by Will Dean
‘This is a life cabinet?’
‘It’s a cabinet of life,’ she says. ‘Next layer down is flora. You’ve probably seen most of these: deadly nightshade, poison ivy, blah-blah-blah, then digitalis, then poison hemlock and white snakeroot and cobra lily. I’m a bit thin on this level so there are four empty drawers.’
‘You don’t feel in danger having all these in the residence?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ she says. ‘Because it’s here. With us. It’s on our side.’
She pushes her black fringe from her eyes, it’s as straight as a ruler, and opens a low cupboard door.
‘What are the doorknobs made from?’ I ask.
She turns to me and grins a Cecilia grin, like a Doberman in attack mode but they manage to make it almost pretty.
‘Grimberg teeth,’ she says. ‘No tooth fairy in our family, we could never afford her. The knobs are the milk teeth of me and Father and all of Grandfather’s other descendants since way back when. We have a thing for teeth. It’s sweet, really.’
It is fucked up and a long way from sweet.
‘And then at the bottom are perhaps the most peculiar items of all.’
She bends down.
On the black velvet cushion sits a pill the size of a peppercorn.
‘Cyanide,’ she says. ‘Old and probably useless, but it is cyanide.’ She places it back and points to the other drawers at the base of the cabinet. ‘Various bullets and shotgun cartridges, a knuckle-duster Grandfather brought back from China, some very potent chloroform, a mustard-gas canister, also ancient, a chisel-tipped Japanese razor that was used to execute a POW, rat poison, a World War Two incendiary device that could burn down half of Gavrik, a lady’s flick knife from Andorra.’
‘Is something missing?’ I ask, pointing to a long, empty, velvet cushion.
‘Cosh,’ she says.
‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘Cosh,’ she says. ‘A truncheon, a cudgel, a nightstick, a bludgeon, a blackjack, a mace. Mother keeps it under her bed, I think. It helps her sleep.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You have quite a collection.’
‘Now you’ve seen it,’ she says. ‘Now you’ve seen inside.’
‘Who do you think is behind the recent events? Gunnarsson and then the truck crash,’ I pause. ‘Your father.’
‘What?’ she says.
‘It just seems that too many awful things are happening in and around this factory, that’s all. I wondered if you had any theories? If you think the deaths are connected?’
‘I hope you’re not looking at me when you ask that. I wasn’t even here when Father had his accident. I was in art college.’
‘Of course not. I’m not saying that at all. I just wondered what your view is.’
She looks me up and down and closes her ‘cabinet of life’.
‘Let’s leave,’ she says. ‘Let’s finish up in the Receiving Room. I think that would be best.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I say, passing through the curtain into the elegant room.
‘It’s Mother,’ she says. ‘She doesn’t like people in the residence.’
She adjusts her long black gloves.
‘It’s not straightforward living above the factory.’ She touches the beauty spot above her lip. ‘We’ve had tragedies. More than our fair share. And we have our burden to carry. But we try to take adequate precautions and we carry on for the sake of the town.’ She doesn’t shiver but she looks cold now, like she needs a coat. ‘I’ve been told this ever since I was five years old, praying by father’s bedside each night for the workers and the consumers of our liquorice, praying they’d be able to keep on stamping and eating, praying individually for sick workers or their children, people we’d never met; Ludo and I kneeling there for half an hour some nights on this damp granite outcrop praying for the whole damn town but never ever for ourselves.’
26
I walk downstairs and the eyes in the photographs, the dark sepia eyes of workers now long-buried, judge me as I pass them. There’s a hand-sized oil painting of a small boy stroking a cat with one hand, and holding what looks like a dagger in the other. Probably just a harmless letter-opener. I peer closer and there’s either a snowball by his feet, or else it’s a snow skull. Grimberg family tradition? A door slams somewhere close by. I turn left at the bottom but then remember the arch exit is bolted shut now, new security measure, so I turn right through the heavy wood door and head to the canteen. The place smells of ammonia and meat sauce. There is no chattering here, only whispers, secret conversations, people scared and vigilant. The big doors in the factory are open for forklifts so I short-cut outside and the scarred cat hisses at me and the fur stands up at the back of its head and he stands his ground. I keep close to the wall.
