by Ulf Durling
‘Are you Göran Eriksson?’ I asked.
‘Yes, what’s it about?’
‘Sorry to disturb you. I am from the CID.’ CID has a nice ring to it when one wants to be a bit official.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, I just want some information. Can you spare a moment?’
He gazed anxiously in all directions to see if his neighbours had seen or heard me. Out of sheer decency I tried to make myself small and entered quickly. It would be unfortunate if his wife could no longer borrow sugar from her neighbors because she was married to a criminal lunatic.
I recognized the fellow. He was in his mid-thirties and seemed pleasant enough. I was directed into some kind of living-room which was covered in dust. She who did not clean grinned out from inside a silver frame on the bookcase. Another photo showed a lass seated at a school desk with a map of Sweden on the wall behind her. There were shots of other uninteresting, smaller children with and without front teeth, an older couple standing arm in arm in front of a tourist bus, an elderly gentleman with his hair plastered down with water and a white shirt that was sagging around his neck as a result of his tie being pulled too tight, and, lastly, an old woman seated with a flower pot on her stomach and ten bouquets in vases around her. She had perhaps been hiding from the photographer in the greenhouse, but had nevertheless been found.
‘Is this the family?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely. My wife and children.’
‘Where is your wife now?’
‘She’s away. Back this week. She’s been with the smaller children on a holiday for needy housewives in Mamaia. Yvonne, the oldest, is staying with her cousins because it’s closer to school. I work most evenings and am very bad at cooking.’
‘I see. How old is Yvonne?’
‘She turned nine this summer. I hope she hasn’t done anything wrong?’
‘Not at all. May I ask, Mister Eriksson, if she is your daughter?’
‘I regard her as such.’
‘Does she know… I mean… who her real father is …?’
‘No. We’ve talked a lot about it, Rose Marie and I. It’s not easy to know what to do for the best. We have two other children, Lisbeth and Kennet. Rose-Marie has told me a lot, but, honestly, I’m not that interested. I’ve never met the father and I’m not from these parts. I came here in the beginning of the 1960’s. Is he in trouble?’
‘In a manner of speaking. He’s dead.’
Eriksson looked out of the window. There were worried wrinkles on his forehead and he was biting his nails in an absent-minded manner. He turned and looked questioningly at me.
‘He died yesterday night,’ I said. ‘He seems to have been here in town a couple of weeks already. You’ve had no contact with him?’
‘No.’
‘What were you doing last Saturday?’
‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. I fell sick before Saturday and have been in bed. I was so sick on Saturday evening that the new district medical officer had to come over. I’m on the sick-list for this week. The flu. I’m better now.’
‘Good. How is it that you don’t know what you were doing last Saturday?’
‘I was delirious and practically unconscious. My brother-in-law had to stay with me the whole night.’
‘OK. Given that Nilsson has no other known relatives, I had to notify you. What you do with the information is your business.’
‘I may just forget it.’
I understood him. The situation was awkward, but I had to go through the formalities.
‘Do you know what Nilsson was doing here?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think that someone else might know something? Your wife? Your parents-in-law?’
‘Rose-Marie hardly knows anything. She would have told me. And her mother died … let me see … seven years ago. Why do you want to know that?’
‘We wonder why Nilsson came here. I think I’m going to have to ask your father-in-law’
Eriksson got to his feet and paced a few steps on the carpet. Then he went over to the bookcase and looked at the photos.
When he turned to me there was resolution as well as fear in his eyes.
‘Is that necessary?’
‘What?’
‘To ask Sven. He’ll only become agitated. Let the whole thing rest! Nilsson has caused enough trouble. Do you know about his brother?’
I nodded. I didn’t want to interrupt him. We—that is Gustavsson—had dug up that old story about Edvin Nilsson that afternoon.
‘Maja, my mother-in-law, had weak nerves. She frequently took anti-depressants. When Rose-Marie became pregnant with Yvonne, Maja had a relapse. She would lie in her room and say nothing. Sven didn’t dare take responsibility for her. Dr. Nylander had to call St. Katarina’s hospital to arrange for a bed there. She was given electrotherapy and recovered enough to return home again. She went back and forth to the hospital many times. The medical treatment didn’t seem to work very well in her case. She hanged herself in the hospital. I never met her. They say that she was a hopeless case. Nobody could have done anything for her. That’s called melancholic depression or something and it runs in my wife’s side of the family.’
‘You mean.…’
‘I only want to say Sven has got over it now. His wife would perhaps have been ill regardless of what had happened, who knows? That’s what the doctors thought. Please don’t remind Sven. Has the newspaper written anything about the incident?’
‘No, unless someone has paid for an obituary notice, but who would do that?’
‘None of us would. Sven went to Stockholm last Friday. He’s supposed to visit his sisters and return home together with Rose-Marie when he arrives from Mamaia. My brother-in-law called him in Stockholm yesterday to tell him I was sick. Sven can’t possibly have heard anything about Nilsson´s death and he has said nothing to me about being in touch with him during the past weeks. I would have known it if Sven had.’
