by Will Dean
It’s dim inside and there are no lights on. The windows are so dirty they may as well be walls. But I can see things. My head is indoors and the rest of me is outdoors. There are things everywhere. Piles of newspapers tied up with string; the piles are highest by the walls, some reaching the ceiling like pillars holding it all up. In the centre of the room there are some floorboards visible but only in patches like stepping stones weaving through chaos.
The door still won’t give any further and I can’t see what’s behind it, so I walk back out to the truck and get my camera. I’m a little worried the old man may have passed out behind the door. Or, even, you know . . . I’ve covered stories like that, pensioners found weeks after death, slumped and emaciated, piles of post and junk mail, neighbours disturbed by the smell. At least there’s no smell in there, other than damp and dust. I stick my camera through the gap of the front door and arch my arm around it and take a photo. I see the flash light up the room like lightning, and it’s even worse than I thought. There’s a whole town’s worth of crap in here.
Just as I pull the camera back to look at its screen, a hand pushes past my face from behind me and grabs hold of the door handle, pulling the door shut.
I turn on my heels.
He’s scowling. Way too close to me.
‘God, Mr Gustavsson?’ Stay calm, it’s just an old man. ‘I’m sorry, the door was open. I thought . . . Hello, I’m Tuva Moodyson from the Gavrik Posten.’
He licks his lips and holds out a hand. It’s clean and sinewy and covered in liver spots.
‘Nice to meet you, Tuva Moodyson. You see all that, did you? Get a good look, did you? It’s a life’s work in there, but it’s not ordered, not ordered at all. I still have a lot of sorting to do inside the house.’
I swallow and slow my breathing and move off the porch into the garden for some space because the doorway suddenly feels too small, and I don’t want to be close to the ivy or close to the chimes in case they jangle.
‘I’m writing an article about the body found last night in the woods. I was hoping to talk with villagers to get the local perspective.’
He nods and then his nod morphs into a shake. His ears are as big as pork chops. He pushes his long grey hair behind them and pinches the tip of his nose.
‘It’s a bad business. I don’t condone the killing of any living creature but then I expect you already know that.’
He stares at me like he’s waiting for a reaction.
‘I think you recognise me, don’t you? I recognise you, Tuva Moodyson.’
I open my eyes wide even though I don’t want to. I don’t think I’ve seen him before.
He walks away to the caravan wearing white socks and black sandals and then he pulls out a banner on the end of a wooden stick. Ah, okay, right, now I recognise him. The banner shows a colour photograph of a rabbit being injected with something into its eyes. Bengt Gustavsson is the local animal rights guy.
‘I’m pretty well known in these parts, I’d say. I got a crusade, well, that’s what I call it anyhow, and that’s why I don’t have time to sort out the archives in the house, not just yet anyway. Maybe this coming winter. The archives are important, but helping defenceless animals takes priority, wouldn’t you say?’
I nod and smile.
‘Cup of tea?’
I don’t mean to frown, but one escapes.
‘Ha,’ he laughs loudly and scratches his ear. ‘I didn’t mean in there. I live in the caravan for the time being, come on.’
I follow him towards the fibreglass caravan; placards and banners are stuffed under the base between the brick supports, and I take a peek at the camera screen to see what the hell is stuck behind that door. The image is blurry but I can see a brown leather sofa topped with piles of yellow National Geographic magazines and copies of Greenpeace Quarterly. Each stack’s bound with garden twine.
‘How do you take it?’ His head pops out of the caravan.
‘Black, please. No sugar.’ I take it white but I don’t trust his milk.
As I look inside the cramped caravan I relax a little. It’s as orderly as a naval officer’s cabin. The single bed’s made and the fleece blanket covering it is pulled so tight I could spin a coin on top. The caravan’s small but everything seems to be in its place.
‘This is where I’m living until I sort out the archives in the house. I’ve got plans for winter and spring next year, it’s all good material, some of it even important, just need to get it organised. I need to develop some kind of system.’