It’s warm. Not warm-warm, but maybe a degree or two above zero. There is no sun in the sky, only marbled whiteness. I look down at my feet to see if I can detect the faint red of Gustav’s blood in the sandy cracks between the cobblestones, but I can’t see anything.
‘Watch it or you’ll get crushed,’ says Andersson. ‘Got trucks coming through for pick-ups now the police have opened it back up. We’re behind. Watch it lingering under the arch.’
I walk with him to the door of his basement residence and he coughs and splutters and holds up a cracked palm of calloused skin to apologise and then he coughs some more.
‘You should get that seen to,’ I tell him.
‘Strong as a bear,’ he says, spitting onto the cobbles below. ‘Constitution . . .’ he coughs again, a deep wheezing cough, ‘. . . of a brown bear.’
He looks up at me and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his overalls.
‘How are the family?’ he asks. ‘I know you speak to them.’
‘They’re okay,’ I say.
‘I worry we’re in trouble but they don’t tell me nothing. I’m part of it, you know, have been for a long time. They ought to . . . I don’t know. I got my whole life tied up in this place. Everything. They owe it to me to keep me updated, what with everything that’s gone on, with a killer walking about, free as a bird, but nobody tells me nothing, been the same my whole . . .’ he coughs, ‘. . . life.’
‘Seem to be okay, considering,’ I say. ‘How’s your brother?’
‘I know someone who can save this place. New lease of life and we’d all walk away better off, but will they listen to me?’
I look at him.
‘They will not,’ he says.
‘How’s your brother?’ I ask again.
He shrugs. ‘Breathing. Least that’s the word round here.’
‘You think he’s up to a visit? I’d like to talk to him for the paper.’
He shrugs again. ‘Why you keep asking me? Don’t ask me, ask him.’
It’s ten past three and I can see the janitor’s grandson through the window of the basement. He’s sucking on a pale blue inhaler and he looks like he could use a steak and some broccoli and a beach holiday even more than I could.
I want to give Tam some cash toward the bills for the week, so I head down to the bank on the corner of Storgatan and Eriksgatan. The cross-country ski store is doing decent business and I can see two women outside Systembolaget each carrying a bulging carrier bag with the unmistakable cuboid shape of a bag-in-box. Maybe a Chilean Merlot or a Spanish Grenache, something sloshing about in a bin liner, strapped into a cardboard box with handy plastic tap. More like a petrol pump than a beverage.
The bank has a queue of three. Benny Björnmossen, owner of the town’s largest gun store, is being served and rumour is his profits are soaring thanks to locals stocking up on ammunition and combat knives and door locks and amateur CCTV systems and shiny new rifles. Behind him is some woman I recognise from Pilates down at the Lutheran church, the one and only time I tried it, what a pile of Lycra bullshit that was, then behind her are the wood-carving sisters.
I don’t want to tap their shoulders so I clear my throat and the talking one turns around.
‘Hello, girl.’
‘Hi, how are you both?’ I ask.
‘Girl wants to know how we are, Alice,’ says Cornelia, the talking one. Alice, the quiet one, smiles and Cornelia says ‘We’re alive, girl, can’t complain.’
Alice is growing her hair out but her left eye has no lashes.
‘You’re leaving us up here with this Ferryman killer, leaving us for the big city, that’s what we heard, ain’t it Alice?’
‘Yep,’ says Alice.
‘Leaving on Monday,’ I say. ‘Actually, I’m having leaving drinks at Ronnie’s on Thursday night. Tomorrow night. You’re both welcome.’
Cornelia looks to her sister and her sister looks back. The number on the screen over the cashier counter changes and I realise I forgot to take a queue ticket so I grab one.
‘Not our scene, girl,’ says the talking one. ‘And watch yourself. There’s old evil on the loose.’ She touches the side of her neck. ‘You doing some book work for Davey Holmqvist, that right?’
