The Preacher

by Camilla Lackberg

  He went over to the three technicians from Uddevalla. They were looking serious and talking with Mellberg. A hearse from the funeral home had been driven up the gravel path and stood with its back door open, ready to transport the coffin, with or without a body.

  ‘They’re almost ready. Are we going to open the coffin here, or will you do it in Uddevalla?’

  The head of the technical unit, Torbjörn Ruud, didn’t answer Patrik but instead instructed the only woman on the team to go over and take some photos. Only when that was done did he turn to Patrik.

  ‘We’ll probably open the lid here. If you’re right and we don’t find a body in the coffin, then our part is done. If the more likely scenario occurs and there’s a corpse in that coffin, then we’ll take it to Uddevalla for identification. Because I assume that’s what you want done, right?’ His walrus moustache bobbed up and down as he gave Patrik a quizzical look.

  Patrik nodded. ‘Yes, if there’s a body in the coffin, I’d very much like it to be confirmed with one hundred per cent certainty that it is Johannes Hult.’

  ‘We’ll be able to do that. I already requisitioned his dental records yesterday, so you won’t have long to wait. I realize it’s urgent, after all …’

  Ruud lowered his eyes. He had a seventeen-year-old daughter and didn’t need to have the urgency of the situation spelled out for him. It was enough to imagine for a fraction of a second the horror that Jenny Möller’s parents must be feeling.

  In silence they watched the coffin slowly approach the edge of the grave. Finally they saw the lid appear, and Patrik’s hands began to itch with nervousness. Soon they would know. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something moving at the edge of the churchyard. He turned to look. Damn it all! Through the gate to the Fjällbacka fire station he saw Solveig come steaming, full speed ahead. It was impossible for her to run, so she waddled along like a ship in heavy seas, with her eyes fixed on the grave where the coffin was now visible in its entirety.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking cocksuckers?’

  The techs from Uddevalla, who had never encountered Solveig Hult before, winced at the raw language. In hindsight Patrik realized that they should have anticipated this and arranged for some sort of cordon. He’d thought that the early hour would be enough to keep people away from the exhumation. Although Solveig was not just anyone, of course. He went to meet her.

  ‘Solveig, you shouldn’t be here.’

  Patrik took her lightly by the arm. She tore herself away and steamed past him.

  ‘Don’t you ever give up? Now you’re going to disturb Johannes in his grave? Are you trying to destroy our lives at any cost?’

  Before anyone could react, Solveig was at the coffin and cast herself over it. She wailed like an Italian widow at a funeral, pounding her fists on the lid. Everyone stood as if frozen. Nobody knew what to do. Then Patrik caught sight of two figures running from the same direction where Solveig had appeared. Stefan and Robert gave the police officers a hateful glance as they ran up to their mother.

  ‘Don’t do this, Mamma. Come on, let’s go home.’

  No one moved. Only Solveig’s keening and her sons’ imploring voices were heard in the churchyard. Stefan spun round.

  ‘She’s been up all night. Ever since you rang and told her what you were going to do. We tried to stop her, but she slipped out. You devils, will this never end?’

  His words were like an echo of his mother’s. For a moment they all felt a collective shame over the nasty deed they’d been forced to do, but forced was the right word. They had to finish what they’d started.

  Torbjörn Ruud nodded to Patrik and they went over and helped Stefan and Robert lift Solveig away from the coffin. It seemed as though her last strength had been spent, and she collapsed against Robert’s chest.

  ‘Do what you have to do, but then leave us in peace,’ said Stefan without looking at them.

  The sons supported their mother between them, heading towards the gate leading out of the churchyard. Nobody moved until they had vanished from view. Nobody commented on what had happened.

  The coffin stood next to the open grave, still harbouring its secrets.

  ‘Does it feel like there’s a body inside?’ Patrik asked the men who had lifted it up.

  ‘Hard to say. The coffin itself is so heavy. And sometimes dirt can seep in through a hole. The only way to know is to open it.’

  The moment could no longer be put off. The photographer had taken all the pictures they needed. Ruud and his colleagues put on gloves and set to work.

  Slowly the lid of the coffin was opened. Everyone held their breath.

