“Yes, you can,” she said stubbornly, hiding her eyes behind her right hand.
Fredrik became more and more certain that they would have to take her along to Visby.
They sat silently at the table while Stina sniffled behind her hand. Fredrik wished he had Sara with him.
“Stina,” said Gustav. “We can’t just leave. You understand that, don’t you?”
She removed her hand, but looked down at her lap. The crying quieted a little, but did not stop completely.
“You think it’s going to be one way,” she said, “but then suddenly half your life is over and you’re still standing there staring toward the future. Do you understand?”
She looked up at them for a moment. Stina Hansson was only thirty-five. She ought to still have time, but Fredrik understood what she meant. He thought so anyway.
“It’s as if life is turning on its own axis and suddenly everything has changed even though you’re still standing in the same place,” she said quietly.
Now her voice was fragile.
“It’s like night and day. Suddenly everything is too late.”
52.
Elisabet Vogler looked challengingly at Sara Oskarsson and Ove Gahnström after closing the front door behind her.
Sara observed Elisabet while she tried to find the right words.
“I don’t know if the rumor got here before us, but Malin Andersson, wife of your half brother Henrik Kjellander, was found dead in her home yesterday evening. Her son, Axel, was also found dead in the house. I’m sorry.”
Elisabet Vogler blinked when Sara mentioned the boy, but otherwise stood mutely without batting an eye.
It was a strange situation. During their entire lives, the siblings had only met face-to-face at a funeral and were fighting over an inheritance at the moment. Even so, Sara felt that she had to show some kind of sympathy.
“Thanks.” Elisabet finally found herself.
She already had her hand on the door handle as if the whole thing was over for her. A breeze made the leaves rustle in the dry maples.
“Yes,” said Ove, “we have a few questions. Is it okay if we come in for a moment?”
Elisabet laughed as if Ove had just said something funny. She looked at him without saying anything, her head lowered slightly and pulled back as if she was studying something peculiar.
An uncomfortable silence ensued that was finally broken when Elisabet Vogler pushed down the door handle.
“Okay, okay, come in then.”
Elisabet showed them into a large, light kitchen immediately to the left of the entrance hall.
“Be my guest,” said Elisabet Vogler, making it sound like the opposite.
With an outstretched hand she showed them to a long oak table that was placed along the two windows toward the farmyard. On the table were two pewter candlesticks and over it a lamp was hanging with two white-glass shades.
“Where were you yesterday between six o’clock and eight o’clock in the evening?” Ove began the interview when they had settled down at the table.
He sat heavy and imperturbable in the chair across from Elisabet. The shirt that peeked out under a beige cotton jacket bulged the buttons over his stomach. He had his notebook out and both arms on the table.
‘“So I’m a murderer now?” Elisabet Vogler exclaimed. “I killed my sister-in-law? Is that what you mean?”
“We are following up on everyone who has any relationship to the family and who was on Fårö at the time of the crime. This is routine.”
“I had no relationship to any of them,” said Elisabet.
“A formal relationship is sufficient,” said Ove patiently.
Sara had to exert herself to remain neutral. She was annoyed by Elisabet Vogler’s condescending manner. But there was something else there, too, more nervous than self-assured.
“So, between six o’clock and eight o’clock?” Ove repeated when Elisabet did not say anything.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I was home then.”
She put her chin in the air and looked at him with her light blue eyes. Sara could not help thinking that despite her dissociative manner she was extremely naked. She had an appearance that did not conceal much.
“Was there anyone else at home then?”
“Yes, at that time of day, of course. The children and my husband were all at home.”
Elisabet turned her head away and looked out the window. A high, persistent sound forced its way in to them. It sounded like a fan on a silo.
Ove appeared to be thinking about his next question when the door opened and Ernst Vogler came into the kitchen. He stopped abruptly at the threshold and looked at Ove and Sara, adjusted his blue jeans jacket with two large hands.
Sara stood up, greeted him, and introduced Ove. The man reluctantly took her hand, squeezed it hard and quickly, and then Ove’s.
“Ernst Vogler,” he said.
“We need to ask you a few questions, too,” said Sara. She could easily imagine that Ernst Vogler would have preferred being addressed as Mr. Vogler.
“Now?” he said. “I don’t know if I have time for that.”
Sara cleared her throat.
“It would be nice if you could take the time,” she tried politely.
“Can you come back this afternoon, around four?” he said, striding farther into the kitchen and reaching for a thermos that was on the counter.
He set it down with a disappointed look.
“This concerns a murder case, so you’ll just have to answer. Otherwise we can ask the questions in Visby.”
Sara was tired of the whining resistance.
Ernst Vogler opened his eyes wide. For a moment it looked like he was thinking about lashing out at her, but then he gave up.
“Then let’s do it now,” he said simply.
“Where were you between six and eight o’clock last evening?” she asked.
“I was here at home,” he said. “That is, in my house next door.”
He pointed out the window with a slightly bent hand.
