by Anna Jansson
“Have you seen the autopsy report on Sandra Hägg? I got a copy this morning.” Mårtenson reached for the papers in the pile in front of him.
Hartman shook his head. “I haven’t been in my office. Did it just arrive?” He took the report and skimmed through it before handing it to Maria. “This confirms what we assumed preliminarily. She was strangled, and before that struck with a blunt object on the back of the head. No, there’s nothing new. I see no motive. Not robbery, not rape. What was her boss’s name, the male one?”
Hartman searched in his memory but could not think of it. That’s how it always was when he slept badly. Names and places simply disappeared. Last night he woke up at two o’clock worrying about Maria’s Emil and the other children at the sanitarium. He tossed back and forth in bed and wasn’t able to close his eyes after that.
“Reine Hammar. Jessika Wide said he’d shown a particular interest in Sandra and that he was at her place once when she called. What about him?”
“We ought to question him as soon as he’s released from the sanitarium.”
“I was thinking about the painting salesman,” said Mårtenson. “Have we been able to identify him?”
“We’ve sent the question to Europol and we’re waiting for a response, but it may take a while before we get word. Of course, it would be easier if we had a name. The marks we’ve found are a rather ugly scar under the right ribcage—it’s not a surgical scar, more like the consequences of an assault. Fingerprints. His face is swollen and badly battered, it’s not easy to recognize anyone from such a photo.”
Chapter 29
When Hans Moberg woke up, he didn’t know where he was at first. The unfamiliar, feminine odor slipped into his dreams and colored them. In his dream he had been at a party in a big white villa by the sea. The wine was flowing and everyone was drunk, and somehow he ended up in the hostess’s waterbed with three beautiful women dressed only in colorful wigs made of long metal strips. But the waterbed leaked and became a sea and suddenly Sandra Hägg was there and all desire and playfulness vanished. He tried to flee from his guilt. Turned in a different direction and tried to find his way back to the party. But the music had stopped and all around him the darkness grew denser and forced him out on the pier again. The cold penetrated his bare body and the sky arched over him, powerful and accusing. The ice-cold star-eyes were staring at him and in the moonlight her skin was blindingly white. He wanted to touch her and kiss her lovely neck. Sandra Hägg. That’s what it said on the door.
He was driven to touch her. But she became afraid, took a step backward. He followed her. He reached for her and she took another step backward and fell down into the black water as though it were an open grave. The salt water splashed over his face and the cracking sound when her skull was split against the stone still echoed in the daylight. Perhaps the sound was dampened by the waves, perhaps it never reached the air, but in his ear the sound of the crushed skull was like a remnant from the dreams. The treacherous dreams that enticed him and then revealed the loathsome truth when he was defenseless and fragile. Or drunk, when he was no longer able to protect his border and was possessed by rage and smashed everything to pieces so that he would not be blown apart. Minute by minute of silence when her body was resting on the bottom. When he realized that she was dead, that time had taken her by force, he ran away. Ran in the mud without getting anywhere. Crawled until he came out of reach of her slender white arms. A secret shared by two where one was dead is a well-kept secret, he had believed. But what really happened he could not remember. He tried to breathe calmly and deeply, regain control of his runaway breathing and the hard beating of his heart.
Now he was lying down, staring at the fluffy curtains and wondering where he had ended up. In the embroidered hell of cotton curtains in the home of Horseface Cecilia Granberg—that was it. He must get something to drink, and soon. The yeasty taste of Gotland ale returned in sour regurgitations and he wondered to himself if he truly had been so desperate that he drank a whole bottle.
Hans Moberg staggered out to the kitchen to put on coffee. A new sunny day cut into his eyes making the tears run. He looked out over the neat yard with its well-tended flowerbeds and a garden where heads of lettuce and dill and carrot tops stood in straight rows. What time could it be? Only four o’clock. He had slept for three hours. It was seldom better than that and he moaned audibly with disappointment. Yesterday’s encounter with Cuddly Skåne Girl had not been what he had hoped for at all. There must have been a misunderstanding. He took Cecilia’s car and parked by the lime works and waited. When the woman didn’t arrive he got out and took a walk down toward the harbor. The moon was reflected in the water. Maybe that was why he had such peculiar dreams later. It was as if Sandra’s pale face was there in the river of moonlight, right below the surface, to appear at any moment and accuse him with her dark eyes. As he stood on the edge of the pier he heard a car door shut. He hurried back to see whether the woman from Skåne had arrived. But he saw no sign of another car, and when he noticed the drowsy policemen watching the harbor so that no one could escape from the island he quickly left the area. It was only when he was about to go to bed that he noticed his wallet was gone. He searched in the house, but remembered that he had put it in the car. It was thick and lumpy to sit on and he took it out of his pocket and set it beside him. But when he went out to the garage and searched the car the wallet was not there. The thought struck him that he might have had it with him when he got out of the car, or else someone had stolen it. The car was unlocked. So he returned to the industrial harbor and fine-combed the area, but did not find a wallet. This was too annoying.