  Annika rang at eight o’clock on the dot. They’d had all of yesterday afternoon to search the archives, and they must have found something by now. She was right.

  ‘What timing you have. We just found the folder with the client list for FZ-302. Although I’m sorry to tell you I don’t have good news. Or maybe it is good news after all. We had only one customer in your vicinity. Rolf Persson, still a client by the way, but not for that product, of course. Here’s the address.’

  Annika jotted down the information the man gave her on a Post-it note. It was actually a disappointment not to get more names. It felt a bit meagre with only one customer to check out, but the sales manager might be right. Maybe it was good news. A single name was really all they needed.

  ‘Gösta?’ She rolled her office chair over to the door and stuck her head into the corridor to call his name.

  No answer. She called again, louder this time, and was glad to see Gösta poke his head into the corridor too.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you. We got the name of a farmer in the area who used the fertilizer that was found on the girls’ bodies.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we ask Patrik first?’

  Gösta was reluctant to move. He was still half-asleep and had spent the past fifteen minutes in front of his keyboard, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Patrik, Mellberg and Martin are at the disinterment. We can’t bother them right now. You know why it’s a rush. We can’t go by the book this time, Gösta.’

  Even under normal circumstances it was difficult to say no to Annika when she insisted on something, and right now Gösta was inclined to agree that her reasons for wanting his help were particularly urgent. He sighed.

  ‘Don’t go alone,’ Annika said. ‘It’s not some ordinary lousy bootlegger that we’re after, don’t forget. Take Ernst with you.’

  Then she mumbled something so low that Gösta had to strain to hear it.

  ‘We have to use that shithead for something.’ Then she spoke normally again. ‘And be sure to look the place over carefully. If you see the slightest sign of anything suspicious, don’t let on, but come back here and report it to Patrik. Then he can decide what we should do.’

  ‘I had no idea you’d been promoted from secretary to chief of police, Annika. Did that happen during your holiday?’ Gösta muttered sourly. But he didn’t dare say it loud enough for Annika to hear. That would really be asking for trouble, and he wasn’t that crazy.

  Seated behind her window, Annika smiled. Her computer glasses were perched on the very tip of her nose as usual. She knew exactly what sort of rebellious thoughts were ricocheting between the ears of Gösta, but she didn’t much care. She’d stopped respecting his opinion long ago. If only he would just do his job and not screw up this assignment. He and Ernst could be a dangerous combination to send out together. But in this case she had to quote Kajsa Warg, the famous eighteenth-century Swedish cookbook author: ‘You have to use what you have on hand.’

  Ernst didn’t appreciate being rousted out of bed. Knowing that the chief was somewhere else this morning had made him reckon on a little extra snooze before his presence was required at the station. The shrill ring of the doorbell definitely disturbed his plans.

  ‘What the hell is it?’

  Outside the door stood Gösta with his finger pressed stubbornly to th
e bell.

  ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Can’t it wait an hour?’ Ernst said peevishly.

  ‘No, we have to go out and interview a farmer who bought that fertilizer that the techs found on the bodies.’

  ‘Did that damned Hedström order this? Did he say that I have to go along? I thought I was banned from his fucking investigation?’

  Gösta debated with himself whether to lie or tell the truth. He decided on the latter.

  ‘No, Hedström is in Fjällbacka with Molin and Mellberg. It was Annika who asked us to go.’

  ‘Annika?’ Ernst gave a rough laugh. ‘Since when do you and I take orders from a fucking secretary? No, I’m going back to bed for a while.’

  Still chuckling, he started to close the door in Gösta’s face, but a foot stuck in the door stopped him.

  ‘Look, I really think we have to go check this out.’ Gösta paused and then used the only argument he knew Ernst would listen to. ‘Imagine the look on Hedström’s face if we’re the ones who crack this case. Who knows, maybe this bloody farmer has the girl out there at his place. Wouldn’t it be nice to present Mellberg with that news?’

  A light passed over Ernst’s face, confirming that the argument had hit the mark. He could already hear the words of praise from the chief.

  ‘Okay, hold on, I just have to throw on some clothes. See you out at the car.’

