The Hand that Trembles

by Kjell Eriksson

  ‘And what did you say when he wondered why you had walked into his house?’ he said after a brief, somewhat ominous pause.

  ‘I asked him if he was Nils Dufva.’

  ‘You did not recognise him from before?’

  ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  ‘You wanted to be sure that you were going to kill the right man?’

  Persson did not answer, and to all extents and purposes that was where the session ended. Sven-Arne Persson was unwilling to say anything else. He skirted their attempts to clarify what had happened that fateful autumn day of 1993 and above all why he became a killer. He became bantering in his tone and thereafter more brief in his answers, only to finally lapse into silence. He was escorted back to his cell.

  Sven-Arne Persson was in no way pleased with his performance, but he did not know how he could have approached it in any other way. He regretted his outburst over his political colleagues. It was meaningless to waste energy on such things.

  He knew that the policemen were dissatisfied, and he had registered Nilsson’s obvious irritation, not to say exasperation. The other one, Fredriksson, appeared to take the whole thing more calmly. Perhaps they were playing two different roles in order to get him to talk. Not that he really cared; it did not change anything.

  Despite the stomach pains that had come and gone all night, he felt in fine form. The most freeing thing was that he did not need to make any weighty decisions. He existed in a pleasant vacuum. His cell was small and spartan but he was accustomed to modest surroundings from his time in India. So all in all he found it congenial. The only thing he missed was books, but he had been promised a couple of novels. Newspapers he did not want. He was indifferent to television. He vegetated, but somewhere in his consciousness there was a question about how long this situation would last, and above all how he would stand it. Perhaps he would wake up one morning and feel prison for what it was: a cage.

  But right now he felt no great concern. He lay down on the camp bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep after several minutes.

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘This is a good book,’ Bosse Marksson said, holding up a slender volume.

  ‘Oh?’ Lindell said, perplexed over this start to the conversation. ‘What is it about?’

  She was late. She had pulled up in front of the little police station in Östhammar at exactly a quarter to nine. Angelina was at the reception desk. Lindell had talked to her before, about travel. There was a globe on the counter and when Lindell complained about stress Angelina had spun it and urged Lindell to stop it with her finger. She had landed in South America. In Paraguay.

  ‘Go there,’ Angelina said. ‘I’m sure it will be relaxing.’

  And this morning as she had hurried into the police station, Angelina had simply pointed to the globe and grinned.

  ‘It’s about a man who takes the train north in order to attend the funeral of an elderly relative.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ Lindell said.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Marksson said, and opened the book. ‘“Someone who doesn’t love us is in the process of changing our land”,’ he read in an authoritative voice.

  He lowered the text and looked at Lindell, whose gaze was fixed on a framed photograph on the window sill. It showed a woman, whom Lindell assumed was Marksson’s wife.

  ‘That sounds about right,’ Lindell said, suddenly unsure as to what was expected of her.

  Marksson had talked about books before. She had understood that he was a bookworm and perhaps also something of an amateur philosopher. For her part, she did not read much. Perhaps a dozen books a year.

  Marksson read the sentence again, now without looking at it.

  ‘And the bit before it isn’t bad either: “If I am going to participate in bringing change to my country I want to do so because someone I love will later be able to live here.”’

  He shut the book.

  ‘But you aren’t here for a reading. I’m returning this to the library today, that’s why I brought it in. It’s a Stig Claesson, one of my favourites.’

  ‘I thought it sounded good,’ Lindell said.

  ‘Someone is changing this land – we see that, don’t we?’

  Lindell nodded. She wanted to say something insightful, building on this, but the stressful drive and her thoughts, miserable and ranting, had made her slow.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t love us.’

  ‘The National Police Committee,’ Lindell said, and Marksson looked at her with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

  ‘You seem tired.’

  ‘I’m wiped out,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s not that bad, but you know how—’

  ‘Something is wrong,’ Marksson interrupted.

  Lindell drew a deep breath and sat up in her chair.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ she picked up, ‘but something in this story doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s the picture of Tobias Frisk. You knew him and probably know better, but for me he doesn’t seem like a murderer. I know it is a silly objection, killers can be a million different ways, but this thought didn’t just come out of nowhere. This uncertainty doesn’t come from my impression of Frisk, whom I know so little about, but it has come from the outside. Do you know what I’m getting at? I mean …’

  Lindell leant over the desk and caught the hint of a smile that swiftly came and went in Marksson’s face.

  ‘There is something out there that I have seen or heard, something that has led me to the conviction that Frisk is not a killer. He is no longer self-evident.’

  Marksson nodded.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘A visual impression,’ Lindell said, and told him about her experience on Ringgatan after she had left Café Savoy. How she had a sudden thought and stopped in her tracks.

  ‘At a café? Frisk was a baker – could that be the connection?’

  ‘That was what I was thinking, but you are the one who has been to his workplace. I’ve only talked to Ahlén on the phone. I know from previous experience that it is often images that I respond to. I can read for hours and talk to a bunch of people without anything being set off in my mind, but then I catch sight of a single detail – it can look completely insignificant and ordinary from the outside but it makes everything become clear for me.’