I nod. ‘Just research. About the factory.’
‘Well,’ says Cornelia, elbowing her sister. ‘Mind how you go.’
‘Sorry?’
The talking one pulls up her rainproof elasticated trousers with one hand. ‘Most car accidents happen on the last stretch of the journey when you’re relaxed and heading back home, ain’t that right, Alice?’
‘Yep,’ says Alice.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘You’ve had a good run, especially with what happened last year.’ She cringes. ‘But don’t go pushing your luck just as you’re about to go start life someplace more suited to your lifestyle and all that. It ain’t safe round here. Old evil. Don’t fall at the last jump.’
‘I’ve got less than a week,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Mind how you go in Utgard forest,’ says Cornelia, turning to face forward as she gets to the front of the queue. ‘If you visit Davey, mind the road. It ain’t what it used to be. Ain’t maintained. You watch yourself, girl.’
The quiet sister looks at me for a while longer, nodding thoughtfully, then turns to the cashier and presents her numbered ticket. Benny Björnmossen walks back past us with more swagger than a double-jointed cowboy. He nods to me and then to someone else. It’s Henrik Hellbom, the lawyer with the bad posture and the stretched face, looks permanently startled, the man with all the real estate, the brother-in-law of Toyota guy.
The cashier peers up and gets all flustered and then she says something to the wood-carving sisters and pulls down a roller blind real quick that says, ‘Please bear with us, we will be with you shortly.’
The quiet sister makes a ‘humph’ sound and then the blind pings up, except now there’s a cardboard sign behind the window that says ‘Private Banking’ and the cashier’s trying to tell the sisters they’ll have to wait while they serve Henrik Hellbom. They snort and complain but then back off and let him through.
Cornelia, the talking one, looks back at me with more poison than Karin has in her cabinet. She wants to punch Hellbom right between the eyes and I can’t blame her. The cardboard sign comes down and the sisters are ushered to the front again and Facelift gets led back through a double-locked door to some manager’s office. But it’s not like the sisters are going to change bank now is it, seeing how there’s a grand total choice of one.
What’s Hellbom doing here? Arranging finance so he can make an offer for the factory? Selling stocks so he has enough cash? Is that how it works?
I turn to the cashier, a girl I recognise from a high-school-handball story I ran my first year here, and I tell her I’m changing address, moving down south, and she basically looks at me and says ‘so’. I ask what I need to do and she tells me to inform my new branch, nothing she can do about it, ‘next please’.
I withdraw cash from the machine and wait outside the bank.
Shivering, I try to avoid eye-contact with passers-by, all of whom I know or know of, all of whom will have some crackpot theory about the Ferryman, and then Hellbom steps outside in his fur-lined black coat and his fur-lined black boots.
‘Mr Hellbom?’ I ask.
He looks me up and down and frowns and blinks about six blinks in fast succession. He has a sword-shaped Gavrik Chamber of Commerce badge pinned to his lapel and his nostrils flare as he breathes.
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘I’m Tuva Moodyson, I work at the paper. Can I ask you a quick question please?’
He looks around as if for help and then swallows and says, ‘I’m late for an appointment’. His voice is deep and he pronounces all the letters in his words, or over-pronounces them, even the two ‘ts’ in appointment.
‘What do you think about the news that a consortium of businessmen from Stockholm are bidding for the Grimberg factory?’
He scowls at me and looks at the factory and he looks worried. My lie has done its job. He wants the factory, I can see it. He wants the factory very badly indeed.
‘I must go now,’ he says, smiling as an afterthought.
‘Police are investigating a criminal conspiracy, a plot to reduce the value of Grimberg Liquorice. Criminal damage to Grimberg trucks, possible connection to the Gunnarsson murder.’ I’m watching him closely for any signs, any clues. ‘A plot to force the Grimbergs to sell up. Any comment?’
His gloves are fine calf leather, a rich shade of tan, and they are tight on his hands. A second skin. He pulls up his collar and touches the sharp lapel pin and then he blinks five or six times. Sweat is starting to bead above his short moustache.