The whole conversation was very difficult. It was obvious that nobody in this family had anything to do with the case, but someone had to ask the questions. A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Trust us.’
Then I slunk away. The Volkswagen didn’t start. It was just standing there coughing and gathering a lot of children around, making fun of me. Eriksson came out and opened the engine hood. He had some knowledge about cars and screwed and pottered about for a while until the damned thing started. There’d been some moisture in the distributor cap. I almost asked him to fix the gear box while he was at it.
Outside the station I let the motor run while I ran to my office.
There were a couple of messages for me.
One was from Vivianne and had been placed on my typewriter. For some reason she had changed the ribbon.
“Nyegaard’s assistant called after you’d gone. He asked you to call. V.”
The other message was from Gustavsson. I don’t know his first name, but on the other hand we’ve only known each other for seven years.
“Nilsson’s medicine, Dichlotride-K, prescribed by Doctor Halling, Göteborg (unavailable). Purchased October 13.”
His information didn’t make me any the wiser. That takes more powerful messages. Below I read “p.t.o.” That’s shorthand for “ look at the other side of the page.” During one’s training days one learns this kind of thing.
I turned the paper and read what he had scrawled down.
“Who will bring Crona in before it’s too late? Or has that detail been overlooked? He hasn’t been seen since Friday night, according to his fiancée Elvy. If we wait too long, he’ll be heading for America. That’s where they all go nowadays. Many loyal and personal greetings. Gustavsson.”
I came up with many new and original swearwords on my way back to the car. I came up with a few more when I found that the car had stalled. I had given it a little too much throttle, I suppose. Then it wouldn’t start again, no doubt because of
moisture in the distributor cap.
It was pouring with rain. I should have waited until it stopped.
I hailed a taxi and was home in ten minutes. The children were waiting with the book.
6
The hunt for the adventurer Algot Emanuel Crona went on for three days. During that time, some pretty sensational events occurred.
On Tuesday evening I had a good laugh reading The Three Wise Men’s report. I found this brief moment of hilarity most relaxing.
The following day we arrested Blom. That was another agreeable moment. We’d tapped his phones while Melin saw to it that he didn’t leave the hotel and the result was not long in coming. Our reward came in the form of a series of phone calls from Blom to a number of his blackmail victims in and around town. They were gentlemen who had used the facilities of the hotel for extra-marital entertainment. Under pressure from our threats, our favourite boarding-house owner had taken the opportunity to squeeze more out of them before the well ran dry. The list of victims was quite long, but unfortunately didn’t include any of my friends. It would have been great fun if Pelle Ramsten’s name had been on the list. Then maybe he would stop cheating at bridge. But that would have been too much to ask.
Another surprise was that we were actually able to get hold of Nyegaard on Tuesday afternoon. Needless to say, he groused about us not calling him earlier because by now the stiff would be half rotten, and if we weren’t that interested we may as well leave it at that. He went on digging at me in like vein, but he nevertheless promised to come over as soon as he could.
I was sick and tired of the whole business, which had ruined several days for me. Not that it was a conspiracy directed at me personally, but it was a hell of a coincidence that there had been swimming competitions in the sports hall twice this week. Kerstin comforted me by stressing that I’m not the least interested in sports, but how is it possible to become interested when stuff like this is going on?
I kept wondering why Crona had made himself scarce. He’s obviously keeping something to himself which he doesn’t want to come out. I know someone who could drag it out of him in less time than it takes to tell. Myself.
We went to Crona’s spot in order to locate his fiancée. I call it a spot. There’s no other word for it. “House” is wrong, for it’s in the back of another building. “Residence” sounds too solemn and “apartment” makes one think of wallpaper, flowerpots in the windows and carpets. It’s possible that what was draped over the threshold and made me stumble was a carpet, but I don’t want to commit myself. It could have been a cat.
Elvy is a small, wizened woman with frizzled hair. She sometimes picks Crona up when he’s spent the night with us. She drops coins into the coffee cash box from time to time in order to help us forget the incidents. Last year we even got a Christmas card in the mail: A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Elvy and Crona.
‘Where is he?’ I began.
‘Who?’
She peered at me with innocent eyes.
‘Guess.’
‘That will be difficult. Wait a second... Crona?’
She called him plain “Crona,” just as everyone did. They may be engaged, but they haven’t got around to dropping titles. For he’s seldom at home.
‘Bull’s-eye. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Why do you want to see him?’
‘His single-room has been a little bit empty for a couple of days. We got worried.’
‘Now you mention it, it’s been quite peaceful here for a while.’
‘Where has he gone?’
‘Are you sure he’s not somewhere in the station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you tried Bussparken?’
‘Of course. That was the first place we looked.’
‘Then I am afraid I don’t have any more suggestions.’
When she saw how disappointed we were, she made some coffee to cheer us up. Gustavsson went out and bought some buns. The coffee had no taste, but one has to be polite, so I didn’t complain. At the second cup Gustavsson recalled something.
‘Does he have any relatives?’
‘No, not anyone alive.’
