Sammy’s brother, who worked in construction, had told them about all of the problems with the foundation. Marked heights changed from one day to the next as if the ground was playing tricks on the workers.
“But they used piles,” Haver objected.
“Piles,” Sammy said with a snort. “Nature has her own laws.”
Ann drove into the parking garage, parked the car, and took the elevator up to Violent Crimes, where things were almost completely quiet. A copier was spitting out paper, someone shut a door, and another colleague was whistling the theme song from the movie Titanic, another colossus that nature had taken care of.
She wondered who the building’s Celine Dion was and deduced that it had to be Asplund, the new recruit, a young man who seemed as if he had recently stepped into the big world outside his boyhood bedroom. They should talk but he would have to wait. The work on the passenger lists was probably not done yet.
Ann Lindell knew that the investigation of the two murders was floundering. The conditions were not ideal. They had not found anything to lead them forward. Ottosson would talk about the “blindness of a lack of imagination.” A good criminal investigator, or technician, had to have the ability to read the scene of a crime, and even be able to identify the victim’s landscape.
Ann thought she had been able to come up with an idea of Petrus Blomgren. His landscape was known to her; she could articulate the connections that had directed Blomgren’s life. With two exceptions: the intended suicide and the prescribed sleeping pills. These constituted a tear in the fabric that drew the gaze, that nagged at her.
She had encountered this before. It could be a person’s dream, an old injustice, a humiliation that needled, itching like a stubborn mosquito bite.
Sometimes it was love, or the absence of love. Ann knew what that meant. Petrus Blomgren had lived a quiet life in an environment that he knew through all his senses. Everything was familiar and reassuring. Blomgren had had work, food, firewood and therefore warmth, and he could live, function as a citizen in Vilsne village, Jumkil county, Sweden, but something was missing: love, closeness to another person. Hadn’t he written something about the fact that he had to make all of his decisions alone? There was the tear in Blomgren’s life.
Ann wrote a few lines on her pad, got up from her desk, walked over to the window, and tried to link her line of reasoning with the second victim, Jan-Elis Andersson. He appeared just as alone but in this case the loneliness was of a different order.
“A load of shit,” she said out loud and returned to her desk.
The primness of the Andersson household gave a different impression. Suddenly she thought of what it was: there was something calculatingly parsimonious about the house.
At Petrus Blomgren’s the impression had been of something else, a kind of warmth that suffused the house in Jumkil. You could sense it in the small details like the occasional decorative items, the pictures on the walls, the little TV room, predictable in its simple, worn appearance, but nonetheless radiating a personableness that was absent in the house in Alsike.
At Jan-Elis Andersson’s the bookshelves were the dominating feature, filled to bursting with light brown folders in hard-pressed cardboard, carefully arranged in chronological order. Why did one keep accounts, receipts and vouchers, ancient sale agreements and contracts with such meticulous care?
Money, Ann decided and doodled a little on the page. It was the concern about his own finances, need for order and a nervous cataloging of debit and credit that controlled Jan-Elis Andersson’s life.
Perhaps he was happy with his folders, but there was probably also a source of concern and perhaps even anxiety. Was that the tear in Jan-Elis Andersson’s life?
“BLOMGREN—LOVE” she wrote in capitals on her pad, followed by a heart. On the next line there was “ANDERSSON—MONEY” and a dollar sign.
The investigation into Andersson’s life was in full swing. Sammy Nilsson and Ola Haver were the ones who were doing the digging and Ann believed they were going to verify her theory that money was the driving force in the murdered Andersson’s life.
Lindell was speculating, she knew this, but from the swaying tower of loose theories that she was now constructing she would perhaps be able to provide herself with an overview.
She saw the process in an inner graphic, how she scrutinized the landscape, binding together Vilsne village, Jumkil and Norr-Ededy village, Alsike, and in the intersection between the imagined lines she would find the answer.
“It’s that simple,” she muttered, drew a few lines, and threw down her pen, suddenly aware of the fact that it was the first time she could see Uppsala and the surrounding area in her mind, exactly as she could with her childhood Ödeshög. She had become an Upplander.
With this conviction she left the office but returned immediately. It’s not quite so simple, Upplander or not, she thought and opened the telephone directory. There she quickly found Birger Rundgren’s name and number, and pulled the phone over.
The voice that answered betrayed the fact that Ann Lindell was speaking with an old man. He could not remember Petrus Blomgren, which did not surprise Lindell. Blomgren was not the one who ran to the doctor at the slightest twinge.
“But his medical entries are most likely still there,” Birger Rundgren croaked. “My son, who has taken over the practice, can surely help you.”
Lindell took down the number to Lars-Erik Rundgren, thanked him for his help, dialed the number, and smiled to herself as the phone rang.
It turned out that Rundgren Jr. sounded like his father.
“I have an upper-respiratory infection and shouldn’t be speaking at all,” he managed to squeeze out.
Lindell explained what she was after, gave the doctor her e-mail address, asked him to look for Blomgren’s records, and then send her the information he felt was relevant.