He hands me a chipped white mug, steam rising from it.
‘I got plans,’ he says.
I nod and smile and thank him for the tea and then I notice half a grapefruit on the sink drainer with a curved serrated knife sunk into it. Clear pinkish liquid is pooling around the grapefruit like juice from a hot roast chicken.
‘Take a seat,’ he says, pointing to the only available option, a collapsible camping chair with integrated cup holder. He sits on the bed. ‘Ask away, I’m not shy.’
‘How long have you lived here, Mr Gustavsson?’
‘Call me Bengt. Twenty-two years, ever since I left the service.’
I click my phone on to record, and place it in the cup holder of the chair.
‘I was in the army for twenty-six years and they were the best years of my whole life. Then I came out here. This is my uncle’s place since way back.’
‘So you lived here during the ’90s, when the other bodies were found?’
‘Place was like a circus back then. When young Karlsson was found, he was the last of them, we had twenty-two vehicles up here in one day, I counted all of them in and I counted all of them out. Twenty-two. Did you ever hear such a thing? And that was October too, they all were, so they carved up the track pretty bad. It’s a wet time of year, but you probably know that. Hunting season, murder season more like it. All them tyres ain’t good for a loose track like this, just ain’t designed for it. We had to resurface a fair amount. Yeah, I remember them three bodies and I hope we’re not heading back to them bad old days. There’s enough bloodshed as it is around here.’
‘Do you know who was found yesterday?’
‘Some hunter,’ he says, and I notice his lower lip’s covered in an outbreak of cold-sore blisters. ‘Some hunter out to kill something that ain’t carrying a loaded gun like he was. Some bloodthirsty hunter who didn’t see it coming, I suppose.’
I take a sip of tea and notice a bunch of carrots in a basket hanging from the caravan ceiling.
‘Good-looking vegetables you’re growing out there.’ This is part of my job. I have to relate to the locals on some level. I have to keep them talking.
He smiles and licks his lips. ‘You noticed my veggie patch, did you? I use an organic fertiliser I make myself. If I was to enter a competition in Gavrik or Munkfors or someplace, I dare say I’d come back with most of the trophies if that ain’t boasting.’
‘What’s in your fertiliser, Bengt?’
He brushes his cold sore with a fingertip. ‘I can’t tell you that, can I? Trade secret.’
‘Okay, then,’ I say. ‘Have there been any changes in Mossen since the three ’90s murders? How has the village evolved?’
‘Well, let’s see. The pines are taller now, they’re over seventy years old so it’s about time to harvest. Hannes and Frida owns most of it, most of Utgard forest, most of the timber. Kind of an investment for them I guess, they’ve got a pretty good economy that pair.’
That phrase takes me back to London for a minute, back to my studies at UCL. I used to say ‘so-and-so have a good economy’ and people would look at me like I was stupid, and I’d say it means ‘well off’ and they’d tell me it doesn’t translate too well.
‘Have there been any new residents?’ I ask.
‘Residents?’ He smiles. ‘Residents is a fancy name for us lot. Well, back then it was me, then Viggo’s old dad as my nearest neighbour, may he rest in peace. Viggo drives the taxi cab, you prob
ably seen him around. He’s got a boy who I babysit every now and then, whenever Viggo gets night work or weekend jobs. At least I used to, reckon he’s found someone else to help him now. Then there’s the sisters, the wood-carving sisters, you bumped into them yet?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, good for you, Tuva Moodyson. You won’t get much from that pair, that’s for sure. Why don’t you ask them why they left Norway in a big hurry, eh? You won’t get a mug of fresh-brewed tea from those two.’
‘What about the ghostwriter, David Holmqvist?’
‘Davey’s been here the whole time,’ Bengt says, his finger picking at his lip. ‘He was born in that house, and his parents passed when he was about seventeen or eighteen. Car accident, may they both rest in peace.’