  They discussed what it could have been at the café. Lindell re-created the picture of the busy eatery, even pulled over a sheet of paper and started to sketch it out to jog her memory.

  ‘Coffee, children, retirees, Christmas cakes …’ Marksson rattled off. ‘There’s no space and perhaps stale air … there’s the sound of children crying, mothers, pushchairs … a couple of teenagers … a child that doesn’t want to take its coat off … maybe Christmas decorations on the table …’

  ‘Hold it!’

  Lindell held her hand up in a theatrical gesture but lowered it after a couple of seconds.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She knew she had been close, but the image that had flickered in front of her was only exposed in pieces, and quickly faded away.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Marksson said after a brief pause, ‘I’m sure it’ll come back. We’ll have to start somewhere else. If Frisk wasn’t the killer, why would he commit suicide?’

  ‘Shame,’ Lindell said. ‘He knew that I was on my way and he wasn’t a particularly good liar. He knew he was partially responsible for Patima’s death since he had brought her to Bultudden, and he knew he would not be able to bluff.’

  ‘Too complicated,’ Marksson said. ‘It’s one thing to import a woman from Asia and quite another to kill her. A lot of men would—’

  ‘I know, but maybe Frisk agonised over it. He may also have known something about how and why she died.’

  Marksson stared at her.

  ‘Implicated, and yet not,’ he said finally.

  ‘Shame,’ Lindell repeated.

  ‘But then all men would be taking their own lives.’

  ‘He was an unhappy
man,’ Lindell said. ‘My investigations in the area brought everything to a head for him.’

  ‘A skilled baker, a fly fisherman. The Frisk I knew was a pretty considerate man.’

  ‘The considerate murderer,’ Lindell mused.

  ‘We won’t get much farther now,’ Marksson said, confirming her own conclusion.

  ‘Is that your wife?’ Lindell asked, and pointed to the photograph in the window.

  ‘Yes, that is Inga-Marie. It was taken a couple of years ago. We were at Lofoten.’

  ‘Was it fun?’

  Marksson looked at her and smiled.

  ‘What you are really asking is this: Are you happy?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lindell said, returning his smile. ‘Am I so easy to read?’

  ‘You are an open book,’ Marksson said. ‘I think these visits to Roslagen have caused a bit of inner turmoil for you, haven’t they?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lindell repeated.

  The tension between them broke when Marksson stood up from his chair.

  ‘Should we go for a spin?’

  Lindell sensed what he meant by ‘spin.’ Drive around on the gravel roads outside Östhammar, and Marksson would talk about his youth, point out various houses and tell her about the people who lived there. After a while they would end up at Bultudden.

  ‘Is there anything in particular?’

  ‘No,’ Marksson said, but she heard something else in his tone. She did not know what was going on in his head but had no intention of asking. She realised he was as much a searcher as she was, but as opposed to her, he did not air his doubts.

  Just as the last time things had heated up, when they had been outside Lasse Malm’s shed, he left. He grabbed the car keys on his desk and walked out of the room.

  ‘Let’s scram,’ she heard him say from the corridor, and when she found her way to the reception area, he was already standing next to his car.

  ‘Men,’ Angelina said, reading Lindell’s expression.

  That’s right, Lindell thought. Wouldn’t be so bad.

  Once they were at Bultudden, Marksson stepped out at Torsten Andersson’s house. They had caught a glimpse of him at the kitchen window. Lindell took over the wheel and continued down the Avenue.

  Marksson had not asked what Lindell was planning to do on the point, but she thought he had an inkling. They were going to keep in touch by mobile phone.

  Lisen Morell’s car was parked up between a clump of bushes and a couple of enormously tall pine trees, just like last time. Lindell could not tell if it had even been moved since then. She looked around.

  It was absolutely calm, the sea a polished surface. The low clouds appeared to press down on the bay, a stillness where not a single breeze could be detected, the tall pine tree trunks and between them the dark, oily water as a backdrop, creating a spooky feeling. Not a single movement. A static landscape. There was nothing charming about the scene. This is also the archipelago, she thought. As still as death.

  ‘Hello,’ Lindell called out, mainly to break the silence.

  She took out her mobile phone and punched in Marksson’s number but did not hit the call button.

  She walked over to the fishing cottage, listening at the door, but heard nothing. She knocked, then repeated her knock after a couple of seconds. Her hand on the phone was sweaty. Not a sound. A new knock that sounded almost obscene in the intense stillness.

  She had stood outside a single woman’s door once before, knocking. She had not received an answer that time either. The woman they were trying to reach had been strangled to death.

  She pushed down on the door handle, which more closely resembled an old-fashioned iron rod than a handle, with her elbow. The door opened with a faintly mournful sound.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ she called out, even though it appeared unlikely.

  Suddenly the sun broke out and beamed a ray of light into the cottage through the window that faced the sea. Lindell ended up standing on the spot. There was a painting on the left wall. It was a watercolour and she recognised the subject, the outermost point on Bultudden.

