Black Lies, Red Blood

by Kjell Eriksson

  The cabin at the allotment garden had been a retreat. He never brought any of his drinking buddies there, did not even talk about the cabin. It was his and his mother’s territory where they could maintain the illusion of the industrious allotment gardeners. He had to fill in for his father, who died in the early eighties. She must have thought that a few beers for his assistance and company was a low price, because the pantry under the hatch in the kitchen floor was always filled.

  Now he had to leave. He stared out the window; the poorly tended beds made him sad. During the spring he tried to weed out the worst of it, but it was as if a little resistance only stimulated the couch grass and thistles, because now the perennials were barely visible. Only the angry red poppy was able to show off.

  He didn’t know what time it was, his wristwatch had stopped and the phone was turned off, but he guessed it was fairly early.

  He looked around the cabin. It struck him that this might be the last time he would be there. Otherwise I could live here, he thought, I don’t need anything bigger.

  He shut the door with a slam, did not bother to lock it, stood quietly on the stoop, and drew the fresh morning air into his lungs.

  “I could live here,” he repeated out loud.

  He felt no regret, only a great fatigue. They could have done it together, but Bosse had always been a stubborn bastard.

  He heard the sound of the bicycle before he saw Nordlander come pedaling, but did not bother to hide.

  She opened the gate to her patch, pushed in the bicycle, and then turned around, as if she unconsciously registered his presence.

  To his surprise she smiled. She parked the bicycle, came back, and stood by the gate.

  “Up early,” she observed, and Johnny could only nod.

  “Have you had coffee?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m putting some on. Why don’t you come over in ten minutes. I can make a few sandwiches too.”

  Has she had a stroke? Sure, he’d had coffee many times at the Nordlanders, but always with his mother, and the last time was at least five years ago.

  He could not bring himself to answer, but of course coffee and a sandwich would be nice.

  “So you’ll come by later?”

  He nodded. The neighbor lady gave him another smile, turned on her heels, and disappeared into her house. He sat down on the bench under the apple tree. Coffee and a sandwich; he remembered her egg-and-anchovy sandwiches, but that was probably too much to hope for.

  He glimpsed Anna Nordlander behind the curtains, rummaging around in the kitchen. She was a retired teacher and it showed, she almost always had that gentle, forgiving expression on her face, which he associated with his own time at the Tunaberg school. The teachers had given up before he even tried.

  Johnny leaned against the apple tree, enjoying the warmth. After the frosty nights earlier in the month it had been getting steadily warmer every day. It sucks that I can’t live here, he thought, then I could sit here every morning, feel the rough bark against my back and the sun against my face, enjoy life.

  Having access to a cabin but at the same time not having an apartment was frustrating. He got the idea of talking with the Nordlander bitch, she was the only one in the vicinity who would have an opinion on whether he could stay in the cabin over the summer. Maybe she could be convinced. He could even help her with a few chores.

  Johnny got up from the bench, certain that at least ten minutes must have passed. He left the lot, crossed the road, and went up on Nordlanders’ stoop. Through the thin door he heard her voice. Was she talking to herself? He carefully opened the door.

  “You have to hurry,” Johnny heard her say, and he realized that Nordlander was talking on the phone.

  “Ralf, do you hear what I’m saying? He might get away,” she said in her teacher’s voice.

  Suddenly he understood. She was talking with her son, that fucking busybody policeman. Ralf must have tattled to her that the police wanted to get hold of Johnny.

  He and Ralf, who had played together in the garden area, were in the same class the first six years of school. Now he would march out and become a hero.

  The old lady was calling the cops on him! The invitation for a cup of coffee was only a way to keep him in the area.

  Johnny Andersson was consumed by fury. This happened to him more and more often.

  He opened the door wide and threw himself into the cabin.

  “You damn witch! ‘Have you had coffee?’ You lying sack of shit!”

  Anna Nordlander picked up a knife from the counter and held it in front of her with both hands. On the counter was a loaf of bread.

  He stared at the shaky hands that held the serrated knife.

  “I see, you’re going to cut me?”

  Johnny Andersson took hold of a chair and raised it. For a moment in his mind he saw his mother and Nordlander as they were sitting in the kitchen, shelling peas, a childhood memory. Thirty-five years ago maybe. Then he and Ralf had stormed into the kitchen, out of breath and thirsty and Nordlander poured rhubarb juice from a pitcher.

  He lowered the chair.

  “Leave my house!”

  He raised the chair again and swung it toward the woman. A chair leg hit the left side of her head and Anna Nordlander was thrown toward the window, pulling down a couple of flowerpots with her arm as she vainly tried to hold herself upright and then collapsed on the floor.

  Johnny Andersson knew now that flight was everything. From Nordlander’s kitchen, from all the memories, from the Ralf of childhood, from the garden cabin—his only property and fixed point.

  He grabbed the loaf and took a bite. The woman at his feet whimpered. Hatred welled up inside him, hatred for which he had no target. He leaned down and picked up the knife from the floor.

  “You wanted to stick this in me,” he said.