‘Who did you say you were?’ he asks, mock calm in his deep, clipped voice.
‘Tuva Moodyson,’ I say. ‘T-U-V-A.’
He looks down and sniffs and spits into the snow and walks away from me.
I head back to my office.
‘You working for me or Holmqvist,’ says Lena as I step inside and pull off my coat. ‘Which is it?’
I look at her like ‘ugh?’
‘Three days till your final copy. After all we’ve been through do not short-change me, Tuva.’
‘I’m doing Karlstad this afternoon, interviewing the injured delivery driver in hospital.’ I pause. ‘For the paper.’
She retreats back to her desk.
I call Thord.
‘Thord Pettersson.’
‘It’s me.’
‘No time,’ he says.
‘About Gunnarsson,’ I say. ‘I need that other ten per cent of your information . . .’ But he’s already put down the phone.
I check my emails and write up what I remember from the lunch appointment with Karin. I’m not sure how much of my research Holmqvist will use, but as someone who interviews people all the time, I find this family fascinating. There are plenty of Gavrik residents who think their toy soldier collection is interesting or their rebuilt Corvette is interesting and they’re all pretty much deluded. And then there’s the Grimbergs who think they’re normal as cloudberry pie and in reality they’re the most darkly exotic people I could ever imagine.
The drive south is a pain in the ass. I usually love this route, straight down the E16 and then the E45, stereo on, heated seat on, cruising past delivery trucks and pulp wagons at a smooth one twenty. Not today. The Tacoma hasn’t got a working stereo. Potato Head, the garage owner’s son, proud recipient of my Hilux, told me the electrics got damp so they ripped out the unit. Well, thanks for nothing, pea-brain. The fluffy, steering wheel cover does its job but I still hate it. If I drive faster than about ninety the whole truck starts shaking on its axels and if I breathe too much I need to keep wiping the windows with my wiper-on-a-stick. It’s a rust box on wheels and the blower’s weaker than the final warm breath of a grandpop with emphysema.
Karlstad looks good. It’s a handsome city with grand old buildings and a decent department store. There are people here. Life. I find the central hospital and park up. It’s not where Mum died, this isn’t a palliative hospice. Mum was here years ago for her
first cancer and I visited a fair few times, but those were hopeful times, not palliative times. I should have come more. I park and pay and go in. The circular doors move slowly and I shuffle inside and the place is hot and it smells of bodily decay and alcogel.
I pull off my coat and slip blue shoe covers over my boots. It’s not mandatory but everyone does it. I ask about Andersson and follow the stripes on the rubberised floor to a lift and take it up and find the ward. He’s in a room with one other guy and I have twenty-five minutes before visiting hours are over.
‘Hello,’ I say, smiling, peering my head round the door.
The guy closest to me is on a ventilator and he looks asleep. The guy nearest the window peers up from his hunting magazine.
‘You here for my bag?’ he says.
I step inside and shake my head.
‘It’s full,’ he says.
‘I’m Tuva Moodyson,’ I say, edging my way to the end of his bed. ‘I’m a reporter at the Gavrik Posten.’
He frowns at me and closes his hunting magazine and I can see a man on the cover with a dead wolf slung over his shoulder.
‘Gavrik Posten?’
‘Yes.’
I take a look at the name next to his bed. It’s the right guy.
‘You want to talk to me?’ he says.
‘Just for a minute, if that’s okay? I wanted to hear about your accident.’
He grins. ‘You’re my first visitor.’ He points to the heavy, pine chair beside his bed. ‘Come and sit down. Moa, you say your name was? Have we met?’
‘Tuva,’ I say. ‘You want me to get the nurse for you, about your . . .’ I point to his general midriff area.
‘No, no,’ he says, sitting up straighter in bed. ‘That can wait. Thanks for coming to see me, it’s nice to see a friendly local face.’ He points to ventilator guy. ‘He isn’t one for small talk.’
I smile.
‘What happened to you that night?’ I ask. ‘Mind if I record this?’ I place my digital Dictaphone on the bedside table next to some indigestion tablets and his glasses case.