  She took a couple of steps into the room and thereby gained an overview of the space, including the sleeping alcove to the right. The bed was unmade, the blanket turned to one side so that it formed a triangle, and the pillows were rumpled. Lisen Morell had got out of bed. Lindell exhaled. She had subconsciously feared that Lisen would be lying on the bed, strangled to death.

  Lindell left the house, pushed the door shut behind her, and heard the lock click. Then she rounded the corner and walked all the way around the building. Next to the bench that she and Lisen had sat on there was a bottle of wine of a brand that she knew well.

  The clouds had drawn their veils again. The surface of the water was ruffled by a faint breeze. An old dock lay pulled up on the shore and a bit higher there was a boat with a green tarp over it. The ends of the rope that held the tarp in place were well knotted around nails fastened into the lumber that functioned as underlay. She resisted the temptation of loosening the knots to peek into the boat.

  Lisen was somewhere close by, that much was clear. The car was in its place and the cottage was unlocked. But was she alive or dead?

  Suddenly Lindell heard a crack and jumped around, crouching as she did so as if she were expecting a blow. Instinctively she also pressed the button on her mobile phone.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Lisen Morell’s voice was loaded with so much explosive tension that Lindell could not bring herself to reply. She waved vaguely and heard a voice from her phone at the same time. She held it to her ear.

  ‘No, everything’s fine. I just happened to knock the phone.’

  She looked at Lisen, who was standing a couple of metres away. How had she managed to get so close without making any sound?

  ‘No, no, I’ve just bumped into Lisen. I’ll talk to you later.’

  Lindell turned it off. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I startle you?’

  ‘Seems more like I was the one who startled you. But what are you doing here? Are you the one who was sneaking around here last night?’

  Lindell shook her head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was someone here last night. I’ve been walking around taking a look to see if I could find any clues.’

  ‘Clues?’

  ‘Yes, clues. To be perfectly honest, you look trashed.’

  ‘I was a bit startled,’ Lindell admitted. ‘And I have actually been a little worried. In my line of work that often happens. Can we go inside?’

  Lisen nodded and started walking toward the cottage. Then she stopped short and turned around.

  ‘Do you have any reason to be worried about me? I mean, was that why you came?’

  ‘No, no,’ Lindell assured her. ‘I just wanted to talk to you a little.’

  When they had sat down at the old drop-leaf table with a cup of coffee in front of them she asked Lisen to tell her what she had heard or seen the night before.

  ‘There was something out there. I was awake, it was about half past twelve. Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep and then I get up. I’ve read that it’s better to do that, that you shouldn’t stay tossing and turning in bed. In bed you should only sleep.’

  And make love, Lindell thought.

  ‘Yes, I do that too,’ she said dishonestly.

  ‘I pottered around a little. Do you see that watercolour? I framed it last night. Then I heard sounds. It sounded as though someone was sneaking around outside. First there were a couple of steps, then absolute silence, then more steps.’

  Lisen Morell picked up her cup but did not drink. Lindell could tell she was reliving the events of the night.

  ‘I may have imagined it, but it was so strong. It was as if the house was vibrating. It sounds silly and I don’t mean it literally but you know when you feel something so strongly it translates into something physical.’

  Lisen put down her cup, still without having drunk anything. Lindell saw her hand s
hake and recalled Lisen’s words when she had been talking about her mezzotints: the hand that trembles.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but I am extremely physical, or rather, it is one and the same. Mind and body. Both are required to be able to paint. And last night I knew – my whole body knew there was someone outside. Someone who did not wish me well.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think I would. A stalker doesn’t leave a note.’

  ‘Any idea who it might have been?’

  Lisen didn’t answer.

  ‘Can’t you go to your flat in town?’

  ‘I’m going to spend Christmas here. I can’t stand being in town – all the people who run around and think they are partaking in Christmas spirit because they have shopped until they dropped.’

  ‘Have you ever noticed anyone trespassing here before?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lisen sighed. ‘This is a strange area, full of lonely souls. We are so far away from everything, exposed in some way, and when I say that I’m not referring to the weather. We should stick together, but everyone stays holed up in their own little cottage. Take Torsten Andersson, for example, the one I rent this place from. You’ve met him, haven’t you? So lonely, so isolated, he practically screams out his despair but does nothing about it, just talks about the past and blames everything that is new. It is as if being on the periphery has hurt him, twisted everything good and made him into someone else. He is a good person, but that is hidden under all the bluster.’

  ‘Was Tobias Frisk the same?’

  Lisen shook her head and finally took a sip of coffee. Lindell was strangely disturbed by the fact that she had drained her cup while Lisen’s was basically untouched.

  ‘No, he was different. More hesitant, searching. He didn’t rant and rave in the same way, he seemed more to be apologising for his existence. And yet he could not conceal his longing.’

  ‘His smell gave him away.’

  Lisen flashed a brief smile.

  ‘What was he looking for?’

  ‘What all of us look for. Someone to love, a connection, to feel part of something. I am an artist, and that is the loneliest work in the world. No colleagues, no one to fill in, no coffee breaks on the job. Everything depends on me. You do your thing and hope it means something to someone else.’