The policewoman’s visit had made her talk. It was the first time she had spoken of her father in that way. It was as if the outspokenness had delivered her, as if the words became more true once they were out in the open. They had been thought so many times over the years, now they had been uttered and were thereby legitimate, that was how she felt.
The visit had also set off an uncertainty in her that now forced her to go down into the cellar. She had been tempted to crack the door to her inner life and afterward had had the thought that there was something secretive about the policewoman’s visit, that the police knew more than this Ann Lindell had wanted to say. She had of course not asked to inspect anything but there was something about her questions that had worried Laura.
Checking the cellar calmed her. She sat down on the stairs even though the bad air made her feel sick. It was laden with memories. On the worn concrete in front of her was where her mother had lain in a crumpled position, her arms outstretched as if she had thrown herself from the top step in order to fly but had never gained air under her wings and had crashed to the floor.
Laura made herself stay put and she felt as if she was paying a vague debt, unsure of to whom, and that with each payment she was lifting a portion of the suffering from her shoulders.
She wished she could get up, leave the cellar, and emerge as a new person, clean and brave in the way the world demanded.
“I want to be normal,” she muttered. Many times she had cursed her life as the daughter of a man who saw the ordinary as a weakness, a sickly defect.
Now she was paying back but she knew deep inside she would never be debt-free.
A memory from Italy surfaced in her mind. It was early spring, the cherry trees in the mountains above Verona had just blossomed. Ulrik and she winding along the hairpin roads. He was driving jerkily, unused to the rental car, sweaty and stressed because they might have taken a wrong turn.
Laura didn’t care. She admired the view and the trees, with shiny trunks as if they had been polished with rags, and the intense flowering that was flooding the valleys and hillsides, and Laura thought it looked as if God had laid out all his bedclothes for airing.
In a little village that only consisted of six or so stone houses, above Negrar, Ulrik stopped to ask for directions. Laura also got out, a little dizzy from the hairpin curves and walked into an orchard, sitting down on a low wall whose stones could hardly be seen because of wild cascades of yellow-flowering runners. Bees were buzzing in the trees. In the background she heard Ulrik’s voice. She got up and started to walk down the hillside between rows of trees. The buzz became louder and created a sound weave of low, contended activity.
Laura turned and looked back. The houses of the village could no longer be seen. A valley that cut down between the steep hillsides reminded her of a fruit, whereas the occasional house resembled dark seeds in the green-white flesh. She paused and experienced a couple of seconds of absolute silence before a dog started to bark somewhere in the valley. Angry, aggressive. She turned around but caught sight of movement between the trees. It was a woman and a man. No longer young, perhaps in their forties, they sat leaning against a tree, talking eagerly. The man laughed and the woman joined in, bopping him lovingly on the head. He grasped her arms, sort of winding himself around her and they rolled onto the ground, tightly entwined.
Laura looked away and started to walk back to the village but then stopped and looked back at the couple. They did not seem to have noticed her presence. The woman’s pale shoulder stood out. The man kissed her neck. Her hands moved under his shirt, pulled it out of his pants, and exposed his back.
Laura curled up. She was perhaps twenty meters away from the couple. Their excitement, accompanied by the bees’ zealous industry, was carried through the air by a warm, sweet breeze. Laughter, a few words, but above all the passion in the lovers’ movements. Enchanted by the timeless scene she watched them take each other’s clothes off, how the man with a few quick moves arranged their clothes into a kind of bed for their lovemaking.
When he entered her she cried out. Laura ran off, tripping between the same trees where she had experienced such peace and tranquility only a few minutes ago.
Ulrik was standing by the car looking displeased. He complained about the farmers and the fact that she had disappeared. Now they would definitely arrive late to the Allegrini family.
Laura stared into space, panting after the quick run, indifferent to her father’s reproaches and exhausted by what she had seen. She felt as if she was bursting inside in a remarkable mixture of fear, anger, and excitement.
She had to turn around, away from her father, and stare out at the hill on the other side of the road where the grapevines tied to supports resembled people hung up on a cross, holding hands in a ring dance on an enormous Golgotha.
She wanted to stay in the village, but when Ulrik shut his car door she got in on the passenger side, gathering up her body into a little package that was going to be transported down the hill toward Fumene. Nothing of the landscape lingered on her retina. It was as if she was traveling through a tunnel. Before her she only saw the woman’s naked skin, her oustretched throat, and the passion that had joined her with the man.
Allegrini welcomed them and Ulrik’s apologies with his usual hospitality. Marilisa Allegrini had opened a bottle of Amarone in advance that she immediately poured into some unusually beautiful glasses. They raised their glasses in a toast and drank. As usual when wine of the best quality was involved, Ulrik was amiable in that chivalrous way that all Italians appreciated, especially from a foreigner.
The somewhat bitter cherry note in the wine reminded Laura of the village and the orchard. She stared down into the dark wine. One of the Allegrini brothers was watching her, their eyes met for a second, and she tried to smile.
“What a spring,” he said.
Laura stood up, took a deep breath, and then walked with heavy steps up the stairs. She lost her balance once and had to steady herself with a hand against the wall. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the flood of memories that streamed through her, that caused her misstep.
