The Hand that Trembles

by Kjell Eriksson

  ‘You’re too strong.’ Thomas smirked.

  Lasse Malm tossed the rake aside and stood with his back turned to Thomas before he strode away out of sight.

  Something in the bonfire started to spit and an orange flame spurted out. Thomas listened into the darkness by the corner of the house where Lasse had disappeared.

  A couple of minutes went by. At first Thomas thought Lasse had gone to fetch another rake but he did not show himself.

  The bonfire collapsed further and did not throw off as much heat as before. Thomas peered at the house. Had Lasse gone inside without saying anything?

  Finally, after another minute or so, Thomas walked back to the car, turned on the engine, waited a while, then backed out onto the street and drove south.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  It was twenty to ten when Ann Lindell thought of it. She had spent the evening putting away toys and clothes, filled two grocery bags with newspapers that had been lying around all over the flat, then put them by the front door. She had vacuumed, and dusted window sills, and done several loads of laundry. She had been thinking about Ante Persson all night, his desperate helplessness and anguish as he was escorted to the police station, brought two flights up in the lift, and placed in an interrogation room. She had leant over the frail body in the wheelchair and put an arm around his shoulders. Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson had waited in the background, ready to start the interrogation but aware of the fact that the old man had to be reassured first.

  There was no joy in this. Solving the murder of Nils Dufva had spread a kind of gloom that was only strengthened when he was brought in.

  Ante Persson had mumbled something about ‘everything goes around.’ What had surprised her was the fear in his eyes. They had all assumed he would be bewildered and perhaps tired, but they had been unprepared for the apparent terror he experienced.

  Lindell had left the station before the interrogation began and knew nothing of how it had gone. Had Ante been allowed to stay or had he been sent back to Ramund? The latter was more likely. At least that was Ottosson’s opinion, who maintained that the old man had no possibility of fleeing, especially since they could easily post a guard outside his door.

  It was when she was finishing the laundry that the penny dropped for her, when the feeling of unease that had grown so strong outside Café Savoy received its explanation. She had just emptied the dryer and sorted the clothes into two neat piles – one for Erik and one for herself – when the thought of how appealing it would be with a third pile flew through her head. At that moment the memory came back to her with a start and it felt as though she had received a strong electric shock.

  She dropped her task at hand and went to the kitchen to check the time.

  ‘It’s not too late,’ she muttered.

  The familiar agitation caused her to – anxiously and without any motivation – walk up to the window and study the thermometer, as if the temperature could explain or determine how she should act.

  Then came doubt, and while the clock kept ticking indefatigably she grew more and more irresolute. At last, shortly after ten o’clock, she walked up to the telephone.

  He picked up immediately and with an alert voice, which reassured her. He may have gone to bed, but had not fallen asleep.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I’ve realised what it was that was bothering me. I’m sorry I’m calling so late but I have to talk to someone.’

  ‘That’s fine, we’re night owls,’ Bosse Marksson said.

  ‘Do you remember when we visited Lasse Malm? I was going to return the chainsaw and we put it back in the shed behind the house.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were a couple of rubbish sacks there. One had fallen over. Remember?’

  Marksson made a noise of assent.

  ‘A discarded piece of clothing had fallen out and just as we were going to go, I tossed it back into the bag.’

  Lindell paused and unconsciously moved her free hand in a gesture similar to the one she had performed in the shed.

  ‘Now I know what it was,’ she resumed. ‘Or I think I do. When I was at the Savoy there was a one-year-old sitting on the floor, wearing a pink undershirt. She had spilt something on her chest and it looked pretty soiled.’

  ‘I see, a pink undershirt,’ Marksson said, to prod Lindell’s memory.

  ‘The same colour I saw in the rubbish sack. The clothing rag I tossed back had the same colour.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you get it?’

  ‘No, to be honest, I don’t.’

  ‘It was a pink tank top that fell out of the bag.’

  Marksson digested this information.

  ‘Do you mean …’

  ‘What was Malm doing with a pink tank top? He’s as large as a house. You said he hadn’t had a girlfriend in ages.’

  ‘It was several years ago,’ Marksson confirmed. ‘Do you think it was the Thai girl’s tank top? But there is no connection between the two of them.’

  ‘No, not as far as we know.’

  ‘It’s a bit far-fetched,’ Marksson said, after having thought about it for a while.

  ‘I know, but who would have thought that your pal would find a foot on the beach?’

  ‘That’s not a flawless comparison,’ Marksson said, and she heard from his voice that he was smiling.

  ‘Can you go out there tomorrow and check it out?’

  Marksson had known Lasse Malm since childhood and she knew he was hesitating.

  ‘I’ll go myself,’ she said when he didn’t answer. ‘I can probably find some reason to poke around in his shed – tell him I’ve received information that Frisk may have hidden things at his place.’

  ‘Hold your horses, I’m thinking.’

  ‘I’ll head out there tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

  They finished the call. It was already twenty to eleven. Lindell broke one of her rules about not drinking wine during the week by going out into the kitchen, opening a bottle of Portuguese wine, and pouring herself a glass.

