Strange Bird (2013)

by Anna Jansson

  The technicians were already there and a barricade had been set up. They stood at the edge of the dump talking to Sven-Ake Svensson, the employee who had made the macabre find. He showed them the pieces of bone, the cranium and the jaw with teeth, of which one front tooth was gold. There was a buckle that had presumably been on a belt and a zipper.

  “How long could the body have been here?” Maria’s guess was five to ten years. The cranium lacked hair, and the clothing was gone.

  “Twenty-four hours maybe. It rained last night. The process goes faster in damp weather. Textiles can almost self-ignite. A human body contains a lot of water. When you add water to quicklime a chemical process occurs with high heat production. A full day, maybe two—max. This lime powder is like quicksand, it consumes everything, except noble metals and diamonds. Do you see how clean it is in those light bands of half-slaked lime? Compare that with the gray bands where the lime is slaked. No chemical process is going on. People dump their garbage illegally and it stays there.”

  Maria went closer to the edge of the crater and saw the congealed lime porridge at the bottom that turned into a whiter streak, like an inviting sandpit on the beach at Tofta. Deceptive and dangerous, a short distance from the emerald-green water. When Maria asked about the color, Karl Nilsson explained it got its special hue from the layers of limestone.

  “I came here just over an hour ago to dump quicklime from the furnace, we do that once a week.” Sven-Ake took off his helmet and dried the sweat from his forehead. Maria saw how he swallowed a few times before his voice steadied and he could continue. “I saw something sparkle and got out of the dumper to see what it was.” He paused again to be able to continue his story without his voice giving way. “It was a jaw with a gold tooth. I called the production manager at once and got a protective suit here so that I could go out and bring in what I saw. At first you don’t believe it’s true. I feel better now that you two have seen the same thing. It’s so unreal.”

  “And yet it was lucky that you discovered it,” said the site engineer. “That was observant of you—in a couple of days we wouldn’t have seen anything at all. If the body had ended up in the sedimentation plant for wash-water that gets emptied every three years that would have been it. Or if it had been dropped in the crusher. It’s not certain it would have been discovered in loading and the parts might have been shipped to Poland and Germany and Lithuania.” He grimaced when he realized what he’d just said.

  “Whoever dumped the body must have had a car, but the area is cordoned off with gates at night, right?” Hartman noticed that the road out was cordoned off when they passed the big piles of stone. “And if a strange car passed in the daytime, you would have seen that, I assume?”

  “Absolutely. We don’t allow anyone up here without an escort from our cars with blinking warning lights. But it’s possible to approach from the other direction.” The site engineer pointed toward the forest ahead of them. “We don’t have permission to close off Takstensvagen to traffic. The people who live there have to get out, but that also entails a risk. This isn’t exactly a playground.”

  “How many people work here at night?” Maria asked. The wind was cold and she felt her fingers starting to get numb, even though she tried to pull them into the sleeves of her sweater. Her hair was billowing and she pushed it away from her face.

  “The mine and the dumps are closed at ten o’clock. The lime furnace is manned night and day, and we usually have two men loading out to the vessels. It was the same last night. This morning a ship departed for Poland.”

  “Did anyone notice anything unusual during the shift last night or the night before? A strange car?”

  “Sune Pettersson, who was loading down in the harbor, found a wallet when he got off work. He was going to turn it in to the police when he got up today, he said. It was right inside the gate. He saw it as he was driving out of the parking lot. A brown wallet. There was a driver’s license in it so it shouldn’t be hard to find the owner. He also says that there was a light-colored car in the parking lot right after midnight and they saw a man walking down to the wharf. Then he and the car just disappeared when they went to check on what business he had.”

  Hartman got into his Ford and made a few notes before he called the patrol that was en route from Visby, the same patrol that had served the past two nights in the harbor. With any luck they had noticed something they hadn’t reported. What was most pressing right now was to go door-to-door along Takstensvagen to ask about cars that might have been observed during the night and possibly the night before.