  Anna Nordlander slid up in a half-sitting position. Her eyes were cloudy and blood was dripping from her temple. She shook her head. She opened her mouth but was not able to say anything. Johnny wanted to hear her voice, listen to her lies and excuses, simply to have a reason to release his rage. He wanted to hear her say her obvious lies in her teacher voice. He wanted her to crawl in front of him, beg him, she who had always given the orders. Then he could scream at her, spit and kick her, but he could not attack a mute elderly woman lying at his feet with a foggy gaze and shaking hands.

  He threw the bread at her and left the cabin with the knife in his hand.

  Forty-seven

  It turned out to be a long talk, more and more taking the form of a monologue. Sammy Nilsson did not need to ask many questions. After a few minutes Anders Brant already felt a growing satisfaction, being able to talk about Bosse Gränsberg and what had happened the past few months.

  He began to feel a kind of optimism. He was talking with a person, admittedly a policeman, who seemed to be able to put two and two together without everything having to be explained. Brant talked about the time on the Sirius bandy team with a sense of joy, even pride. He had been a pretty good player, a team player.

  Brazil and Salvador faded away. Lately his brain had been working in high gear: the ignominious flight from Vanessa, the e-mail from Ann, witnessing the killing on his street, the visit to the cell, and finally the accident—all this had built up a tension that was now relieved as he talked about something as trivial as bandy. There were no lies, no betrayal, no personal or political complications. He experienced it like the joy of a reunion, as if he and Sammy Nilsson were two old teammates who unexpectedly ran into each other and were now exchanging recollections.

  Brant sensed that the relief perhaps had to do with Ann Lindell, even though he had no basis for optimism in that area. Sammy Nilsson had hinted that she was extremely sad. It would surely be a painful showdown. He realized that she had somehow found out about Vanessa’s existence and his duplicity. Of course she was angry too. He was sure to be raked over the coals, and there was something in Sammy Nilsson’s atti
tude that made Anders Brant uncertain, as if it no longer mattered what he said or did. Had Ann grown tired of him and given up the thought of a relationship for good?

  But let it come, let the waves rage over him! He was not worth anything else. Maybe he didn’t even want to see her anymore. Was it the case that it was neither Vanessa or Ann? A cop, he thought, how would that work?

  “Is she in the building?” he asked suddenly.

  Sammy Nilsson nodded.

  “She’s questioning someone we believe to be a murderer and rapist.”

  “Nice,” said Anders Brant.

  During their intense weeks together he had not really thought much about her job. He tried to picture her sitting in front of a violent perpetrator, but the image of the Ann he knew did not tally with murder and rape.

  “She’s a police officer,” he said, as if that had only just occurred to him, and Sammy Nilsson laughed.

  “A good police officer,” he noted. “With all due respect to bandy, let’s return to Gränsberg. What do you think he had to do with Jeremias Kumlin?”

  “Nothing,” Brant answered immediately.

  “Could those Russian papers have come from Kumlin? Did you know he worked with oil and gas?”

  “Not a clue,” said Brant, although he had a vague memory of an article about his old teammate who had become so successful in the former East bloc.

  He started to feel the headache more and more. The doctor at the hospital in Salvador had encouraged him to take it easy. The blow to the head had caused a serious concussion and minor internal bleeding. He should be at home in bed, licking his wounds.

  “I realize you’re feeling a little shaky, but just a few more questions,” said Sammy Nilsson. “Do you know Johnny Andersson, a buddy of Gränsberg?”

  “I interviewed him the week before I left for Brazil. He was funny somehow, tried to stand out as a little superior, but in a moving way. He actually came to my place a couple days later.”

  “What did he want?”

  “No idea. I was just leaving and in a bit of a hurry. I told him to come back another day. But to be honest I did not particularly want him running around my apartment.”

  “How did he get your address?”

  “It’s in the phone book.”

  Sammy Nilsson grinned.

  “You know that Johnny succeeded Gränsberg as Melander’s boyfriend?”

  Brant shook his head.

  Sammy Nilsson told how Ingegerd Melander was found dead in her stairwell and that they were now looking for Johnny Andersson.

  “Have you been to the Tuna allotment garden? He has a cabin there.”

  Just then Sammy Nilsson’s cell phone rang and he answered immediately. Brant heard an agitated voice. Sammy held the phone away from his ear.

  “At the Tuna allotment garden perhaps?” he said with a derisive smile, giving Brant a bemused look.

  Forty-eight

  “Was it better before?”

  Ann Lindell’s question got no answer. She did not expect one either, since she was alone in her office.

  For fifteen years she had been employed with the Uppsala police, or was it longer than that? She couldn’t bear to even count. It was not an especially long time, one of her colleagues had forty years in the building, but long enough that she should be able to answer the question.

  She decided that it was better before. In any event at Violent Crimes, in any event for her, in any event according to her own hasty, subjective analysis.

