The Hand that Trembles

by Kjell Eriksson

  ‘Hello, this is Thomas Sunesson. You may remember—’

  ‘Hello, I know who you are,’ Lindell said, and felt a surge of excitement. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I have been thinking about … something.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s about Frisk. Or rather … his chainsaw.’

  Lindell pulled in to a bus stop. A German shepherd in the adjacent lot came bounding over. It stood up on its hind legs, its front paws on the fence, and barked frenetically. The dog’s sharp teeth and red mouth reminded Lindell of what had happened in Bultudden.

  ‘What do you mean? I can’t hear you very clearly.’

  ‘When you … my chainsaw … one … in your … Lasse … but … always had a Jonsered.’

  ‘Jonsered,’ Lindell repeated.

  The dog stopped barking.

  ‘Hello! What are you saying?’

  ‘… I … bought one … but that would … And then when … something … here,’ Sunesson continued.

  ‘We have a bad connection, you’re breaking up,’ Lindell answered. ‘I can hardly hear what you’re saying. But I’m on my way over. Are you home?’

  ‘Yes … but …’

  The call was completely dropped. Lindell stared at the dog. An older man came walking out from the house and Lindell saw him call something out. The dog immediately left the fence and ran over to the man, who bent down and patted it on the head. Its tail was wagging. The man straightened up, said something to the dog, and together they went around the side of the house.

  What had Sunesson said? That Frisk usually used a Jonsered. But in Frisk’s shed they had found a Stihl with remnants of blood and skin. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but there had been something in Sunesson’s voice that convinced her otherwise. He had apparently been thinking about this and now she recalled his faintly bewildered expression when she and Marksson came by to return his chainsaw. She had not been able to interpret his confusion correctly at the time, and had taken it more as a general expression of bafflement that arose among those in close proximity to a deadly crime. Lindell had seen this countless times in family members, neighbours, and witnesses, this amazement mixed with incredulity, sometimes accompanied by anger. What seemed obvious and self-evident and important in hindsight did not always emerge at once. Now the mill in Sunesson’s head had finished working.

  Lindell pulled out of the parking spot. On the other side of the road, Börstil Church gleamed with a portly farmer smugness, nestled in snow and decorated for the approaching Christmas holiday. A Christmas tree had been erected in front of the church gate. The star at the top was askew and threatening to fall off.

  Lindell saw that the time was already a quarter to two and she pressed on the accelerator to reach the Östhammar police station in time.

  Bo Marksson looked markedly worn out. He was sitting in the break room with a cup of coffee.

  ‘There is no justice,’ he said. ‘The snow is just pummelling this damn country. And people never learn! They get pissed off when Public Works can’t get rid of all the snow fast enough, then go slip-sliding around in summer shoes and driving like idiots.’

  Lindell was sick of all the talk about the weather and chose not to comment on his outburst. Instead she told him about Sunesson’s call.

  ‘I see,’ Marksson said, without much enthusiasm. ‘He wanted to discuss chainsaws with you.’

  ‘It was something about a Jonsered.’

  ‘Should we head out there?’

  ‘If you have the energy,’ Lindell said. ‘Otherwise I’ll go on my own.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Marksson said, and got up with some effort. ‘It’ll give me an opportunity to check the status of the roads.’

  ‘You worked last night?’

  Marksson nodded.

  ‘I was called in at four o’clock.’

  ‘Then you should get some sleep.’

  ‘I can sleep when I die.’

  They drove in silence. Marksson closed his eyes and looked like he had nodded off, thus eliminating the opportunity to observe the passability of the region’s roads.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ he said suddenly, and opened his eyes. ‘The emergency call centre received a phone call. It came from a woman who claimed she had dialled the wrong number. They routinely check up on such calls and it turned out it was from a mobile phone belonging to Lisen Morell.’

  ‘What? When was this?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘And you’re telling me now?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  He turned his head and looked at her. Lindell nodded.

  ‘I called her to check in. She said she had got scared at night and was embarrassed about making the call. There was no danger.’

  Lindell did not say anything until they reached the turn-off to Bultudden.

  ‘Let’s drive out to Lisen first,’ she said.

  The landscape resembled a postcard with the snowy spruces and the slender, curvy road that had been meticulously ploughed. Lindell had learnt that Torsten Andersson took care of this road. Smoke curled out of a few chimneys but there was no sign of any people. A flock of bullfinches were perched in a Rowan tree outside the Utmans’ house.

  Lindell turned in to the small road leading to Lisen Morell’s house but did not turn off the engine once she reached it.

  ‘I’ll check it out, if you like,’ Marksson said. ‘If all you want to do is look in and make sure everything is all right.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Lindell said.

  The chilly sea air made her shiver. A pale sun was shining from the mainland side. She took a couple of steps and looked back. Marksson had already fished out his mobile phone and was dialling a number.

  Lisen Morell was sitting at the table, a steaming cup of tea in front of her. She smiled a mournful smile. Next to her was a suitcase and pair of cardboard boxes.

  ‘I’m moving,’ she said. ‘Bultudden is no good.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t handle it right now. Would you like a cup?’

  Lindell shook her head.