“And Elisabet was here, too,” he continued without anyone having asked. “I saw when she came.”
Elisabet did not bat an eye.
“And when was that?” Sara asked.
“Just past five. Then she was home the whole evening.”
Sara turned toward Ove, who in turn looked out over the farmyard.
“You have a number of cars here,” he said. “Which one did Elisabet use yesterday?”
“It was the Volvo, the silver-colored one there,” said Ernst Vogler, pointing out the window. “The one between the pickup and the white one.”
53.
Stina Hansson had been worried about her cat, would absolutely not go anywhere before she was sure that someone would take care of the cat. It was a little strange, as if she expected to be gone a long time. Or was it simply a way to put up resistance?
Fredrik got hold of a neighbor who promised to feed the cat and then they could send Stina off with a patrol car that was on its way back to Visby.
They divided up the apartment between them. Gustav took the living room and bedroom while Fredrik took the bathroom, hall, and kitchen.
The cramped bathroom with mottled gray floor tiles and bright yellow glazed tile on the lower half of the walls truly reeked of cat. Stina ought to think about changing the litter a little more often if she was so concerned about her pet.
Fredrik put all the shampoo bottles in a bag, in case a shampoo analysis of the tuft of hair from Malin’s hand would be relevant. He went through the medicine cabinet, without finding anything more revealing than a tube of salve for fungus that had expired several years ago. He packed all the contents of the laundry basket in a paper bag and screwed out the filter on the small washing machine that was squeezed to the left of the door. It was just as well to do it thoroughly while they had the chance.
He continued by going through the pockets of the outerwear hanging in the hall and was scratching in the clu
tter in the top drawer of the hall bureau when Gustav called from the living room.
“What did you say?” he called back.
“Come and look at this,” Gustav shouted.
With a few quick steps Fredrik was in the living room. Gustav stood leaning over a thin white cardboard box with the cover in one gloved hand and a photograph in the other.
“Here,” he said, handing it over to Fredrik.
The black-and-white photograph depicted Stina Hansson. She was lying nude on the floor with her fingers wedged into her pubic hair. The picture was a few years old, it was apparent.
“Okay, that was daring, but…”
This was one side of the job he still sometimes felt uncomfortable about. Rooting in people’s most private hiding places. But he assumed that Gustav had not called him in so that they could drool over Stina Hansson’s naked body.
“Check the back side.”
Fredrik turned the picture over. It was stamped with Henrik Kjellander after a copyright symbol and an address in Stockholm.
“Okay,” said Fredrik.
“There are more here,” said Gustav, handing over two more pictures.
They also depicted Stina Hansson more or less without clothes. In one she was sitting in an armchair, in another in a car with her top pulled up over her breasts. There were also four faded Polaroids in the carton. In those she was dressed, and in one of them together with Henrik. His arm was stretched out toward the camera and ended in a black shadow along one edge. Fredrik presumed that Henrik himself had been holding the camera and aimed it at Stina and himself. Both of them were smiling broadly. Stina looked happy.
“We’ll take these along,” said Fredrik. “But most people probably save old pictures, especially if it’s a famous photographer who took them.”
“I’d like to know when they were taken,” said Gustav.
Fredrik looked for a date marking on the pictures, but did not find one.
“We might as well continue with this,” said Fredrik.
He pointed at the big shelf loaded with books, binders, and magazine holders.
They went through the shelf from either end. Fredrik browsed through grades, proof of employment, account statements, but also old class lists, a twenty-nine-year-old certificate from swimming school and a number of photographs that did not tell him anything. They worked intensively for almost an hour without making more than a few scattered comments.
“That took time,” said Gustav when they were finally done with the shelf without having found anything else worth confiscating.
“Yes, she seems to save everything,” said Fredrik.
“May indicate someone who has some difficulty letting go of the past,” said Gustav.
“Christmas Eve for the amateur psychologist.”
Gustav laughed curtly.
“In any case, there’s more in the bedroom. I’ll continue there.”
Fredrik went into the kitchen. Maybe there was something in what Gustav had said anyway, he thought, as he picked up a bundle of magazines from the far end of the kitchen table. There was a feeling he himself had the first time he met Stina Hansson. Under the seemingly healthy surface there seemed to be a person who sat at home watching over something. Perhaps old memories? Old love? What she said today did not exactly contradict that thought.
He picked up the magazine on top and shook it over the table, then continued with magazine after magazine. When he was halfway through the pile five or six loose pages suddenly fell down on the tabletop.
Fredrik immediately recognized the woman smiling toward him from a picture on the topmost sheet. Vegetables, fruit, and a can of Greek olive oil were beautifully arranged on the marble counter in front of her.
54.
Alma Vogler lived near the sea. You could sense the sea even if it was concealed by a few sparse rows of pine trees. It was there as a smell, something cool and fresh in the air and a quiet swelling against the stones of the shore. The house must have been built in recent years. It looked modern and deliberate with black wooden panels, large windows, and an unpainted metal roof. Both foreign and Fårö at the same time.