  Ten minutes later they were on their way towards Fjällbacka. Rolf Persson’s farm lay just south of the Hult family’s property, and Gösta couldn’t help wondering whether it was a coincidence. After taking one wrong turn they found the right road and parked in the yard. Not a sign of life was visible. They climbed out of the car and looked all around as they walked up to the farmhouse.

  The farm looked like every other farm in the area. A barn with red wooden walls stood a stone’s throw from the house, which was white with blue trim around the windows. Despite all the press reports that sales to the EU had rained manna over Sweden’s farmers, Gösta knew that the reality was more gloomy. An inescapable impression of decay lay over the farm. The owners seemed to be doing their best to maintain the farm, but the paint had begun to peel on both the farmhouse and the barn, and a diffuse feeling of hopelessness clung to the walls. Gösta and Ernst climbed the steps to the veranda, where the glorious carpentry work showed that the house had been built before modern times had turned speed and efficiency into holy concepts.

  ‘Come in.’

  An old woman’s creaky voice called to them, and they carefully wiped their feet on the mat by the front door before they stepped inside. The low ceiling made Ernst bend his head, but Gösta, who had never belonged to the stately tribe of tall people, walked straight in without worrying about hitting his head.

  ‘Good morning, we’re with the police. We’re looking for Rolf Persson.’

  The old woman, who had been preparing breakfast, wiped her hands on a dish towel.

  ‘Just a moment, I’ll fetch him. He’s taking a nap on the sofa, see. That’s what happens when you get old.’ She chuckled and disappeared into the house’s inner domains.

  Gösta and Ernst looked around irresolutely and then sat down at the kitchen table. The kitchen reminded Gösta of his childhood home, even though the Perssons were only ten years older than himself. The old woman had looked older at first, but on closer inspection he noticed that her eyes were younger than her body seemed. Hard work could do that to a person.

  They were still using an old wood-stove to cook on. The floor was covered with linoleum, probably concealing a wonderful hardwood floor. It was popular amongst the younger generation to uncover such floors, but for his and the Perssons’ generation, it was still much too strong a reminder of childhood poverty. When linoleum was first introduced, it became a blatant symbol of a life no longer mired in the poverty of the previous generation.

  The worn panelling on the walls also rekindled sentimental memories. Gösta couldn’t resist running his finger along the gap between two panels. The feeling was the same as when he’d done that as a boy in his parents’ kitchen.

  The faint ticking of a kitchen clock was the only sound to be heard, but after waiting for a while they heard murmuring from the next room. They could hear enough to tell that one voice sounded excited, the other pleading. After a couple of minutes, the old woman came back with her husband in tow. He also looked older than his estimated seventy years. Being woken from his nap had not been to his advantage. His hair stood on end and weary furrows limned deep tracks on his cheeks. The old woman went back to the stove. She kept her eyes lowered and focused on the pot of porridge she was stirring.

  ‘What sort of business brings the police here?’

  Persson’s voice was authoritative, and Gösta couldn’t help noticing that the old woman flinched. He began to have an idea why she looked so much older than her years. She made a clatter with the pot and Persson yelled, ‘Can you stop doing that? You can finish making breakfast later. Leave us in peace now.’

  She bent her head and quickly took the pot off the stove. Without a word, she left them in the kitchen. Gösta had a desire to go after her and say a friendly, conciliatory word, but he refrained.

  Persson poured himself a shot and sat down. He didn’t ask Ernst and Gösta if they wanted one, and they wouldn’t have dared say yes. When he downed the shot in one gulp he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave them a defiant look.

  ‘Well? What is it you want?’

  Ernst looked longingly at the empty glass. Gösta was the one who spoke.

  ‘Did you ever use a fertilizer called …’ he consulted his notebook, ‘FZ-302?’

  Farmer Persson gave a hearty laugh. ‘Is that why you woke me from my beauty sleep? To ask me what fertilizer I use? Jesus, the police must not have much to do these days.’

  Gösta’s expression didn’t change. ‘We have our reasons for asking. And we’d like to get an answer.’ His dislike of the man was growing with every second.

