The Hand that Trembles (42 page)

‘It is simple,’ Ante Persson said. ‘He was a registered Nazi. And you let him be! You even gave him a job.’

‘We’re not discussing his employment. A war criminal – what do you mean by that?’

‘I feel as though I’m going through it all again,’ Ante said, and gestured with one hand. ‘I’ve seen this all before, and I am not afraid.’

Sammy Nilsson noted that Ante had spilt some oatmeal on a lapel.

‘Nor should you be,’ he said. ‘We are simply trying to establish the truth and surely that can’t hurt? You say you have fought for justice and I can respect that, but we also work for justice.’

‘What do you know about dreams?’ the old man went on, as if he had not heard the policeman’s comment. ‘I will go to my grave soon enough and I know there’s nothing on the other side. It just ends. Now the final analysis must be made and surely my voice should carry as much weight as any other? I remember too much, and sometimes I wish I had developed hardened arteries and become forgetful, just to get some peace. Why should I trust you? I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You have pursued me and my comrades in all ages. Yes, I killed a Fascist but that was a matter between me and him and my friends. He deserved it. You believe in justice, you say, and what is more just than sending someone like him into the darkness? He was a man of darkness, and I caught up with him. He thought everyone had forgotten, but I don’t forget. I caught up with him.’

‘What had he done?’ Allan Fredriksson asked after a moment’s silence.

‘That is between him and me,’ Ante said, tired.

‘How did you do it?’

‘It’s not important,’ Ante answered. ‘Completely irrelevant. He is dead, that is what matters. And now I am going to die. Sven-Arne had nothing to do with this. He is a bewildered coward.’

‘It isn’t cowardly to confess to a murder you didn’t commit,’ Fredriksson objected.

Ante smiled.

‘Maybe that is the definition of cowardice,’ he said.

‘Did he help you?’

Ante shook his head.

‘Sven-Arne was never inside the house. How many times do you want me to repeat it? But now I want to go home. I am tired. Or else you’ll have to lock me up and throw away the key.’

After a consultation with the DA, Ottosson allowed Ante Persson to return to Ramund. It was an unusual decision but they assessed the risk of his escape to be minimal since he had the artificial leg, and they also hoped he would remain more alert in his familiar surroundings.

Ante Persson was formally charged with the murder of Nils Dufva, then he was taken home.

Although an old crime appeared to have been solved, Ottosson was not satisfied. He wanted to understand. He wanted facts about how, when, and why. The only question that had been answered was ‘when.’

‘I don’t understand this,’ he said for a second time to Sammy Nilsson, who had returned from Ramund and reported that Ante Persson had been returned to his home and that he had immediately laid down on his bed to rest. On the night table next to the bed there had been a Christmas arrangement of hyacinths and a red tulip, a singular greeting from one of the staff members at the nursing home.

‘A murderer who gets flowers,’ said Beatrice, who had just joined them.

‘I want the two of you to go see Dufva’s relatives in Kungsgärdet. The woman still lives there. Inform her of what has happened. I don’t want her to hear it through the news media. Beatrice – did you reach her?’

‘No, but I talked to her husband. She is apparently sick. He preferred that we leave her alone.’

‘Does she have the flu?’

‘No, she seemed … Her husband said something about her having worked too hard, being burnt out, you know.’

Sammy Nilsson shook his head.

‘Let’s go down there,’ he said. ‘I’m curious to see what it looks like, I mean the crime scene.’

The small streets of Kungsgärdet were impressively thoroughly ploughed, but apparently the snow crews had had problems with where to put all the snow that had fallen, for at every street corner there were gigantic mounds. All of the cars parked on the street were covered in snow and also sealed behind snowy dykes. On Arosgatan there was an elderly man who was desperately trying to uncover his Volvo.

As Sammy Nilsson and Beatrice passed, he shrugged helplessly. Nilsson slowed down and considered stopping to help him, but drove on.

‘I hope the snow stays for Christmas,’ Beatrice said.

I hope winter ends tomorrow, Sammy Nilsson thought.

‘It lights up everything,’ Beatrice went on, ‘and it’s more fun for the kids.’

‘One more platitude and you’ll have to head back,’ Sammy Nilsson said grimly.