The mail arrived in five minutes. Petrus Blomgren had, of his own accord, contacted Birger Rundgren, whose office was on Kungsgatan at that time, on the eighth of June 1981. They had never met before. Blomgren had cited sleeping difficulties as the reason for the visit. The reason for the problem was “that the pat. has felt anxious for a while.” The doctor had noted that “not fin., wk, rel., loss.”
Otherwise he appeared healthy, employed as a farmer and construction carpenter. He was prescribed Ansopal, one tablet per night. No follow-up visit was required.
Lars-Erik Rundgren concluded with an explanation of his father’s cryptic abbreviations. According to his father there were four main reasons for poor sleep: bad finances, unhappy at work, love problems, or the loss of someone close to you. In other words, in Blomgren’s case Rundgren senior had ruled out all four explanations.
What does that leave? Lindell wondered as she read the mail a second time. She surmised that the doctor’s conversation with Blomgren had been short, that no real examination had taken place, that no diagnosis had been made, and that Rundgren had taken the easy way out.
Eighteen
What surprised him was not Laura’s pale skin that looked as if it never saw the sun, or the exquisite body that she had always managed to conceal beneath layers of clothing that betrayed a lack of attention to color and finesse. It was the abundance of hair.
He pulled his hand down her belly, his index finger tracing a dark line down to the luxuriant tendrils and swirling it around.
“Should I braid it?” he asked, turning his head and looking at her.
He had no idea what she was thinking and right now he didn’t really care. He was still caught up in the physical rush, now mixed with a satisfied indolence, after the release of desire and a feeling of revenge.
Stig chuckled. She closed her eyes.
Laura had said at most ten words since he arrived. When he commented on the massacred bookshelves she shrugged and pulled him closer. She was dressed in a flowery dress that he imagined was very old. It reminded him of his grandmother’s summer dresses.
The ghost-like house
, Laura’s silence, and the tense anticipation he felt made him talk. He talked about work, what the Germans had e-mailed and what he had replied. She did not seem interested.
Stig started to get cold.
“Laura,” he whispered, “I have to go soon.”
She opened her eyes. He saw the whites.
“We’re going to have dinner,” she said.
“I don’t have time.”
“Ribs.”
“I have to go,” he repeated.
Her eyes moved anxiously.
“Are you cold?”
He pulled up the covers and carefully draped them over her breast, got up on his knees and kissed her stomach and drew the covers further up over her body.
“You have to stay,” she said.
“I can’t.”
He got out of bed. She stretched out and grabbed his elbow, looking him in the eyes.
“It’s you and me, Stig, right?”
He nodded. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, put her ear against his crotch, and started to talk.
“I’m cleaning out my old life. If you only knew how good that felt. I was no one before. I was half a person.”
“You were a little depressed,” Stig said. “That can happen to anyone.”
“I held my tongue all these years but now I’m talking. I know many people don’t like it. You should see how the neighbor watches me. When I carried the books out in the garden he stood there staring at me through the hedge.”
“He must have been curious.”
“He hates me. I think he’s started a campaign in order to get rid of me.”
“It’s too bad about all the books,” Stig said, and felt desire stir again. “You’ve been a little confused since your father disappeared,” he continued and put his hand on her head.
“Maybe he’s not my father,” Laura said.
“What do you mean?”
She turned her head.
“Stay,” she said.
“We can’t keep going like this,” he said and pressed her head to his crotch.
Jessica was waiting for him. He was sure she was sitting at their shared desk. He could see her clearly in his mind, illuminated by the globe-shaped lamp, how she put the last touch on the offer to the Germans, fine-tuning the wording and examining the numbers to the last little decimal.
He should also be there. More and more it felt as if the future of the firm stood and fell with the results of the negotiations with Hausmann.
Laura licked one side of his groin.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He stared straight ahead. On the wall across from him there was a photograph of Laura and Ulrik Hindersten. He saw no details but sensed it had been taken in Italy. Laura was around twenty. Ulrik had his arm around her shoulders and smiled for the camera.
Next to it there was a framed picture of a little red cottage. It was the type of aerial photo sold in the forties and that no cottager, farmer, or householder could resist. The colors had faded of course, but it made even the humblest little cottage look grand. There was no indication of how extensive the grounds were. All sense of meagerness was gone.
Desire slowly drained away from Stig Franklin and he very gently detached himself from Laura. Her nails bored into his buttocks and he suddenly became afraid, as if he had missed his chance, passed up something of value, while he was making love to Laura, whose nails now scratched his buttocks and thighs.
“What are you doing?” he yelped and freed himself.
He pushed the curtain to the side and let in a little light in order to be able to hastily collect his clothes. Laura’s pale face was blank, as if she didn’t really understand what was happening.
Stig pulled on his pants and fumblingly buttoned his shirt but stopped when he caught her gaze.
“What is it?”
She didn’t answer, simply pulling the covers around her.
“I have to go, don’t you understand? We’ll have to talk more later.”
“We haven’t talked at all,” Laura moaned and Stig glanced at her quickly, tucking his shirt into his pants.