  But before she tasted it she undressed, took a quick shower, wrapped herself in her robe, and sat down on the couch in the living room.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising the glass at the television, and taking a sip.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  She heard the sound of a car and felt more angry at the disturbance than afraid. She had been sketching for several hours. She had returned to the subject again and again, used many pieces of paper, and slowly the idea had started to take shape.

  The sound of the engine stopped. She walked over to the window that faced the dirt road but saw nothing but the darkness between the pine trees.

  There was a small dirt road between the Avenue and the cottage. If one continued past this road, it was only a hundred metres to the turnaround at Bultudden’s end. People occasionally drove down that way and turned around but never this late at night.

  She stared out into the December night. Fear came creeping. The card Ann Lindell had given her was pinned to the noticeboard. Her mobile phone lay on the bed. A new look out of the window after she had turned out the light yielded nothing. The darkness and silence were impenetrable.

  The knock came out of nowhere. She twirled around and fixed her eyes on the door before running over to the bed, grabbing her phone, and pressing the number keys for 911.

  ‘Who is it?’ she yelled.

  ‘It’s only me.’

  She stared at the door. The voice sounded familiar but her terror prevented her from immediately identifying it. She pressed the dial button on her phone. Her hands shook. One ring sounded, then another, then a voice could be heard. A woman’s voice. At that moment the door opened.

  ‘Hello,’ said Thomas B. Sunesson.

  He stepped into the house and immediately closed the door behind him.

  ‘It’s cold,’ he said, smiling. ‘I don’t want to let out the heat.’

  The voice in the telephone yelled a ‘hello’.

&n
bsp; ‘Did I scare you?’

  Lisen Morell shook her head.

  ‘Are you talking on the phone?’

  A new shake.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that Lasse is burning rubbish, in case you were wondering about the smell of fire.’

  At last she managed to answer the increasingly agitated voice on the other end.

  ‘I dialled the wrong number,’ she said, and ended the call.

  ‘How are you? You look terrible. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘But you did!’

  ‘I just wanted to …’

  ‘I know what you want! You come sneaking around my house.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You can leave now.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Sunesson said.

  Lisen Morell lifted one hand to stop him.

  ‘Leave,’ she said, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

  He looked perplexed.

  ‘What do you mean I come sneaking around? I knocked, didn’t I?’

  He explained how Doris Utman had called him and how he had gone out to check up on the burning smell.

  ‘She thought there might have been a fire at your place.’

  ‘There’s nothing burning here,’ Lisen Morell said.

  ‘Okay, then I know.’

  He glanced at the table, then bent over and snatched a piece of paper from the floor.

  ‘This looks good,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a sketch, nothing else. But you are bothering me. I’d like you to leave now.’

  He gazed at her, dropping the page so that it wafted down to the floor.

  ‘You’re not exactly a diplomat. I came here out of a sense of concern. That’s what we do out here. We look after each other.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ she said with an acidity that made him pull a face.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t think it’s good for you to live here all alone.’

  ‘And who has asked you for your honesty? You live alone too.’

  ‘Did you ever talk to Frisk? Did he come down here?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did you meet his Thai girl?’

  Lisen shook her head. She suddenly discovered that all fear and anger had run out of her. She imagined it was the smell of smoke that had calmed her.

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lisen Morell said.

  ‘You said that someone’s been sneaking around. When was the last time?’

  ‘Just the other night. I heard footsteps and sounds.’

  Sunesson walked over to the window facing the sea and stared into the darkness. She watched the back of his neck where the hairs were standing on end. It was as if he felt her gaze, and he pulled one hand over his shoulder.

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  He turned around and looked at her. She shrugged.

  ‘Have you talked with anyone about the fact that someone’s been sneaking around? I mean the police.’

  ‘I mentioned it to Ann Lindell. You’ve met her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Sure, she borrowed my chainsaw,’ he said.

  He walked up to the front door, put his hand on the handle, then turned around and looked at her with a serious expression.

  ‘You should keep your eyes and ears open,’ he said. ‘If anything comes up, you should give me a call right away.’

  Before she had time to answer, he had opened the door and left.

  After a minute she heard the sound of his car. Why had he parked out by the turnaround, she wondered as she walked up to the door and fastened the bolt.

  Lisen Morell curled up under the blankets. Her limbs were stiff and cold, her back ached. That’s how it was when she stayed up working too long. She had always had difficulties with proportions. She exaggerated, worked too much, dipped again and again until fatigue caused her hands to shake. The evening often morphed into night before she finally put away her pencil, charcoal, and brush. Now her body was punishing her for it.

  She looked out in the dim light of the cottage where the white papers spread on the floor bore witness to her last session. In this chaos of attempts there was perhaps a single expression actually worth something, that carried forward and that could perhaps, after additional hours, days, or weeks of work, result in a painting that passed muster.

  Lisen Morell was poised on a razor-sharp edge, teetering between total collapse, both physical and artistic, and brilliance.

  She could not help but smile when she thought about her neighbour’s unexpected visit. Was his talk of smoke simply an excuse to make contact? Was he the one who had been sneaking around outside? Sunesson was harmless. He would never become threatening. She decided to invite him in for coffee one of these days. Not that she was interested in him, but to show him what she was working on. Maybe it would be the start of better contact with her neighbours.