Hans Moberg laid back down on Cecilia’s bed and turned on the radio. A heated debate was going on about the prohibition on meeting in large groups to avoid infection. Athletic events and concerts were being cancelled all over the island and restaurants could only take in a limited number of customers. Bus traffic was shut down and all schools and childcare centers were closed. The disease control officer tried to justify her decision—but people were upset. Old hags! He could not bear to listen to them but instead switched to P1. The program unfortunately was about the bird flu, too, but the conversational tone was gentler and more factual.
“A Swedish-born 73-year-old physician, Johan Hultin, made an expedition to Alaska eight years ago where he investigated a mass grave from 1918. Those buried were all victims of the Spanish flu. The purpose was to bring back tissue samples from the lungs of the deceased so that the virus that caused the disease could be isolated and studied. Johan Hultin succeeded where others have failed, and the virus strain that could be produced by means of the frozen material is now being stored at the Centers for Disease Control in the U.S.…”
At some point Hans Moberg must have fallen asleep and when he woke up a woman was standing in the doorway with a watering can in her hand, looking at him. She must have screamed. Her mouth was still open and the spout of the watering can was drooping toward the floor. A small rivulet of water painted her brown skirt a darker shade right in the middle.
“Who are you?” she asked in a hoarse voice after she had audibly inhaled. Her eyes were round and very blue behind the strong convex glasses, and they seemed to get even bigger as he slowly raised himself into a sitting position. Careful now, he couldn’t frighten her into flight.
“I guess I could ask the same thing,” he said, sounding a trifle grim. “Cecilia promised me that I would be able to work undisturbed here.”
“Excuse me, I …” The water continued to run down in a little pool on the floor.
“Klas Strindberg,” Hans introduced himself, extending his hand. He had previously adopted the role of literary author on one of his computer dates, so it was only a matter of putting on this custom-made suit. Making his vowels a bit more nasal, a slight roll to his r’s and his chin arrogantly lowered on his chest produced the right image. He had practiced in front of the mirror and knew what impression it made. His hair should have
been combed in a side part with a little of the long unkempt hair tossed over his forehead in shaped wisps, but that would have to wait for next time.
She took his hand in a cold, damp grip and smiled cautiously. Her teeth were uneven and overlapped slightly. It had its charm, he thought.
“I’m just a neighbor. I was going to water. Cecilia didn’t tell me that—”
“Of course she didn’t. If everyone knew I was here I would never get any work done. The newspapers calling. TV and radio wanting interviews. My readers don’t miss a chance to get their books signed and my publisher is hovering like a vulture over my head, waiting for results.” The woman followed his gesture in the air.
Simple person, he thought. She didn’t look like much either. Far too reserved for it to be worth the effort to … but of course one might be mistaken. Simply because she looked like she came from the insurance company forms archive didn’t mean she was completely unappealing.
“What should we do about the flowers?” she asked.
“The flowers?” At first he didn’t understand what she was talking about. Birds and bees passed through his head. Perhaps she was retarded even though she looked normal on the outside. Then he caught sight of the watering can and understood. “You can take them home with you. I need peace and quiet, you understand. When I create I have to savor the words, let them roll on my tongue so I feel what kind of aftertaste they have. Have you ever thought that a word has an aftertaste? Tens of thousands of people read my poetry collections and I can’t disappoint them. The expectations only get higher and higher.”
“Amazing! Do your poems sell in large editions? Klas Strindberg, was that your name? I’ve never actually heard of you. I’m sorry.” She got a greedy, curious look in her eyes and unexpectedly sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do you write under a pseudonym?”
“It’s many years now since I published anything. Ordinary people don’t understand what agony it entails to fuse your innermost dynamic impressions into static words—it’s like serving your own decapitated head on a silver platter, if you understand what I mean.” One of his mother’s favorite expressions, she was so damn literary.
“So who is your publisher?”
“Why such a superficial question? That can’t possibly interest you, could it? You’re a woman with quite different depths and qualities, I see that sort of thing.”
“I see, so what do you see?” She leaned forward. Her upper lip was trembling a little, not much, but he thought she looked like a rabbit and could not keep from smiling.
“What’s so funny?” she asked without taking her eyes off him. A little sulky now, he truly had to be careful. “What qualities do you think I have?”
“You are reliable and you can keep a secret. Hm, I have to look at your beautiful hands. They have no calluses. They’re soft. It is said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, but that’s so trite. I would say that the hands are the mirror of the soul. No rings—a woman with many possibilities.” He stroked his warm hand across the back of hers and turned up her palm. “The lifeline is strong. But the line for love and desire is broken in several places.” He followed it with his index finger and sensed a shiver that was transmitted through her body. Don’t move ahead too fast. This should be just right. She must have time to digest the touch and long for more.
“Have you been translated?” she asked, drawing her hand back after a slightly embarrassed silence.
“But of course, what a question!”
“And you write under your real name?” she continued. Did he sense a smile? Here he had to be careful.
