety-one-year-old to the police station. It would tire him out unnecessarily and the foreign environment would perhaps diminish his urge to talk.

It turned out not to matter in the end, because Ante Persson chose not to say much more than what he had already told Lindell and Fredriksson.

That same day they were issued a warrant to claim the letters that Ante – according to Anneli Hietanen – had received from India. Earlier in the morning Allan Fredriksson had been able to confirm the existence of a wooden box in the bookcase.

Ottosson and the DA had not hesitated, despite the privacy issue of reading personal letters. The letters might be able to shed some light on the strange murder case.

Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson were given the thankless task of returning to Ramund. They didn’t like it, and it did not help matters when Ante Persson threatened to throw them out. The old man had risen from his chair – this time seemingly without any problems – and taken a swing at Fredriksson.

Sammy Nilsson had forced his arm back to his side, more or less pressed Ante Persson back into his chair, and laid the official paperwork on the table.

‘This is something we have to do,’ he said.

‘Fucking Fascists! You haven’t changed one bit since the war.’

Fredriksson walked over to the bookcase. He let his gaze flit across the spines of the books as he gently withdrew the box, jammed between two maroon volumes. Lindell had been right: Ante Persson’s library was impressive.

‘We’ll return these once we have read them, it’s as simple as that,’ Sammy Nilsson said in an attempt to calm Ante, who appeared to have drained his strength in the initial attack and now sat limply leant across the table.

‘Here is your receipt,’ Sammy Nilsson said.

The old man gave him a look, filled with disgust and helplessness, but made no attempt to take the piece of paper, so Nilsson laid it on the table.

Back at the police station, they sat down in Sammy Nilsson’s office. Fredriksson fetched the coffee, while Nilsson took out the first letter in the pack and started to read. When Fredriksson returned, he pushed it across the table and kept reading. Ottosson turned up after half an hour, wondering how things were going, but only received grunts in reply so he left them in peace.

They looked up from time to time but did not comment on what they read. Their initial discomfort was replaced by a burgeoning excitement. Sven-Arne’s stories from India were amusing and written in an engaging style, completely free of the politician’s dry and factual prose. They gave the policemen a good sense of his life in Bangalore. Straightforward descriptions of his work at the botanical garden became increasingly elaborate and detailed each year, and were mingled with glimpses of street life and news of neighbours and colleagues.

It was clear that over the years – there were one hundred letters in all, sent over twelve years – Sven-Arne had put a great deal of effort into giving his uncle entertaining reading and not simply dutiful greetings.

There was not a single musing over life in Uppsala, not a sentence touching on family, questions of everyday life, the weather in Sweden, or county politics. Both of the police officers assumed that Ante had talked about life in Sven-Arne’s former home town in his letters, but if this was the case it had not resulted in any comments or other reactions in Sven-Arne’s letters.

At one point Fredriksson looked up, put down the latest missive, and shot his colleague a look. Sammy Nilsson nodded but said nothing, resuming his task.

It was a letter dated 28th December, 1999. Perhaps it was the approaching turn of the millenium or something else that gave him a need to sum up his life, that caused him to comment for the first time on what had happened at Kungsgärdet in 1993.

When Fredriksson had put down the final letter, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

‘What a mess,’ he said, and sighed heavily.

‘But why?’

‘I don’t understand squat. There was no reason for Sven-Arne to even mention it. We had nothing on them, back then or now, and then he lumbers in after twelve years and starts to talk.’

‘And full of lies on top of it,’ Sammy Nilsson said. ‘It’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen.’

The reading had taken one and a half hours. Both of them felt as though they had read a novel.

‘You could publish these as a book,’ Sammy Nilsson exclaimed.

‘And what a book it would be. The letters were touching.’

Fredriksson felt conflicting feelings – on the one hand the kick he had received from the sensational information surrounding Nils Dufva’s death, in part a feeling that he had walked in on something of a highly private nature. They had peeked into a person’s most private thoughts, presented in confidence with the assumption that they were only shared with one person’s eyes, not read by outsiders. Now these letters – at least parts of them – were part of official documents.

‘What do we do?’

‘We’ll have to bring in the old man, I suppose.’

‘First we talk with Sven-Arne,’ Sammy Nilsson said.

‘He may resist.’

‘You mean Ante?’

Fredriksson nodded.

‘This time we’re only going to talk to Ottosson, Lindell, and Fritte. We have to be completely sure of this before the papers get wind of it.’

They gathered up the letters and were careful to arrange them chronologically. Sammy Nilsson had marked the most memorable letters with yellow Post-its. They trotted in to Ottosson’s office.

It was as if he had been waiting for them, because when they walked in he was sitting passively, his arms crossed. There were two chairs in front of his desk and he executed an exaggerated flourish with his hand. They sat down.

‘So we have something to chew on,’ Sammy Nilsson started, and held the packet of letters aloft like a prize catch.

‘I could tell from the look of you,’ Ottosson said, and his whole face cracked into a smile. ‘You looked like two monks leaning over a photo album from the time of Jesus.’

Allan Fredriksson briefly gave an account of what they had found in the letters. Ottosson’s expression did not betray what he thought of their discovery, and when Fredriksson was done he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. It looked ancient, archive-brown in colour, with reinforced corners and two linen ribbons tied in a neat bow. It gave Fredriksson a flashback to his time as a clerk in the A6 in Jönköping. The name of his battalion chief was Anner, a man whose incompetence was legend, and he used to wave officiously with incredibly important folders of a similar appearance that contained very little of real value. Fredriksson shivered as he recalled that hateful time.