  She fell asleep late but woke up almost immediately. She sat up in bed, confused. The clock on the nightstand said 2:14 a.m.

  It was absolutely quiet. Not even the wind or the sound of the waves could be heard. Nonetheless there was something that had awakened her. She carefully turned the blankets aside, pulled her robe over, and pressed it to her body. A scraping sound somewhere outside the cottage made her gasp. She held her breath and listened. She pressed the robe even harder to her chest, where her heart was racing.

  The digital numbers on the clock showed 2:15. She breathed out through her mouth and barely managed to inhale.

  She knew she should search out her mobile phone from the mess on the table, but could not manage to make herself get up. She shivered with cold and fear. Paralysed with terror, she saw a severed foot walk across the floor, touch her papers and leave sooty, bloody prints on her sketches, only to disappear from view. A slender and lost foot, a woman’s foot. Lisen had the impression it was searching for its body.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Lisen mumbled, as she carefully pulled on her robe. It occurred to her that perhaps it was a bird that had struck the windowpane. That happened a couple of times every year, but what birds were flying around in the December night?

  She stood on trembling legs and took a couple of steps out into the room. The window to the bay was black. Suddenly there came a gust of wind so strong the cottage flinched and the sea answered with a muted thunder as it mercilessly struck the shore and the worn expanses of rock.

  She walked over to the window. Someone out there wishes me ill, she thought. What have I done? Let me be in peace!

  Then she glimpsed a movement outside the window. It looked like the shadow of a body, hastily fluttering past. Lisen quickly pulled herself aside and pressed up against the wall. She felt a trickle of warm urine run down her legs.

  FORTY-NINE

  The Uppland region’s first real storm of the season came in already during the night with an intense snowfall and strong northerly winds, causing the police to close many of the roads in the areas around Tierp and Älvkarleby. The E4 motorway was open for traffic but for all practical purposes unpassable, with the result that a number of cars drove off the road. A tractor-trailer had slid off the road by Björlinge Church and the trailer blocked one lane.

  It was Allan Fredriksson’s first winter as a country inhabitant and at nine o’clock when he finally managed to take himself the twenty kilometres into town, he was in a terrible mood. He had ample time to regret his move during the challenging trip.

  ‘It’ll be better in a couple of months.’ Sammy Nilsson tried to cheer him up, not without a certain glee.

  That summer Allan Fredriksson had been lyrical about his new life in the country and had bored his listeners with descriptions of birdsong. In the autumn he talked about the crisp days and fantastic autumn colours. Now he was made to eat his words at the morning meetings.

  ‘But shovelling snow is good for the body,’ Beatrice said.

  Allan Fredriksson gave her a crushing look. Ann Lindell glanced at Beatrice and was on the verge of
saying something about keeping to her own fighting weight, but left it at a smile. She herself had left an enthusiastic Erik at day care and then slip-slided her way through a paralysed city and at one point had almost run over an older man who had stepped out into traffic, blinded by the snow.

  Ottosson loved the silence in the excitable and almost anarchic atmosphere created by the winter storm.

  He began by telling them of the letters they had found at Ante Persson’s. From his place at the far end of the table, Riis started to laugh.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Ottosson asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Riis assured him, and fought to regain a normal expression.

  Ann Lindell looked at her colleague, who seemed increasingly to be losing his footing. Was he simply amused that a ‘Red’ was going to be tried for murder?

  ‘We’ll bring the old man in and hear what he has to say,’ Sammy Nilsson said, ‘but what puzzles me most is Sven-Arne Persson. Why did he admit to a murder that he in his own letters implied his uncle had committed?’

  ‘He only implies?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘More than implies, but maybe not says full out,’ Allan Fredriksson said. ‘But I think the two of them were in it together, that both Sven-Arne and Ante were in the house when Dufva died. Sven-Arne said something that strengthened his own version. He claims not to remember much about what Dufva’s place looked like or what happened, but he did remember that both the radio and television were on. I checked with Berglund – he was the one who was on duty that night, and the first to arrive on the scene – and he said that both the radio and television were on. At the highest volume. Just as Sven-Arne told us.’

  ‘What do the letters say?’ Riis asked.

  Fredriksson pulled over his notepad and read a couple of extracts.

  ‘“I understand, and yet I don’t. What had Dufva done to you?” That’s in a letter from the end of 1999. In another, sent a couple of weeks later: “How many Dufvas are there, anyway? He was only a thug – there must be others. Should all of them be killed?” And later in the same letter: “What are we capable of? I think about this a great deal. Here in India people die of hunger or take their own lives in desperation. What would we say if they left their slums and villages and slaughtered their oppressors and usurers as if they were dumb animals? Would I applaud such an act? To be honest, I don’t know. Who am I to judge? I have never been one for violence, you know that. Your struggle has never been mine, even if we have stood on the same side. In a way I am envious of your conviction, but I shiver when I think of what happened to Dufva.”’ Fredriksson stopped and looked up. The assembled police officers digested Sven-Arne’s words.