“I just can’t understand it,” said Alma. “Here on Fårö. It’s so awful.”
Sara did not need to convey any news of the deaths. Alma Vogler started talking about the murders even before Sara and Ove managed to say hello.
“I didn’t know Malin and Axel,” Alma continued. “I’ve only met Malin one time, at Mother’s funeral—”
She interrupted herself and lowered her eyes.
“But even if I didn’t know them, they are related in some way. And Henrik—”
She interrupted herself again and looked in the direction of the sea that was so present, but not visible.
Yes, thought Sara, how was it really with Henrik?
They asked to come in. Alma suggested the living room. The kitchen was one big mess, she said. Sara and Ove sat down on a firm black felt couch, and Alma sat across from them in an armchair. She sat far out on the cushion, attentively leaning forward with her forearms supported against her knees.
“Where were you between six and eight o’clock yesterday evening?” said Sara.
Alma looked up toward the wall, somewhere above Ove’s and Sara’s heads, while she answered.
“We had dinner at five thirty, all of us, that is, Krister and I and the kids. Then I mostly sat in front of the TV. Krister was out working on his car for a while.”
“So all of you were at home the whole evening?”
“The kids were over at the neighbors, right after dinner, but Krister and I were home.”
“But you were in here and he was outside?”
“Yes, but that was only for a short time and right outside,” she said with a gesture toward the window.
“How did you find out that Malin and Axel Andersson had been murdered?” asked Sara.
Alma’s eyes narrowed when she heard the word.
“It can’t be anyone from here who did it,” she said, squinting at Sara. “It must be some complete lunatic, right?”
Sara did not answer, but noted that “lunatic” and “stranger” were synonymous.
Alma looked at her in confusion for a while, but then remembered the question.
“Excuse me. It was Elisabet who called. Although then she didn’t know what had happened. Just that there was something going on with helicopters and police and that presumably someone had been killed.”
“What time was that?”
“Right after ten.”
“Do you know how Elisabet found out about it?” asked Sara.
“Someone phoned her. I don’t remember who.”
Sara turned over a new page in her notepad and looked out the high windows that reached almost all the way from floor to ceiling. You could actually see glimpses of blue between the trees.
“Was it you who built the house?” she asked.
“No.”
Alma looked toward the windows, too.
“But it was practically new when we bought it. The family that built it lived here less than a year. They weren’t from here. They probably didn’t feel at home.”
“It’s nice. Extremely modern.”
“Yes. The old stone houses have their charm, but I prefer this.”
Alma cleared her throat briefly. She was presumably starting to wonder what Sara was after with her questions. Sara changed track.
“When did you find out that Henrik was your half brother?”
The question did not appear to come as a surprise. Alma barely reacted. Possibly she shrank a little in the armchair.
“Mother told Elisabet when she was eighteen and Elisabet told me, of course. Mother didn’t want us to find out about it only after she died. Then that sort of thing comes out, with inheritance and such.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is, of course,” said Sara.
“I actually wrote to Henrik once when I was sixteen. It was maybe six months after Mother told. But I neve
r got an answer. I don’t even know if he ever got the letter.”
“Did you talk about it later? I mean the whole arrangement that Henrik grew up with his grandmother. Well, your grandmother, too, of course.”
Alma slid backward in the armchair.
“No, that’s not something anyone talks with Dad about.”
“Not with your mother, either, when she was alive?”
“I asked a few times about what really happened, but Mother never really answered. Just something to the effect that it was different at that time, but I never really understood. That was in the seventies…”
Alma turned toward Ove Gahnström, as if she wanted to assure herself that he was listening, too, even though he had not said a thing since they sat down.
“I think it was extremely painful for her,” she said. “It must have been.”
“And Henrik?” asked Sara. “Didn’t he ever try to make contact with you and Elisabet, or your mother?”
“No, not with us anyway. And if he was in touch with Mother that wasn’t anything we heard about. I think he turned his back on everything, as if he wanted to show that he didn’t need this place. He lived in Los Angeles for a while. He talked about that at the funeral. As I said before, I probably would have done the same.”
Ove pointed toward the windows and the light that flooded in from the south.
“You practically have a waterfront lot here,” he said.
“Yes,” Alma admitted. “But the trees there aren’t on my lot, so there isn’t any sea view.”
“That can’t be cheap here on Fårö?” he continued.
“No,” said Alma with a perplexed crease between her eyebrows. “Actually it’s a depopulated area, but the summer visitors jack up the prices.”
“But you got help to buy the house in connection with your father turning over the farm to Elisabet, is that correct?”
“Yes?”
The crease between her eyebrows had deepened and was joined by several wrinkles on her forehead.
“Was it your mother’s inheritance from your grandmother that paid for the house?”
Alma’s smile froze a little.
“I don’t know exactly how they resolved that.”
The Intruder Page 22