‘This is the second piece of the puzzle,’ Ottosson said, and both investigators sensed that their boss had been waiting for this opportunity.

‘What is that?’ Sammy Nilsson asked, and leant forward.

He knew he had to appear genuinely curious and concerned in order for Ottosson to go through with his performance with the dignity that he clearly felt the folder deserved.

‘This is a file on Nils Dufva.’

‘I see,’ Fredriksson said. ‘And what …’

‘The motive was clearly political,’ Ottosson said. ‘Dufva’s murder was inexplicable, or at least confounding, in 1993, but what we didn’t know then is here. There are threads that lead back in time. The motive. With your letters the picture is now complete. The mystery is solved.’

Oh, be done with it, Nilsson thought. Enough already with the speech-making.

‘Where did the file come from?’ he asked.

‘The military,’ Fredriksson said immediately.

Ottosson laid the file on the desk and looked at Fredriksson over the top of his glasses.

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘But we can’t use it. The file is on loan and God help you if you make the slightest mention of it.’

In order to underscore the gravity of his warning he quickly stood up, leant across the desk, and fixed his eyes on Nilsson, who at first looked astonished, and then started to smile, and then on Fredriksson, who made an effort not to burst into laughter.

‘All right chief,’ Nilsson said, and made a sloppy salute.

He was pleased with the fact that the investigation had taken a large jump forward. He was pleased with his grinning colleague. He was pleased with his at times spectacular boss who was now attempting to appear intimidating but who was very well aware of the fact that he was failing.

‘Okay, guys,’ Ottosson said, and changed to a double-edged smile, ‘let’s set the wheels in motion and nail a ninety-one-year-old who about three hundred years ago killed an old Nazi with his crutches. We’ll be heroes, the people will praise us, and telegrams and flower bouquets will overwhelm the station. Ante Persson will be put away for life. Justice will prevail. Hallelujah!’

‘Fire!’

She was clearly shaken.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go out on the porch, and you’ll smell it,’ Doris Utman told her neighbour.

Thomas B. Sunesson left his seat on the couch in front of the television – the evening news program had just started – grabbed his cordless phone, slipped on his clogs, and cracked the front door.

The darkness was impenetrable even though the thin snow cover reflected the lights on the garage and created a ghostlike, matte glow over the garden.

‘I can’t smell any kind of building burning,’ he said, ‘but someone must have a fire going in their fireplace.’

‘The wind is coming from the south. I’m thinking about her down that way.’

He understood that Doris was referring to Lisen Morell.

‘Have you called Lasse?’

‘He doesn’t answer. And he never makes fires in the fireplace.’

Thomas knew this as well. Malm’s chimney had been on the verge of collapse for a long time. Lisen Morell had no fireplace, and the wind really was blowing from the south.

‘Ulla and Magnus are in Gimo, I know that much. They are visiting Ulla’s sister.’

He smiled to himself. As usual, Doris Utman was fully informed.

‘And I can’t leave Oskar. He’s doing poorly again. Otherwise I would go and have a look.’

During the autumn Oskar Utman had grown worse and Doris used a pump to extract the mucus her husband lacked the strength to cough up.

‘Doris, I’ll go out and take a look around,’ Sunesson said. ‘I’ll give you a call back later.’

He didn’t like it. Not only would he miss the evening news, he had to go out in the cold. He had looked forward to a relaxing, cozy time on the couch after having been in full swing all afternoon and evening. He had put up the new shower head and done the last of the caulking in the bathroom and after that vacuumed and mopped the entire lower level.

It would in all likelihood be the coldest night of the season thus far. He walked a short distance along the Avenue and realised he should have pulled on a jumper under his jacket.

Suddenly he felt the smell of smoke, stopped, and sniffed the air. Doris was right. He walked on a bit longer, then turned around to get the car.

A tall figure loomed behind the high flames that leapt up from the bonfire in the middle of the garden, and cast an enormous shadow against the house. He’s not right in the head, Thomas thought, making a fire at this time of night!

He turned in and parked behind the pickup, but before he got out he called Doris to calm her fears.

Lasse Malm’s smile looked diabolical in the light of the fire.

‘Got any hot dogs?’ he said in a loud voice, as if to make himself heard above the crackling.

He looked excited. He had a rake in his hand.

‘Doris called,’ Thomas said. ‘She was scared of the smoke smell. Thought the Magpie had turned to arson.’

‘Feels good to get rid of this old shit,’ Lasse Malm said.

‘It’s a bit windy.’

‘It’s not too bad. And there’s a lot of snow besides.’

They stood silent, watching the fire and the sparks that flew around in the darkness.

‘What are you burning? Is it your kitchen cabinets?’

‘No, I’m clearing out the upstairs. I haven’t lifted a finger in years.’

Everyone in Bultudden knew that Lasse Malm rarely went upstairs and above all never into the room where his father had shot himself.

‘Must feel good to get rid of it,’ Thomas agreed, and immediately felt more sympathetically inclined.

The initial outrage over having to go out into the night and then discover that Lasse was burning rubbish late at night and causing Doris to worry had subsided. He took one step closer to the fire and stretched out his hands to the warmth.

‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘Who do you mean?’ Lasse Malm asked.