She tried to set Italy aside and instead think about the policewoman who had come to see her. Ann Lindell was not someone who, if you met her on the street, you would react to in any particular way, Laura thought, but the deliberateness with which she practiced her profession appealed to Laura.
She had asked about Petrus Blomgren and Jan-Elis Andersson. Laura smiled to herself. The police could search all they liked, it didn’t matter to her. They didn’t know about Ulrik Hindersten’s life and her own secrets. How could they understand anything about real life?
Twenty-one
Mirabelle was not an ordinary mare. Everyone who saw her jump realized this. The combination of unruffled calm combined with the explosiveness at the obstacles, which never ceased to amaze Carl-Henrik Palmblad, made her one of the most promising three-year-olds that he had ever seen on the track.
When Ellinor rode her he was sometimes worried. Mirabelle was so powerful in her approach and takeoff that Ellinor seemed at the mercy of powers that she had no hope of controlling. But it always went well. It was as if the mare considered her movements so precisely, in the closest coordination with the rider’s qualities, that he never really had to fear that his grandchild would come to any harm.
Mirabelle was very strong and tireless, with a competitive spirit that promised a great deal for the future. Carl-Henrik Palmblad’s greatest source of joy was perhaps not Mirabelle herself but the fact that Ellinor spent so much time in the stables. She came more frequently, and those times he wasn’t able to give her a ride she took the bus from the city. Of course it was the jumping that attracted her and above all the fact that Mirabelle had become her best friend, as she put it, but it had also meant that the two of them, grandfather and grandchild, grew closer.
Ellinor was his darling. He would never have thought that contact with her would mean so much. His time as a fath
er, when Magnus and Ann-Charlotte were young, appeared in hindsight as one big haze. He could not recall many times during their childhood when they actually did things together, but now every day that Ellinor came to the stables was a celebration.
They talked about all manner of things. He was able to take part in her everyday dreams, the conflicts with her parents—where Carl-Henrik almost always took her side—and how things were at school. When she started seeing a boy he was the one who heard about it before anyone else. And when it ended, he was the one who had to comfort her.
Ellinor had a knack with horses. Ann-Charlotte, her mother, had also done a lot of riding but without the same burning interest and conviction.Now she would ride occasionally when she came out to the stables, mostly to get away from Folke, Ellinor’s father, who was the one who paid for everything. He had bought the farm, paid for the fences and renovation of the stables. However, Carl-Henrik was the one who had bought Mirabelle, and he was grateful for that. Even if Folke got tired of sponsoring his daughter’s and father-in-law’s thing for horses, Mirabelle was there and Carl-Henrik was never going to let her go.
Sometimes he imagined that his son-in-law was jealous of him because he had the best contact with Ellinor. But other times he didn’t think Folke cared much for either his wife or his daughter.
He had felt something in his back as he dragged out the hard-pressed bales of hay. He had enjoyed an inactive lifestyle and he had to pay for that now. His joints were stiff and despite many years of riding he was not particularly strong. On the other hand Lindberg, who helped out every other day, was just as broken down, and he had been physically active his whole life: orienteering, the Vasa race, and swimming in Vansbro.
He decided to do the exercises that his chiropractor had recommended, and he laid down on his back on the floor. The movements were difficult at first but after a few minutes the stiffness started to give way and it felt much better.
It was strange to see the room from below. Lying on the floor changed the objects in the room and distorted the perspective. Once Lindberg had found him lying here and the old engineer had looked completely different. Not only because of the surprised expression on his face but also because of the altered proportions. Lindberg, who normally looked very timid, made an almost demonic impression. The highly ordinary nose appeared enormous; the mouth, which normally had a little smile, looked frighteningly cavernous; and the eyebrows stood out like black brushes on a wild animal, as Lindberg gaped at him on the floor.
Palmblad bent his knees and pressed them up against his stomach, rested, and then repeated the maneuver. He felt his spine crackle and his lower back relax.
Suddenly he heard the door at one end open. It gave off a characteristic creak. Palmblad sat up. If it was Lindberg he didn’t want to be found on the floor again. It was a bit like being caught with your pants down; he didn’t want to appear to Lindberg as an old weakling.
But it was strange. Lindberg had very established habits and never came in on Mondays. Carl-Henrik Palmblad stood up, brushed off his backside, and cracked the door. The corridor down the middle of the stables was still and deserted. No one was to be seen. He craned his neck. The door at the end of the stables was closed. One of the horses neighed. Another kicked a stall door so it rattled.
I was mistaken, he thought and went back into the room and picked up a bridle. The fact was that he was worried about his hearing. Many times he didn’t hear what Ellinor had said and had to ask her to repeat herself, but what was even more serious was that he heard things, voices and foreign sounds, that no one else perceived. He could be completely alone and still hear someone speaking. In the evenings he had a buzzing sound in his ears.
“Tinnitus,” Ann-Charlotte said when he complained of it, “it’s all the opera arias that have ruined your ears.”