Beatrice turned her head and looked at him. ‘Everyone’s so fucking gloomy around here.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yes, everyone. It seems like the whole station—’

‘It is winter, you know that,’ Sammy Nilsson said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘We’re not built for this.’

‘That’s a load of crap,’ Beatrice replied.

They sat quietly until they reached the house that Dufva had lived in and that Jenny Holgersson and her husband had subsequently taken over.

‘Take it easy, now,’ Beatrice said. ‘Think about the fact that she is burnt out.’

Sammy Nilsson wasn’t sure if she was being ironic or not, and said nothing.

Niklas Öhman opened the front door before they had even reached the steps.

‘I saw you coming. I didn’t want you to ring the doorbell. Jenny is sleeping.’

The first thing Sammy Nilsson registered was the exhaustion. Niklas Öhman looked like he had been awake several nights in a row, which he immediately confirmed.

‘You will have to excuse me, I haven’t been able to get much sleep lately, but come on in. We can sit in the kitchen.’

The air in the hall smelt stale. A faint scent of thinner or perhaps floor polish could not mask the fact that the house felt unfresh. Sammy Nilsson leant forward and peeked into the living room. So that was where it had happened.

They removed their coats in silence and then followed their host into the kitchen.

‘Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Beatrice said.

Niklas Öhman sank down on his chair.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s as if the bad time has returned, and I don’t get it.’

‘Which bad time?’

‘The one after the murder. Jenny took it very hard. She felt guilty because she had not looked in on Dufva that evening. If she had done so, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Were they close?’

‘“Close” is a bit strong,’ Niklas Öhman said, ‘but she was the one who found the guy.’

‘And now the old thoughts have returned,’ Sammy Nilsson observed. ‘She isn’t burnt out at all, is she?’

Öhman didn’t reply, but made a face and inclined his head, as good an answer as any.

‘We have a new confession,’ Beatrice said.

‘New? What do you mean?’

‘Sven-Arne Persson’s uncle has confessed to the murder of Nils Dufva.’

Niklas Öhman stared, confounded, at Beatrice and then at Sammy Nilsson, as if for an assurance that his colleague wasn’t being serious.

‘We wanted you to know before it reached the media. As you can understand, this is candy for them. You will most likely have visitors.’

‘What kind of visitors?’

‘Reporters,’ Sammy Nilsson said.

Niklas Öhman drew a deep breath and glanced through the doorway to the hall.

‘We have already had a visitor,’ he said.

‘Who was it?’

Öhman told them about Sven-Arne Persson’s unexpected intrusion.

‘He seemed a bit crazy. He was wearing sandals and looked completely worn out. He attacked Jenny when she came home, but I threw him out.’

‘Attacked? What do you mean?’

‘He started talking to her.’

‘That was a mild attack,’ Beatrice said with a smile.

‘Jenny isn’t well!’ Niklas Öhman said emphatically. ‘This whole episode is making her suffer.’

‘Why do you say that about me?’

The three people sitting at the kitchen table flinched. In the dimly lit hall they could see the outline of a person. Öhman quickly rose and went out. The police officers heard him whisper something, and then a woman’s protests.

‘Are you Jenny?’ Beatrice asked.

The woman detached herself from Öhman and gingerly stepped into the kitchen, blinking in the strong light and stretching out her hand to steady herself against the door frame.

‘I have already told you all I know,’ she said flatly.

Beatrice explained the purpose of their visit. Jenny listened without moving a muscle. Her blotchy face, with its poorly healed acne scars, was as if carved in stone. Only her tongue moved nervously across her lips. Her hair was combed back and gathered in a marginally clean ponytail. She was barefoot, wearing an oversized jumper and wrinkled sweatpants, and had a noticeable smell of body odour.

In the old case files Beatrice had seen a photo of Jenny Holgersson from twelve years before. A young and pretty woman with serious eyes who gazed into the camera with an almost defiant look. Now she had been transformed into a wreck.

Öhman laid a hand on her shoulder but she immediately shook herself loose with irritation.

‘They’re lying,’ she said with a raspy voice, coughing, and shot Beatrice a look that made her want to reach out for the young woman.