I get a flashback to Dad’s crash, and then I notice the crucifix on the wall by Bengt’s bed and the small engraving of Jesus resting near the sink.
‘Do you have any idea who may have been responsible for the ’90s murders, Bengt? Any personal theories?’
‘Well, there’s lots of rumours cos people talk and people think they know things they don’t, especially in a small place like this. But the people in the know reckons it was one man who did it. There were similarities, you see.’
This is nothing new to me but I try to feign interest.
‘I won’t go into the details, but it was the . . .’ He points to his eyes. ‘And they was all shot in the back. Lung shots, all of ’em, so I’d say it was another hunter that killed them.’
‘A hunter?’
‘Yep, which covers just about the whole population around here except me.’
Convenient theory. But maybe a man who shoots hunters in the name of animal rights wouldn’t call himself a hunter. A protester? Guardian?
‘Do you know who it could be?’
‘Well, people talk about Davey all the time, speculating about his books and hobbies and whatnot, rumours about what he did as a kid. Most of it’s nonsense, people jealous and all sorts, you know, bigots and fools looking for trouble. But, I don’t know. He’s a bit different, that’s true enough, I never said he was normal. He’s a book writer, you just gotta look at his hands, they’re smoother than yours. But he ain’t no hunter. Davey sure ain’t no Hannes Carlsson.’
7
When I arrive back in Gavrik, the clouds are thinning and occasional beams of warm light are falling on the liquorice factory, the one building that dominates the town.
I park outside my office and walk over. There are a couple of extra cop cars outside the station, detectives and specialists from Karlstad, but most of the vehicles are vans with satellite dishes on their roofs.
The ticket-queue machine thing has been moved out of reception, and Thord’s manning the front desk. He’d be handsome if it wasn’t for his horse teeth.
‘I kept a seat at the front for you, Tuvs, front and centre.’ He emphasises the word ‘centre’. ‘You’re just in time.’
I thank him and walk past the bolted-down chairs and through to the conference room, which I know as the place where school kids get taught road safety and cycling proficiency. It’s heaving. Half a dozen sitting on chairs, and ten more standing up. Cameras on tripods. Laptops open and ready. Nobody notices me because they’re all focussed on the man at the podium, Chief Björn Andersson. Björn looks at me and then he looks away. I reach inside my handbag and take out my digital Dictaphone and a pad and pen. Then I place the Dictaphone in front of Björn, alongside the microphones of TV4, SVT and Aftonbladet.
As soon as I take my seat, Thord walks in to introduce his chief and then he stands beside him like a soldier at ease on day two of basic training. Björn has a pair of glasses that split into two, each part connected by a cord around his neck. He brings each half to his eyes and they snap shut on the bridge of his nose.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome, thanks for coming. Yesterday, at 17:08, a call was placed to the Gavrik district police station by a female resident of Mossen village. Said female informed us that a body had been discovered in Utgard forest, some thirty or so kilometres from here. When officers arrived at the scene they discovered a deceased male in his fifties suffering from an apparent gunshot wound. A rifle was also recovered which had not been fired. This investigation is being handled by Gavrik police with guidance and support from Karlstad specialist homicide unit, and the National Forensic Centre. We have not yet identified a suspect or suspects pertaining to this incident. Because of the nature of this investigation there may be some questions I am unable to answer at this point. That’s it. Questions, please.’
The room doesn’t burst into shouts like you see in the movies. Nobody’s hustling here. Hands go up. Someone calls out the Chief by his first name and I smile. Big mistake, boyo. I focus on Björn’s gold tiepin, I’ve never seen him wear one, and raise my hand.
‘Tuva,’ he says as a flashbulb goes off at the side of the room.
‘Chief Andersson, have you identified the deceased male?’
The Chief moves on his heels and looks at Thord standing next to him. He coughs and nods.