  ‘You’re giving up,’ she observed.

  Lisen shrugged.

  ‘I thought you were going to paint here all winter.’

  Lindell was strangely affected by Lisen Morell’s capitulation.

  ‘I have to have peace in order to be able to paint.’

  ‘Are you frightened? I heard you called 911.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Marksson told me. Sometimes women make an emergency call but then are forced to hang up.’

  ‘Men,’ Lisen said.

  ‘Men,’ Lindell said.

  ‘Yes, okay, I’m scared. I even peed my pants.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve finished my tea. I packed last night and was going to leave first thing this morning but then the snow came.’

  ‘Can I call you in Uppsala?’

  Lisen nodded. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘We are going to check a couple of things.’

  ‘There are things happening out here you don’t know about,’ Lisen said.

  ‘Have you had some new visitors?’

  Lisen told her about Sunesson’s visit the night before and how she had later heard someone sneaking around the house.

  ‘Do you think his talk about smoke was an excuse to come by, and that he returned later on?’

  Lisen nodded and walked over to the window facing the sea.

  ‘I saw her,’ she said suddenly, turning around and looking at Lindell.

  ‘The Thai girl?’ Lindell asked, although she already knew the answer.

  ‘In the forest.’

  ‘And you’re telling me this now?’

  Lindell couldn’t repress her fury. She banged her fist on the table.

  ‘I didn’t remember it at first. I was a bit sad at the time … in the forest. I was having a bleak phase for me … it was …’

&
nbsp; ‘A bleak phase!’ Lindell exclaimed. ‘The woman was murdered and hacked to pieces with a chainsaw and you were having a bleak phase. Unbelievable!’

  ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  Lisen turned back to the window.

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally, but Lindell no longer believed her.

  ‘Who was with her? It’s high time you talked!’

  ‘Torsten,’ Lisen whispered.

  ‘Torsten Andersson?’

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t picking berries with her. He was sort of following her.’

  Lindell tried to make Lisen become more precise about where and when she had seen the two of them in the forest, but Lisen claimed she couldn’t remember. That period of time was hazy.

  Ann Lindell left the little cottage in a helpless fury, in part because of what Lisen had told her, in part because Bultudden seemed more and more like a play, an outpost in Sweden, populated by individuals who were appearing on stage in roles that did not fit them. Perhaps the older couples were an exception, but hardly Torsten Andersson, the bachelors, and Lisen Morell.

  Marksson was talking on the phone but ended the call when Lindell got back in the car.

  She backed out onto the Avenue and drove slowly back north as she told him about Lisen Morell.

  ‘Damn,’ Marksson said. ‘Torsten …’

  ‘This place is sick,’ Lindell said.

  ‘Why didn’t she say anything before?’

  ‘Torsten is her landlord, I think that was why,’ Lindell said. ‘She was afraid of losing the cottage. And how she talked before,’ Lindell spat.

  ‘Is it so bad?’

  ‘It’s completely screwed up!’

  ‘I think you are taking this too hard,’ Marksson said.

  ‘I was thinking about what you said, in that book you read, about someone who doesn’t like us is changing this land. I think that’s right. I’m becoming more and more disillusioned every day. Can’t you feel how we are slowly gliding away from everything we value and take for granted? Slowly but surely it is getting thinned out. Only a shell will remain. The surface is there but the content is gone. Soon we won’t be able to trust anyone.’

  ‘We mostly see the unpleasantness,’ Marksson said. ‘But there are actually happy, normal people.’

  This irritated Lindell. She knew that police work seldom touched on the sunny side of life, but where was this growing sadness and helplessness coming from?

  ‘We’re heading to Sunesson next,’ she said, ‘and then to that damn fish-man.’ She stepped on the accelerator and felt the tyres slipping in the curves but did not slow down.

  ‘I don’t know if it means anything,’ Thomas B. Sunesson said.

  Lindell had heard this phrase so many times before that she could not manage her usual reply – that the most insignificant detail sometimes turned out to be important. She merely waved it away.

  Marksson and Lindell were sitting at the table while Sunesson paced around his kitchen. Sunesson assured them that he was not the one who had been sneaking around Lisen Morell’s cottage. Lindell believed him and asked him to tell her about the chainsaws instead.

  ‘Are you sure that it was Lasse Malm’s chainsaw you had in the back?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, absolutely sure,’ Lindell said.

  Sunesson shook his head.

  ‘He has always had a Stihl,’ he said. ‘Always, as long as I can remember.’

  ‘Did he make a change?’ Marksson asked.

  ‘To an older Jonsered? I have trouble believing that. Why would he do that?’

  A couple of hours later, Lindell and Marksson would know the answer

  FIFTY-TWO

  At the end of September 1938, peace in Europe was assured. Neville Chamberlain waved his Munich treaty about. Adolf Hitler pronounced himself a friend of peace. He had admittedly gained a piece of Czechoslovakia but had no further imperialistic ambitions.

  The news of ‘peace in our time’ reached Ante Persson by way of a Polish dentist who had just extracted one of his teeth. It was a frigid October evening. Ante could still recall shivering and spitting blood and listening to how the Pole, very disillusioned, described how the powerhouses of England and France had once again sold out their people.