He fastened his cuff links and pulled his tie around his neck. Laura swiftly stood up, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled. Stig fell headlong onto the bed and Laura threw herself over him, still with a firm grip on the tie. The weight of her body across his chest and the noose that was being pulled increasingly tighter locked Stig to the bed. Laura neutralized his waving arms by scooting forward and pressing her knees across the tops of his arms.
She didn’t say anything, released the pressure around his neck after a few moments, and pushed her crotch up toward his panting mouth.
“You’re afraid,” she whispered, “afraid of that witch.”
“Laura,” he croaked, “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can.”
He choked back a sob.
“You like making love to me, don’t you?” she whispered.
He nodded eagerly.
“We have so much to catch up on,” she continued.
Stig made an attempt to get away, braced his feet and pushed back while at the same time he turned his head to escape the noose around his neck.
“We have so much to talk about,” he said and managed to free one arm.
Her forehead was burning as if she had a fever. He stroked her face softly and was overcome with a feeling of intimacy. Her heat radiated toward him, her damp and tensed body gave the impression of a hunted animal whose shiny skin did not offer any protection.
Laura let him caress her. She calmed down somewhat, her breathing slowed. Her anxious eyes closed briefly and she sighed heavily.
He stroked her face and throat, put his arm around her neck and drew her close and whispered words he had never said to Jessica. Rationally Stig knew this was madness and everything he said doomed his marriage to annihilation.
The scratches, the smell of her genitals on his shirt, the marks around his neck, and the fact that he came home so late spoke for him. Jessica would not believe a single word of his invented explanations, that only a few minutes ago had seemed so reasonable. There was simply nothing to say.
Did he love Jessica? He thought so, or wanted to believe it. His life was the firm and Jessica. When he thought about his life, she and the future of the company were the same thing.
“I wish I could step ashore,” Laura said softly.
There was no desperation left in her voice.
“And where are you now?”
“On a stormy sea.”
It was a good image. Stig had no trouble imagining Laura surrounded by a screaming sea with waves that crashed threateningly onto the deck and tugged on everything living.
“I always dream about a little harbor with a restaurant, you know, one of those charming little harbor pubs, where I can settle down.”
“Then you should go there,” he whispered.
Laura kissed his throat and pressed herself against him. He held her and felt great tenderness when he touched her frail back with ribs running down like a grate and the thin pillar of vertabrae he slowly traced with his finger all the way down to her buttocks.
“I’ll stay for a while,” he whispered. “So we can talk a little.”
When they shortly thereafter sat on each side of the kitchen table, Laura with a cup of tea and Stig with a beer he had opened but not drunk, it was as if the intimacy from the bedroom and the feeling of shared vulnerability had been replaced by distance and silence. Stig tried to imagine them making love again but shielded himself. He looked at her. She looked naked, even though she had draped a robe around her.
He thought Laura looked as if she was constructed out of the most delicate glass and the fear that she was about to shatter made him hold back his words. He was not the protective harbor she was looking for. Not now, and most likely never. He intercepted himself weighing the possibility. Jessica would perhaps forgive a transgression, but he would have to break all contact with Laura. That would be the
wisest course of action but at the same time he was tempted by the closeness they had felt for a brief moment.
Laura smiled suddenly and said something in Italian. Stig took a sip of beer.
She was something outside the norm, definitely something other than Jessica. He knew that a relationship between him and Laura was an impossibility, almost a laughable abnormality, but still he chose to stay in her presence.
She had lived with her father in this house for thirty-five years, now he was gone and she could breathe easily. Stig knew enough about Ulrik Hindersten to know that she must many times have been living in a hell. Laura seldom complained but there had always been an imprisoned animal’s sorrowful and desperately wild look to her eyes. Now her father was gone, probably forever, but how free was she?
He caught himself staring at her throat and the breasts that peeked out from inside the robe. Laura smiled again and her beauty was like pain. She put down the teacup and laid her arms on the table. The open hands formed a bowl, a gesture that Stig had once seen a holy man do in a little village in the vicinity of Angkor Vat. That was before Jessica, before everything. The emaciated prophet rested with folded legs and by his side there was a little rice on a banana leaf. His loincloth was dirty, the legs extremely thin, and the stomach appeared glued to his spine.
Stig reached for the beer bottle and drained the rest of it, contemplating the bottle’s elongated shape. He visualized Jessica’s face against the dirty-yellow wall paneling. Her hair pulled back, the mouth open.
The desire to stay with Laura disappeared and left a bitter taste of grief paired with relief. It was as if he was saying good-bye to part of himself. He wiped some drops of beer from his chin. He tried to smile, but the more he managed the more the smile left Laura’s lips.
Stig Franklin left the house in Kåbo at eight thirty. He ended up standing next to the car for a moment. He wished he would have been able to take off his clothes and be rinsed clean. The rain had increased during the evening. Now it was pouring down, whipping against the roof of the car and a small river was running burbling down into a drain.
The Cruel Stars of the Night Page 14