She was actually serious. Unlike me she has no sense of humour.
‘We’ll find out.’
We thanked her and she promised to come over if she got an idea. When we walked across the garden she sat in the window and waved. We issued a description of him that afternoon. It said that the former goldsmith Algot Emanuel Cronlund, 58 years old and 1.67 metres tall, with humour hair and a humour moustache, brown eyes and a tattoo of a shipwreck (appropriately enough) on his chest, had been missing from his home since October 26.
Originally I had written “missing from his cell,” but Gustavsson didn’t agree. When last seen he was wearing a humourish-brown striped suit and a blue shirt. We were quite sure about his clothes. He was always dressed like that. They were a gift from The Salvation Army. Otherwise he’s not very religious. Anyone who’s seen him or has any other information about him should get in touch with us or the nearest police station.
Nothing happened during the first twenty-four hours. Elvy came over a couple of times and asked if we had made any headway. She advised us to work in a calm and methodical way. As far as she was concerned there was no hurry to find him. Afterwards I heard that her life had never been better.
Ivehed got a list of those people who had spent time at Ramsättra at the same time as Crona in the summer of 1966. That had been his last institutional care. Ivehed found thirty-two names, twenty of which were unavailable, six back at the institution again, while some had moved to Stockholm and Norrköping. One was at an old people’s resort and two were at their homes.
After twenty-four hours he gave up. One positive thing about the investigation is that Ivehed himself was out of the way while he was on meaningless assignments.
Gustavsson sorted the WANTED tip-offs. One was that Crona had been seen in the town park of Sundsvall, sleeping on a park bench with an issue of the daily Västerbottens-Kuriren under his head. That was a false lead, since Crona would never put Västerbottens-Kuriren under his head. He always puts it under his boots.
Another brilliant idea came from a reader of the daily Dagens Nyheter, who thought he’d identified Crona at the head of a student demonstration in a telex picture from Paris.
Further tip-offs indicated that our friend had been seen simultaneously at Umeå, Stockholm, Bredvik and Bulltofta. In the last case, he had been dressed in a brown-humour suit, as in the description, but had been accompanied by two female private secretaries. Gustavsson couldn’t resist telling Elvy this, and her face turned totally dark before she understood that it was a case of mistaken identity. And she has no sense of humour.
We checked with taxi drivers, we asked at booking-office windows in railway station and talked with drivers at bus-companies. Nobody had seen Crona.
At last we got a break from someone calling himself Roger, but that was an alias. He refused to give his real name, address and age and he wore a black mask. We assumed he was about ten years old. On his birthday he’d been given a bike. It had been stolen since Sunday and now he wanted to report the loss.
In the absence of anything else we decided to suspect Crona as the bicycle thief. We thanked Roger for his assistance and he asked if we could do him a favour. He wanted to be locked up for a while, only a quarter of an hour or so, in a real cell. Of course, of course, Gustavsson said and dragged him into cell number thirteen, which was empty. After one minute he began to scream that he wanted bread and water, so we had to buy another bun. Roger was disappointed, for he had expected an old dry one or a rusk, and not something with almond paste. After fifteen minutes he went away. He had written “Magnus 1969” on the wall.
That evening we held an important team meeting. Ivehed surprised us by winning four times in a row and suggesting upgrading the stakes to half a crown. We had just been paid, so even Melin could keep up with th
ings and had enough courage to be decisive over the phone, when his fiancée wanted him to go out dancing.
At eleven o’clock, Gustavsson got an idea all of a sudden and left the room in order to check something. When he returned he looked unusually smug.
‘It occurred to me that Crona has lived here in the town all his life.’
‘So what?’
‘So maybe he was born somewhere in the vicinity.’
‘And what difference would that make?’
‘Listen to me. This is from an old pre-sentence investigation. Born in the rural district of Vallersberga in Stora Hede, 1901. Parents: The crofter Petter Cron—.’
‘Get to the point, Gustavsson.’
He is expert at slowing down investigations with meaningless pieces of information. He can go on endlessly with factual information about names and dates. The older things are, the more excited he gets.
He should have been an antiquarian.
‘It says here that he was at school in Modhult. That school was shut down ages ago. Assume that his parental home was somewhere in the neighborhood.’
‘Do you mean that he wanted to brush up on his past scholastic achievements?’
‘Hell no, but he could have gone into hiding in the crofter’s cottage.’
‘How far away is the school?’
‘About 30-40 kilometres northwards. Do we have a map?’
Reluctantly I rummaged out an old ordnance map issued by the general staff. We leant over it and looked between lines and dots. It took us a hell of a long time. Here and there it was impossible to read the text; it was indistinct and faded. Bengtsson, my superior on sick leave, had probably spilled a considerable amount of beer and cough mixture on it over the years.
‘Here’s the school.’
It was Melin who lent forward. He had his spectacles on.
Gustavsson pushed him away and blocked the view with his fore finger.
‘Stora Hede,’ he said triumphantly.
He pointed to a black square. Beside it one could read “S...a Hede.” It was far away and on the edge of a wood.