He smiled to himself when he thought of his daughter. She had inherited his determined manner and his predilection for categorical statements. Now he had been tempered somewhat, and expressing himself so harshly and self-confidently no longer appealed to him. If his body had become stiffer, then his mind had softened in his old age. And that was among others thanks to Mirabelle, and Ellinor, of course.
He smiled even broader when he thought of his grandchild. She was coming out after school. He would muck out the stalls and take out some of the horses, but he wasn’t going to ride them. He would go home for a few hours and then be back in time for her arrival. Maybe he could pick her up on the way?
He walked out into the central corridor and was again hit by the feeling that he wasn’t alone. There had been a “visitor” about six months ago, someone who had broken in late one evening. It had frightened Ellinor but Palmblad had reassured her with the fact that it was probably just some teenagers out having a good time. Nothing had been stolen but some of the equipment had been thrown around and the stall doors had been covered in meaningless graffiti.
But burglars in the middle of the afternoon? Palmblad walked silently down the corridor, pushed on a storage room door, and peeked in. The smell of apples wafted out and he remembered that Ellinor had brought in a couple of boxes of winter fruit.
The break room was empty, just like the room where they stored the saddles, and this eased his mind somewhat.
Then he heard a scraping sound, as if a stall door was being opened. I’m hearing things, Palmblad thought. It’s the horses moving around. Get a grip on yourself, he told himself and walked over to Mirabelle’s stall. She neighed. Justus, an ungovernable stallion on the other side of the corridor, answered. Carl-Henrik Palmblad said something soothing, opened the stall door, stepped in next to Mirabelle, and patted her on the side.
Carl-Henrik died with a smile on his lips. The last thing he felt was warmth, a burning sensation down his back that radiated down to his legs. He fell headlong. Mirabelle had to receive his body and she shied away, neighed anxiously, circling the box but managing—as horses do— to avoid stepping on a prone human.
Justus became all the more nervous and egged on the other horses. The whole stall seemed to vibrate with restless hoofs. The nervousness only died down a good while after the stable door had creaked and shut again.
Mirabelle tossed her head and looked down at her caretaker. He was lying curled up with his right arm stretched out and the hand clenched around a few stalks of hay. The horse walked carefully around the box. She knew that something was wrong, Her nostrils widened, the muscles under the shiny skin vibrated, and she poked Palmblad’s lifeless body tentatively with her muzzle.
Ellinor Niis walked into the stables at a quarter past four. She let out a whistle as she usually did, a shrill signal intended as greeting: I’m here. It was as much directed at the horses as her grandfather.
Mirabelle neighed. Otherwise silence reigned.
Twenty-two
Once more Berglund stood over a corpse. For which time in his professional life he was not sure. He had worked as a police officer for thirty-five years, the past fifteen in the Violent Crimes Division.
“Can someone cut the music?”
His voice echoed in the stables. One of the horses in the box next to them answered with a whinny. Berglund turned and looked at the mare whose eyes were fixed on him.
“Poor bastard,” he said and Ola Haver didn’t know if he meant the man at their feet or the horse.
Ola Haver hadn’t even registered the soft music playing from the loudspeakers in the ceiling.
“Thanks,” Berglund said when the music stopped.
“Could he have been kicked to death?”
Berglund made a gesture with his head and shoulders to show that it was perhaps possible but that he personally thought they had a new case of murder on their hands.
“You sure got that horse out easily.”
“I grew up with horses,” Berglund said, still in the somewhat whiny voice that Ola Haver found increasingly irritating. It was hardly his fault that the guy had kicked the bucket, murdered or not.
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�Don’t you like Britney Spears?”
Berglund stared at Beatrice, who came walking down the corridor, as if she had insulted him.
“I hate Muzak,” he said, with equal emphasis on each word, “regardless of whether it is in an elevator, in a department store, or at a crime scene.”
“Maybe it calms the horses,” Beatrice said lightly and smiled.
I can’t believe they have the energy for this, Haver thought and gave Beatrice a look that clearly said: give it a rest.
She smiled at him but it was a sad smile. Haver suddenly saw that the wrinkles around Beatrice’s eyes and nose did not simply testify to a temporary fatigue but also to a continuing aging process. The freshness that had always been Bea’s signature was disappearing. The earlier always-so-healthy skin was no longer youthfully smooth. The rosy glow had been replaced by a hint of gray.
Bea’s expression revealed that she had noticed his searching look and she tried to maintain her smile, adjust the sadness to a superior confidence that was not, however, there. The smile became a grimace and she looked away.
Ola Haver was both embarrassed and distraught over his unchecked examination of his colleague and friend. He had the feeling that he had betrayed her but knew at the same time that it could not be undone and that there was nothing to say to assuage Bea’s apparent discomfort over being looked over in that way.
“I’m calling Ann,” he muttered and pushed his way out of the box.
Haver ended up standing with the phone in his hand out in the yard, watching how a couple of crows were picking at a plastic bag lying on the ground. They pulled and tugged, each from their own side, paused for a second or so but continued with an energy and drive that was in marked contrast to his own state of mind. Even the crows are cooperating, he thought, and engaged the speed dial to reach Ann Lindell.
The Cruel Stars of the Night Page 17