  Neither one of them was surprised. They had fought in Spain for a long time. They belonged to the veterans. Now they were imprisoned and awaiting certain death.

  The Pole was a Communist, born in Cracow, and an amateur astronomer. He would entertain Ante and the others with stories about Copernicus and Giordano Bruno. His dental practice had been raided by Polish anti-Semites in 1935 and he had been a fugitive ever since. He came to Spain and Barcelona in the summer of 1937, and immediately enlisted in the defence of the Republic.

  He was again employed as a dentist, this time in the field. He made no distinction between Communists, socialists, Catalan nationalists, or anarchists and even pulled out the aching wisdom teeth of imprisoned Falangists.

  Now he was talking about Europe and his own country. The evening was growing even colder. Star after shooting star streaked the sky. In a way Ante was happy. He was among friends.

  The Pole spoke remarkable German and Ante did not understand everything, but he picked up the fact that Munich was the start of a fire. Spain would soon fall into the hands of the Fascists, everyone knew that; the war was lost and now more and more countries and people would fall victim to the terror.

  Ante’s left hand ached. He was afraid his whole hand would get infected. The soiled bandages around his finger stumps gave no protection. The repeated abuse drained his strength. In a way it didn’t matter. They were all going to die.

  His entire body was beaten raw. That evening a week ago when he lost his fingers, he had fainted several times. The torturers had urinated on him. He still felt he stank. There were new questions the entire time. New blows. In the half darkness and through the pain that was like a red gauze over his eyes, Ante had discerned a man who had walked very close, leant over, and grinned in his face. Exhausted, Ante had tried to spit at him, to reach the face with a gob of phlegm, but he was too dehydrated, too weak, to succeed.

  He received a blow that landed under the eye. In the haze, Ante had seen the man pick up a pair of pliers and hold it up in front of him.

  ‘Now you’re going to lose everything that sticks out,’ the torturer had whispered in Swedish. ‘We’ll start with the fingers on your left hand.’

  Ante Persson awoke with a scream. Tanya, the new girl, was standing in the doorway of his room.

  ‘Were you dreaming?’ she asked.

  He pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. He was sweating. Tanya walked over to his bed and put her hand on his chest. Ante Persson fumbled for her hand, clasped it in his own, and closed his eyes.

  ‘My friend,’ he mumbled.

  ‘The police are here,’ she said.

  Once again an image of the pliers swam before his eyes. The pain made him wince and he squeezed her hand harder.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’

  The door was pushed open and the policemen from yesterday came in. Sammy Nilsson approached the bed.

  ‘Were you taking a morning nap?’

  Persson did not reply.

  ‘You were supposed to wait outside,’ Tanya said.

  ‘That’s how they are,’ Persson said. ‘They just walk in.’

  He turned his head and gazed at the certificate that designated him an honorary Spanish citizen.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Could you leave us for a while?’ The policeman turned to Tanya.

  ‘I’m going to help Ante dress,’ she said defiantly. ‘You can wait in the hallway.’

  ‘Ante can stay in bed if he likes,’ the policeman said with a smile. ‘He won’t have to come with us.’

  ‘You can go,’ Persson said. ‘I’ll talk to the Gestapo for a while.’

  The assistant gave Sammy Nilsson an angry
look and left the room. Nilsson pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. The other policeman was standing at the window, looking out.

  ‘How did you get to know Nils Dufva?’

  Persson didn’t answer.

  ‘We think you met in Spain. Is that correct?’

  Persson shook his head.

  ‘Why are you lying?’

  ‘I have told you what you needed to know.’

  ‘A couple of hours ago, one of Nils Dufva’s relatives contacted us. She came down to the station. Her name is Jenny Holgersson and she lives in Dufva’s house, which she inherited.’

  ‘What does this have to do with me?’

  ‘She has another story. That it was neither you nor Sven-Arne who killed Dufva. That is what I believe.’

  Ante closed his eyes.

  ‘It was Jenny’s husband,’ Nilsson said.

  Ante Persson looked up and their eyes met.

  ‘According to Jenny, he crushed Dufva’s skull with the base of a lamp. The motive was that the old man was about to change his will. Jenny Holgersson would no longer receive a cent. Jenny Holgersson was present, but it was Niklas Öhman who—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Persson spat.

  ‘You got there too late,’ Sammy Nilsson said.

  FIFTY-THREE

  The bonfire from the day before was still smoking. A couple of pieces of lumber, ravaged by the flames, were sticking out of the ashes. A sooty piece of cloth blew away.

  Bosse Marksson picked up a pitchfork, rummaged in the pile, and uncovered a couple of blackened tins.

  Lindell studied Lasse Malm’s house and was once again amazed at how dilapidated it was. There was no charm, only decay.

  They had noticed that Malm’s car was gone, that he had left during the time that they had visited Lisen Morell. The house was locked up and the plastic bags they had seen earlier in the shed were gone. They searched in vain for the chainsaw.

  ‘A couple of steps behind,’ Lindell observed.

  Bosse Marksson turned his head to look at her.