  Had she been better before, that is, was she worse now? She grinned. Okay, she was older, a little heavier, more wrinkled, perhaps more cynical, not as curious, but no worse as a police investigator. She did not want to believe that, not even consider it. Had her associates gotten worse? Where some of them were concerned, she answered yes without hesitation. Riis definitely, maybe Allan too, mostly because he showed such a depressing resignation, more clearly than the others. Ottosson? Haver mostly went around seething. Beatrice? Well, she had definitely gotten heavier anyway, thought Ann with a hint of a smile. Sammy?

  The majority had no doubt undergone a development similar to hers—more wrinkled, heavier, more experienced, individually perhaps more skilled, but on the whole worse.

  There was something at Violent Crimes that didn’t add up. Ann had a hard time putting her finger on it. The percentage of cases solved was roughly the same over the years, despite an increased workload, not compensated for by more personnel. Productivity had increased, in other words, but something else was missing.

  The joy was gone, she decided. Less and less often was there a gleam in her associates’ eyes. It was as if they all had a virus that produced out-of-sorts, downhearted police officers. There was grumbling, she decided. She was no exception, on the contrary, her own grumbling had increased dramatically in recent years, as if she was never really satisfied, either with her own efforts or her colleagues’. Or rather, there was grousing about an uncomprehending environment—the politicians, the National Police Board, the county police commissioner, the union, the media, the general public, young people, immigrants, social workers, the correctional system, prosecutors, the healthcare system, they all got their share. Seldom expressed and factually formulated, instead it usually went no farther than muttering from the corner of your mouth.

  The whole morning she had thought about Sammy Nilsson’s words that the true story would destroy all the empty words, tear away the politicians’ veils of meaningless talk and promises. In a previous discussion, one of the now rare outbursts of meaningful debate at coffee break, he maintained that they all knew what was wrong, that there were simple, reasonable solutions to the majority of problems. Eskil Ryde protested and maintained that Sammy only wanted to spend the taxpayers’ money for no purpose. The technician thought that people’s most fundamental motivation was egoism, a characteristic that was genetically determined besides. In other words, not much could be done other than try to correct, mend, and repair, and lock up the worst idiots. Humans were incomplete, so why dream about a paradise? It only made you tired.

  “Klara Lovisa,” she mumbled.

  The name had become like an incantation. Why, she did not understand, but knew that the true story about the girl who was raped and then strangled could never be told. Or rather, there were several stories, tangent to each other, layered over each other.

  Ann was convinced of Håkan Malmberg’s guilt. There was something very helpless about his massive form. During the latest interview she had seen something in his eyes. Perhaps he wanted to tell what had happened?

  The information of whether the thread from the shed matched Malmberg’s bandanna would take time. It was a complicated analysis, and Prosecutor Molin explained that to file an indictment there could be no doubt whatsoever about the thread.

  To break her passivity, Ann Lindell decided to visit the jail and say hello to Malmberg. Perhaps that environment, which he was now forced to see as “his,” would make it easier to get to know him better.

  As she passed Ottosson’s office he called her in. He was sitting behind the desk, leaning back with his hands behind his neck. A button in his shirt had come loose, and in the gap that formed white skin was visible. He looked strikingly content.

  “The national forensics lab is prioritizing the thread,” he reported. “You still think this is the right guy?”

  Lindell nodded.

  “Fredriksson found a spade,” said Ottosson. “Malmberg has one of those collapsible kinds, camping type, that can be stored in a packing case on his motorcycle. Ryde will take a closer look at it.”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  Ottosson let his arms fall down on the desk and observed her.

  “Sammy picked up that journalist today.”

  Maybe he’s in the building, Ann thought.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” said Lindell curtly. “I’m going to see Malmberg now.”

&nbs
p; In the elevator she took a deep breath and exhaled. Brant, yes! May he rot in hell!

  Forty-nine

  Surprisingly enough the hole in the fence was still there, perhaps thanks to the fact that it was hidden by some tangled bushes. That was the opening he and Ralf used when they wanted to go down to the Fyris River, forbidden excursions. On hot days they undressed and splashed around in the water, swam upstream and then let themselves be brought back by the current.

  Johnny Andersson stood by the river’s edge. It must have been thirty years since he’d last been there, but everything seemed so familiar and near. For a minute or two he was carried back to the games and memories of childhood. The episode that usually showed up when he thought about playing at the allotment gardens was the memory of his father, who only came down to the cabin if there was digging or carpentry work to be done, and who once joined him in the forbidden crawl through the fence. Johnny did not remember what they did, only the memory of his father wriggling through and then standing on the river bank, peering, as if he was thinking about fleeing from everything.

  An angry dog’s barking was heard from the other side of the river. Johnny looked around. He had no plan, but he realized that soon Ralf and his cohort would be swarming around the allotment area. He took a few steps in the thick vegetation, turned on his heels, and started walking south, toward the city.

  After some ten meters he came upon a boat, a leaky old rowboat, partially hidden in the dense meadowsweet. It was secured with a frayed piece of rope to the trunk of an alder. No lock, only a knot. He untied the knot and pulled the rowboat into the water. It floated, but for how long? There were no oars, but he tossed in a crooked branch that was on the bank and then carefully stepped into the wobbly vessel, pushed off with the branch, was caught by the weak current and carried away.