  “It must be Tobias Westberg who was found, don’t you think? On the photo we got from his wife he has a gold tooth.” Maria sat down next to Hartman, rubbing her ice-cold fingers. “What do you think? A crime of passion?”

  “I have no great experience in that area. I can only recall one case and it happened without premeditation. During my thirty-five years in service I’ve never heard of a crime of passion that was planned. But that doesn’t mean it can be ruled out. Usually the victim and murderer know each other. If we assume that the same person killed both Sandra and Tobias, where does that lead us?”

  “Sandra’s former live-in, Lennie, or Yrsa. Hans Moberg—although we don’t know if he knew Tobias.”

  “Yrsa has to be informed. This will be tough. And the worst of all is that we don’t know whether he was dead when he ended up in the lime quarry or whether he was alive when he was thrown in. We’ll probably never know whether he was tied up. A plastic or hemp rope is probably destroyed in no time in such a process. I hope she doesn’t think about that.” Hartman started the car and turned on the heat when he saw Maria shivering.

  “The painting salesman?” Maria nodded to the site engineer that they were ready to leave and he drove ahead of them down the hill. “We still have no motive whatsoever there.” The thought of the painting salesman and the pigeon would not leave her alone.

  “Evidently he was not infected with the bird flu, but he had antibodies in his blood. So he has had the disease, we have to assume. There is nothing that indicates he knew either Tobias or Sandra. But we’ll have to ask his wife that. By the way, did you see the painting of his that Berit Hoas bought? He was a very skilled artist. It feels like the waves of the sea are rolling toward you and you can really feel the heat in the sand. Think if he’d had the opportunity to work on his art full time.”

  “You have a visitor, Maria.” It was Veronika’s voice from the reception desk on the intercom.

  “Who is it?” Maria had just decided with Hartman that they would make an unscheduled visit to Lennie Hellstrom to ask where he was last night. A patrol car had just been to see Yrsa Westberg; it was a relief not to have had that conversation. Maria sent her colleagues a thought of gratitude.

  “He says his name is Jonathan Eriksson, should I send him up?”

  “I’ll come down.” Maria looked at the clock. Already six thirty. They had decided to meet at the parking lot at five. Was it possible he’d been waiting that long?

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I couldn’t get away. Can we meet in a few hours?”

  “Sure, call me when you’re done.” She searched for irritation and disappointment in his face but he concealed it well. He was wearing a blue sweater and white shirt. It suited him. Maria drew her hand through her straggly hair, ravaged by the wind in Kappelshamn, and realized that she was hardly looking her best. As if that mattered.

  He’s married, he’s married, he’s married, and you have to stop acting like a teenager, she said to herself, biting her lower lip. But when she felt his eyes on her back she could not keep from turning around and giving him a quick hug before he left.

  On the way out to the car Hartman said, “Wasn’t that Malte’s dad, the doctor? Are you one of his patients now?”

  “Oh, it was nothing, I just wanted to ask him about Emil.”

  “I see,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. “By the way, do you know who the wallet found at the
limestone quarry belongs to?”

  “Anyone we know?” Maria was torn away from her self-accusations, her curiosity aroused. “Who?”

  “Does the name Hans Moberg ring a bell?” Hartman was smiling like a fox. “We’ll be bringing him in soon now.”

  Chapter 33

  Ever since being surprised by Cecilia’s neighbor, Hans Moberg no longer felt relaxed in the house. When he checked his email account linked to his sales activity on the Internet and saw that the police were trying to contact him, he felt even more harried. The police requested he immediately make contact with Detective Inspector Maria Wern. The matter was extremely urgent.

  The message was written in a cordial tone. Not as stern as you might expect from the authorities. Even so, the request made his stomach turn. If only he had someone to consult, someone he could trust. It was not likely the police knew where he was, unless they’d gotten a tip from the Skane woman, of course. She was the only one he had emailed from the dial-up connection where he was now. If they were using her as a tool, they would soon be here. No, they would have already come during the night. But if they were working office hours and didn’t have time for criminals except between eight and five they might be here at any moment.