“Under pseudo … well, you know. One must have a private life.”
“What do you call yourself?”
“I would prefer to keep that to myself. When I rented an apartment on Strandvägen in Stockholm last spring I happened to mention my name in passing, and then it was over. The rumor spread and I couldn’t stay there. Lost three months of peace of mind in which to write and let’s not talk about the rent. No—I actually came here to be incognito. That’s in my agreement with Cecilia Granberg and she won’t come away from this contract empty-handed. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to be going past the state liquor store, would you? I was just wondering—could imagine sending along a little order … just in case.” She shook her head.
“I think you can order through the Pressbyrån newsstand in some places, but I don’t know. I’ve never bought on someone else’s behalf.”
When the neighbor disappeared with the last geranium, Hans Moberg felt relieved at first, then uneasiness came creeping in. Did she suspect something? No, she wouldn’t have sat down on the edge of the bed. But what if she talked with other neighbors and they had heard the wanted-person bulletin and she started to put two and two together? Where would he go? Here there was food and electricity and a decent bathroom anyway. He must think of something. Perhaps it was best to take Cecilia’s humble Saab and leave as soon as possible. But where? There was a risk that he would be infected with that bird flu misery if he encountered people. If he just wandered into a health center and asked to get medicine they would ask for identification, which was the same as a one-way ticket to prison. And no medicine, no certificate. He couldn’t leave the island. Things were really a mess. It was all Sandra Hägg’s fault. If she had only left him alone, if she hadn’t asked him to come over this never would have happened.
She’d wanted to talk with him about vaccine against the bird flu. Perhaps he had exaggerated a little and offered information that could not be supported. But he figured if things developed favorably, in the not-so-distant future the information would not be wrong at all. At least that’s how he had reasoned.
She sounded as if she were desperate to know where he got the syringes. Why was that so important? In reality, there were no syringes, but if he worked his contacts few things were impossible. Really it was almost risk-free to peddle a vaccine that had no effect for three weeks. If the goods were of inferior quality, he would be long gone. It was much worse with Viagra—his customers expected immediate satisfaction.
Hans Moberg slipped out of the house and followed the hedge to the outbuilding where he had parked his love nest. He must have a six-pack of beer somewhere—otherwise life was not worth living. A couple of beers and a little rest and then he would figure out his situation.
Chapter 30
Maria ordered a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to her colleague Ek at the Follingbo sanitarium, checked the clock, and logged off the computer. She had just come from a meeting regarding the curfew. Everyone on the force was informed that all vacation had been recalled and everyone could count on working overtime for a while. The airport and ports would be monitored, as well as the pharmacies, hospitals, and health centers. Cooperation between the auxiliary police and security guards had been established. Although as a detective the directives would not change much of anything for Maria, the situation was frightening and the division of labor unclear. The two major issues that had not yet been resolved were who would pay and who had responsibility.
As Maria reached for her jacket on the hanger by the door, she heard Hartman speaking English with someone on the phone. He was no great linguistic talent. When you’re speaking in another language about serious matters with the wrong intonation and strong Gotland diphthongs, it sounds a bit strange. Hartman had grown up in Martebo and his dialect persisted, despite all his years on the mainland. Maria tried to keep from laughing—what they were talking about was truly nothing to laugh about. And in fact, she admired him a great deal. He always did his best and assumed that others did too. He was generous in his thinking to the point of being naive, but perhaps it was that very quality that allowed him to succeed where others failed. His genuine goodwill shone through and people dared to confide in him.
Sergei Bykov, Hartman spelled out with great effort. The next moment he was visible in the doorway, his forehead sweaty and with large damp stains under his arms from the exertion of speaking English,
but happy and full of enthusiasm.
“The painting salesman now has a name. The scar was the tip-off. He got it in a robbery. His name is Sergei Bykov and he comes from Belarus. According to his wife he was on a short visit to Sweden to sell paintings and she expected him back on Sunday, the second of July. Her story is so pitiful that you get a lump in your throat. Sergei’s son has serious kidney disease and he was going to get a kidney from his father, but the operation costs money and they were a few thousand short. Sergei tried to come up with the money at the last minute by selling his paintings. The surgery was scheduled for last Monday, but Sergei never came back.”
“Do we know anything else about him? Where he lived? What he did for a living?” Maria hung her jacket back on the hook. This was a breakthrough and without a doubt required an immediate response and overtime. She would have to call home to Marianne Hartman to ask whether she could take care of Linda and Malte a while longer.
“Sergei came from Biaroza. It’s in Belarus, southwest of Minsk. He raises laboratory mice and guinea pigs and other research animals for the pharmaceutical laboratories there. The corporation is called the Demeter Group and pharmaceuticals are one part of it. They are also involved in development of labeling systems for grocery and product transport, and an institute for rejuvenative surgery. From what I understand they also run clinics for overweight Western Europeans and Americans, who stay at their spa facilities. Their head office is in Montreal but they are active all over the Western world. Check the stock price in the next news broadcast and you’ll see, it’s a successful corporation.”