  ‘All right, all right, there’s no reason to get excited. I have nothing to hide.’ He laughed again and poured himself another shot.

  Ernst licked his lips and fixed his eyes on the glass. Judging by Persson’s breath, these were not the first drinks he’d had that morning. With cows that needed milking, he’d already been up a couple of hours, so it was probably about lunchtime for him. Although it might still be a little early for booze, thought Gösta. Ernst didn’t seem to agree.

  ‘I used that type of fertilizer up until sometime in ’84 or ’85, I think. Then there was some bloody environmental agency that decided it could have a “negative effect on the eco-balance”.’ He spoke in a shrill voice and made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. ‘So then we had to switch to a fertilizer that was ten times worse and ten times more expensive. Fucking idiots.’

  ‘How long did you use that fertilizer?’

  ‘Oh, probably about ten years. I have the exact figures in my books, but I think it was sometime in the mid-Seventies that I started. Why are you so interested in it?’ He peered suspiciously at Ernst and Gösta.

  ‘It has to do with an investigation we’re working on.’

  Gösta said no more, but he could see a light slowly go on for the farmer.

  ‘It’s about those girls, isn’t it? The girls in the King’s Cleft? And the one who disappeared? Do you think I had something to do with that? Is that what you’ve got into your heads? Jesus Christ.’

  Persson got up unsteadily from the table. He was a big man. He didn’t show any of the normal signs of physical decline that came with age. His upper arms were sinewy and strong under his shirt. Ernst raised his hands and stood up too. He was always useful in these sorts of situations, Gösta thought gratefully. He lived for moments like this.

  ‘Now let’s all calm down. We have a lead that we’re following up, and we have several people to visit. There’s no reason to feel yourself singled out. But we would like to have a look around, just so we c
an cross you off the list.’

  The farmer looked suspicious but then nodded. Gösta was careful to interject, ‘Would you mind if I use the toilet?’

  His bladder had seen better days, and his need to relieve himself had been building up and was now acute. Persson nodded and pointed towards a door with the letters ‘WC’ on it.

  ‘Yes, damn it, people steal like ravens,’ Ernst was saying. ‘What are honest folks like you and I –’ He broke off guiltily when Gösta returned. An empty glass in front of Ernst revealed that he’d had the drink he’d been yearning for, and he and the farmer looked like two old friends.

  Half an hour later, Gösta screwed up his courage to admonish his colleague.

  ‘Jeez, you stink of booze. How do you think you’re going to get past Annika with that breath of yours?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Flygare. Don’t be such a bloody schoolmarm. I only had a little nip, there’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, it’s impolite to refuse when someone offers you a drink.’

  Gösta just snorted but made no comment. He felt depressed. Half an hour of wandering about the farmer’s property hadn’t produced a damn thing. There was no trace of any girl or any recently dug-up grave for that matter, and the morning felt wasted. But Ernst and the farmer had found common ground while Gösta was in the toilet emptying his bladder and had chatted the whole time they walked around the property. Personally Gösta felt that it would have been more appropriate to keep their distance from a possible suspect in a murder investigation, but Ernst followed his own counsel, as always.

  ‘Did Persson say anything useful?’

  Ernst exhaled into his cupped hand and then sniffed. He ignored Gösta’s question at first. ‘Say, Flygare, could you stop here so I can get some throat lozenges?’

  Sullen and silent, Gösta turned in at the OK Q8 petrol station and waited in the car while Ernst ran in to buy something to remedy his breath problem. When he got back in the car, Ernst answered the question.

  ‘No, we were really wasting our time out there. Hell of a nice guy, though, and I could swear he didn’t have anything to do with it. No, we can cross off that theory right now. The thing with the fertilizer is a blind alley too. Those fucking forensic techs sit on their arses all day in a lab analysing themselves to death, while we working stiffs out in the real world see how ridiculous their theories are. DNA and hairs and fertilizer and tyre tracks and all that shit they potter about with. No, a good thrashing in the right spot, that’s what really makes a case open up like a book, Flygare.’ He clenched his fist to illustrate his views. Satisfied that he’d demonstrated how real police work was supposed to be conducted, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.