  The more Moby thought about it, the likelier it seemed. He had to leave. Now. To anywhere. The tension was making him shake. Thoughts were whirling, but he was unable to collect them into a decision on where to go. His heart was squeezed in his chest and his mouth was completely dry. He opened a can of beer. That was just what he needed to be human again. Now his brain was starting to function. There was something in alcohol that makes the blood flow more easily, he had read, and it must be true. Oxygen flow improved and thoughts were released from their cramped prison of conventions and acquired a lower density.

  Of course they had the camper’s registration number on the windshield of every police car, so Moby moved the most important things over to Cecilia’s rusty Saab and kissed the instrument panel when he saw that the gas tank was full. In the cellar pantry he found a couple of cans of Bullen’s beer sausage, pickles, and applesauce. That would do.

  He gathered up the underwear he had meant to wash and hung them over the edge of the tub in Cecilia’s bathroom. While waiting for inspiration, he looked at himself in the mirror, and made a hasty decision. In a container on the sink he found an electric razor, which Cecilia presumably used for her legs—he hoped she only used it for her legs. With it he shaved off the last of his long hair and his beard. It fell down into the sink. He looked at himself. The change was not to his advantage. A big, ugly scar on the top of his head came to light and he seemed to shrivel up even more and became insignificant and gray and almost a little stoop-shouldered when his hair no longer reached his shoulders. His hair had actually been his pride. But for the moment it was an advantage to be insignificant. He put on his hat again and felt a bit more like himself, swept the hair and beard into a plastic bag and buried it in the garden. The neighbor lady waved from her window, but he pretended not to see her. Confounded curious person, that one, he thought, getting into the Saab.

  By Larbo he had already finished his last beer and then searched frantically for the wallet to buy more. Hell and damnation, it was gone. The thought of how he would manage without money chafed at his brain and finally he could not keep from sampling some of the Absolut vodka he had meant to save until he found a new place to camp. Life is hell, you know, but it still must go on, he said to himself in the rearview mirror, turning onto Highway 148 toward Visby.

  An idea began to take shape. Presumably his buddy Mayonnaise was still in Tofta. There was food, beer, and the possibility to surf the Internet, and with any luck there was a tent flysheet to curl up in in Cecilia’s car after the onset of darkness. He didn’t dare phone Mayonnaise, the best thing was to simply show up. The thought of company made him exhilarated after the days of solitude. Actually it was a stroke of genius to return to Tofta in a new guise, contrary to logic. There he would be safe for a while.

  In pure joy at having thought of a solution, Moby took a swig of vodka and turned on the radio to listen to a little music. It was a Stone Age model with cassette player, but it worked reasonably well, even though it crackled a bit.

  “… We haven’t been given any directives on where we should dispose of the hen cadavers. Normally when infection is feared, they go to a destruction facility on the mainland, but in the present situation no one wants to take on the transport and the mountain of animal bodies is growing. Since an employee became infected, no one is willing to deal with it.

  “If you’ve just joined us we want to say that we have county veterinarian Hakan Broberg with us in Studio X. After the decision that all poultry on the island should be destroyed, we now face the problem of where to dispose of the cadavers. Wouldn’t it have been better to wait to kill the birds until there was a solution to that problem? Wouldn’t it be better to have an incineration facility on site than to transport the cadavers, with the risks that transport involves? As I’ve understood it, the veterinarians in the county are very worried because there are no clear directives.”

  Hans Moberg moaned out loud. If everything had been as usual and the police weren’t after him, he could have done amazing business this week. The demand for medication was enormous. Calling the pills Tamivir instead of Tamiflu didn’t really matter, it was all the same. Faith works wonders. In a way he could actually see his work as a mission. A charitable deed with a good profit margin.