‘It’s okay,’ Öhman pleaded. ‘It’s over now.’

‘It will never be over!’ Jenny Holgersson screamed.

‘Who is lying?’ Sammy Nilsson asked.

‘Everyone,’ Jenny Holgersson muttered.

‘Will you sit down?’

‘Jenny has to rest,’ Öhman said.

‘Can’t she speak for herself?’ Beatrice asked sharply.

‘It will only get worse,’ Öhman said.

‘It can’t get any worse,’ Jenny said, almost inaudibly.

Niklas Öhman took hold of her arm and she allowed herself to be led out of the kitchen. Niklas stared back at the two police officers before he disappeared into the inner recesses of the house.

Beatrice and Nilsson exchanged looks. He shook his head.

‘What do you think?’ Beatrice whispered.

‘She needs care,’ Sammy said.

‘“Everyone is lying,”’ Beatrice said. ‘That’s a good way to put it.’

‘Who is “everyone”?’

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders as if implying that ‘everyone’ simply meant all concerned.

On the way to Östhammar, Lindell counted eight cars that had careened off the roads, cars that lay in ditches and, in a couple of cases, a fair way out into the surrounding terrain. The snowstorm had claimed its victims.

She drove with unusual care, even though the roads were now decent, in order to have time to think. A long line of cars built up behind her. Shortly before Alunda, half a dozen of them managed to overtake her, and just as many blew past on the straight before Gimo.

The mobile phone rang as she passed Börstil Church. Unknown caller. She considered ignoring it, but after the fifth ring her curiosity won out.

‘Hello, this is Thomas Sunesson. You may remember—’

‘Hello, I know who you are,’ Lindell said, and felt a surge of excitement. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I have been thinking about … something.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about Frisk. Or rather … his chainsaw.’

Lindell pulled in to a bus stop. A German shepherd in the adjacent lot came bounding over. It stood up on its hind legs, its front paws on the fence, and barked frenetically. The dog’s sharp teeth and red mouth reminded Lindell of what had happened in Bultudden.

‘What do you mean? I can’t hear you very clearly.’

‘When you … my chainsaw … one … in your … Lasse … but … always had a Jonsered.’

‘Jonsered,’ Lindell repeated.

The dog stopped barking.

‘Hello! What are you saying?’

‘… I … bought one … but that would … And then when … something … here,’ Sunesson continued.

‘We have a bad connection, you’re breaking up,’ Lindell answered. ‘I can hardly hear what you’re saying. But I’m on my way over. Are you home?’

‘Yes … but …’

The call was completely dropped. Lindell stared at the dog. An older man came walking out from the house and Lindell saw him call something out. The dog immediately left the fence and ran over to the man, who bent down and patted it on the head. Its tail was wagging. The man straightened up, said something to the dog, and together they went around the side of the house.

What had Sunesson said? That Frisk usually used a Jonsered. But in Frisk’s shed they had found a Stihl with remnants of blood and skin. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but there had been something in Sunesson’s voice that convinced her otherwise. He had apparently been thinking about this and now she recalled his faintly bewildered expression when she and Marksson came by to return his chainsaw. She had not been able to interpret his confusion correctly at the time, and had taken it more as a general expression of bafflement that arose among those in close proximity to a deadly crime. Lindell had seen this countless times in family members, neighbours, and witnesses, this amazement mixed with incredulity, sometimes accompanied by anger. What seemed obvious and self-evident and important in hindsight did not always emerge at once. Now the mill in Sunesson’s head had finished working.

Lindell pulled out of the parking spot. On the other side of the road, Börstil Church gleamed with a portly farmer smugness, nestled in snow and decorated for the approaching Christmas holiday. A Christmas tree had been erected in front of the church gate. The star at the top was askew and threatening to fall off.

Lindell saw that the time was already a quarter to two and she pressed on the accelerator to reach the Östhammar police station in time.

Bo Marksson looked markedly worn out. He was sitting in the break room with a cup of coffee.

‘There is no justice,’ he said. ‘The snow is just pummelling this damn country. And people never learn! They get pissed off when Public Works can’t get rid of all the snow fast enough, then go slip-sliding around in summer shoes and driving like idiots.’