‘The victim has been formally identified as a Mr Fredrik Erik Malmström. Some of you will know Mr Malmström. He’s been a pillar of this community for many years and a very well-respected teacher at Gavrik Gymnasium school. Our thoughts are with the Malmström family.’
I put my hand up again but he points to someone behind me.
‘Was the victim’s body intact when it was discovered?’
Björn scowls. ‘I can’t comment on that at this time.’
He points to someone else.
‘Are you connecting this murder to the Medusa murders of the 1990s?’
Björn removes his glasses. ‘I will not comment on that at this time.’
His voice is strained and although his police uniform shirt is dark blue, I notice sweat rings growing from his armpits. I can see the faded edge of a tattoo on his wrist: it’s a red love heart, or a diamond, but most of it’s hidden.
The questions are coming fast now.
‘Where was the victim shot, Chief Andersson?’ asks a man standing behind me. ‘With what kind of weapon?’
‘We understand that the murder weapon was a rifle. As we speak, we have investigators combing the forest to locate it. The victim was shot in the general torso area.’
‘Is it true that the army may be called up to help you search the woods?’
Björn frowns at the woman asking the question, as though she’s arrived this morning from a different planet.
‘No,’ he says. A moment later, he adds, ‘The terrain is extremely challenging, even for us local officers. But, no.’
I throw my hand up again.
‘Tuva.’
‘Is there any evidence that this was a hunting accident? Were there any hunting parties in the area at the time of the murder?’
Björn waits a while before answering. He snaps his glasses back together and takes a sip from a plastic cup of water and I see that red tattoo again.
‘There was a hunting party in Utgard forest at the approximate time of the incident. However, that party was operational in a different quadrant of the woods. At the present time, we are keeping an open mind and following up on all leads and all lines of enquiry.’
Thord coughs.
‘Okay, I’m going to wrap this up now, but before I do I want to appeal to your viewers and readers. If you know anything about this incident, any detail, no matter how small, any suspicion, please contact Gavrik police immediately.’
Björn steps away from the podium as a flurry of further questions are yelled out, the loudest being, ‘Is this a mass murderer, Chief Andersson?’ and, ‘Is it safe to go back into the woods?’
Thord opens a door to the private office behind the front counter and Björn walks through it. As soon as they’ve left, I hear multiple cheeping sounds through my hearing aids. High-pitched squeals. My peers are sending their tweets in a race to be the first to report.
Two people follow me out, a tabloid Stockholm guy with slicked-back hair and a beard, and a TV woman with a really bad fake tan. There’s a white taxi parked across the street with its engine idling.
‘You’re local?’ asks the woman as she lights a cigarette and holds it palm facing the sky.
‘I am not local,’ I say.
‘But you work for the local paper?’
‘I work for the town paper.’
She exhales. A breath and a frown and a bitch-smile all in one.
‘Listen, Tuva,’ the man says, waiting for me to be impressed that he remembers my name from the conference. ‘Where’s a good place to eat around here? And,’ a truck passes by at speed, ‘the best?’
I would read him but his beard is in need of a trim and I can’t see his lips clearly.
‘What? Best what, sorry?’
‘Hotel,’ he says. ‘Not too stuffy, but nice rooms and good food.’
I laugh internally but it bursts out.
‘You’ve got a choice of one. If you turn to your left, you’ll see it. It’s really stuffy and the food is twenty-four-carat horseshit.’
He looks around to the half-brick, half-timber building back-dropped by the lorry exit gate of the liquorice factory. The sign says Hotel Gavrik and it isn’t broken or anything, but it’s not quite positioned at the centre of the front of the building.
‘Lunch, then?’ asks the orange woman with the white neck. ‘Where for lunch, just something simple?’
‘Head out towards the E16, first place on the right. I recommend the nuggets and the double cheeseburger. Best food in town. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta get back to work. Guess I’ll see you around.’
I walk ten metres and open the door to Gavrik Posten. The bell above it rings and I close it and walk inside.