  The placebo effect cannot be denied or disdained. If people truly believe in the medicine you give them, the body’s own healing powers are mobilized. Stress is reduced. Immune defenses improve. Healing sleep comes as a result of reduced stress. During sleep the body repairs its damaged cells, seeks out and destroys cancer cells, and lets the hormones flow and produce well-being when soul and body work together. He had read somewhere that the placebo effect could be almost twenty-five percent effective. The opposite, the so-called nocebo effect, appeared if the patient did not believe in the doctor and did not feel treated with respect and courtesy. It should be punishable to treat people without showing goodwill. If a sugar pill with the help of the placebo effect is twenty-five percent effective, it must be seen as potent anyway. People need hope in times of terror and fright.

  Moby leaned his head against the neck support and tried to relax. He was not an evil person; his intentions were good, considered, and scientifically validated.

  The radio discussion on poultry disturbed his thoughts and he changed stations.

  “… a body has been found at the limestone quarry in Kappelshamn. The police have not released many details about the discovery. This morning an employee at the quarry found parts of a body in quicklime. The remains are of human origin. The police are very anxious to get information about a man who was very likely at the scene the night of July 5 or 6. The man is about 170 centimeters tall, burly, and when last seen had long, light hair and long sideburns or beard. His voice is described as soft. He travels in a white Chevrolet van with a Polar brand camper.”

  Hans Moberg felt his hands starting to shake on the steering wheel. The road ahead of him suddenly seemed unreal, like in a video game with cheap graphics. Oncoming cars came too close, the edge of the road swept in under the car and despite the straight stretch he thought the car was pulling seriously to the right. He slowed down and stopped. The bottle of vodka was beside him on the seat and he took a generous swig to clear his brain. He opened the car door to cool down. The heat in the car was on and there did not seem to be any way to turn it off. The windshield wipers were moving out of control like frightened birds across the front window. Were the cops on his trail now? The decision to leave Kappelshamn still seemed sensible and the idea of continuing to the Tofta campground was reasonable too, so he really could not say what made him so paralyzed right now. A vague nausea, a peculiar shakiness in his body. He took another swig of vodka and continued his drive into Visby.

  In t
he rearview mirror he could see a dark car approach at high speed and then stay right behind him. It was not a marked police car but there was something strange about it. Plainclothes cops? Pass already, damn it! He braked but the car stayed behind him and increased the distance between them somewhat. It was irritating. When they reached Visby the car was still there and followed him through Oster Centrum, where he almost ran over an elderly woman with a walker. What an old hag, people like her ought to be locked up, damn it. In the rearview mirror he saw her fall and then be helped up by other pedestrians. The progress of the black car was blocked and it remained stopped at the crosswalk. Hans Moberg fumbled for the plastic bottle of vodka and found it. He brought it to his lips and discovered that it was empty. Hadn’t he put the screw-top on properly? The road ahead of him was an obstacle course and soon the black car would catch up. A roundabout came toward him without warning and he was forced to drive right through it and out between the cars in the line from the ferry. If he wasn’t such a skillful driver they would have rammed him, fucking nitwits. The road narrowed and the crowns of the trees dragged over the hood of the car. A car was coming right at him on the wrong side and he swerved and managed to get past it on the left side by driving down onto the grass and up again. Fucking idiots! On the road through Vibble and past Tofta Church the traffic was lighter. You really ought to lie in ambush and shoot the heads off those bastards. Several times he had to remind himself where he was going. The approach to the campground should be here somewhere. There were some campers set up in a field and there was the grocery store. Why wasn’t there a clear marker of where you should drive in? If he got hold of the idiot who was responsible for the signage they could fetch his ugly head in the trunk later.

  All too suddenly, at far too high a speed, Hans Moberg realized he was about to miss the approach and turned the steering wheel sharply. A red car was coming toward him. He saw it during the fraction of a second before the crash smashed the world into smithereens. I’m dying, was Hans Moberg’s last conscious thought.