The Cruel Stars of the Night

by Kjell Eriksson

  Stig saw that the man would have liked a chat so he turned his back on him and pretended to be very busy with stretching the tarp even tighter.

  The man watched him for a few seconds before moving on.

  “Have a nice weekend!” Stig shouted after him and the man held up his hand without turning back.

  He had bought the yacht cheaply from an alcoholic lawyer who had lost his docking privileges at the Gräddö Marina. Then he had renovated Evita for two years and put her to sea the same year he met Jessica.

  And certainly, Evita was still the apple of his eye, but somehow he didn’t feel the same joy now as before. Jessica had never been particularly interested in the sea. She became seasick easily and it was rare that he could tempt her out onto longer trips. They had gone to Gotland two years ago. After that holiday she had suggested that he sell the cruiser but he had just laughed and dismissed it.

  Now it felt as if Jessica had won. All happiness had been swept away. Even the thought that it would soon be spring and that he would soon be taking the covers off Evita and putting her in the sea felt meaningless.

  He studied the contours of the yacht under the tarp. He would be able to take her far away. The thought had been there. The Mediterranean, the Canary Islands, maybe even the Caribbean. Through the Panama Canal. Öquist, who had docked beside him at Skärholmen a few years ago had sold everything he owned and sailed away. Sometimes a postcard landed in his mailbox, the last time from an unknown harbor on the west coast of Africa.

  Stig Franklin smiled to himself. Maybe it wasn’t completely meaningless, with the boat, with life, simply because he no longer wanted to live with Jessica.

  Maybe Laura would come with him? Hadn’t she been talking about some harbor? To leave on his own was out of the question. The yacht needed at least two, ideally three or four on board. It would be too hard, and above all too lonely otherwise.

  Uplifted by the thought of an extended boat trip—that suddenly felt more possible than ever—he walked to the car. Regardless of how things turned out with Laura, he was grateful to her. She had acted as a kind of catalyst, set his thoughts and his slumbering dreams in motion. He could see her before him, recalled her furious frenzy as they made love, and became horny all at once. It’s not over for me, he thought, I’m still a man with force. Why would I settle for a boring and predictable existence in a house in Sunnersta?

  The thought suddenly appeared preposterous. He steered the car as if in a trance, unaware of the traffic and the dramatic developments in the sky where the rain clouds were arranging themselves in dark columns.

  He parked on the street. Stig felt like a young man. He got out of the car, let the door fall shut of its own accord, and locked it nonchalantly. His body was light as a feather, he walked with rapid steps toward the house and smiled to himself.

  Perhaps it was his outfit that made him feel so good—his “boating gear” as he called the spotted and bleached-blue overalls and the checkered shirt that had been with him all the years he had owned Evita. They gave him a feeling of ease and freedom. He could almost smell the sea in the often-washed clothes.

  “Never again a suit,” he said quietly although he knew it was an untruth, but he liked it: saying the words, releasing the ties, and tasting freedom.

  He turned into the garden and walked up the stone paved path, increasingly aroused, like an animal approaching its prey. He saw himself pulling down the suspenders and climbing out of the pants in one move, pulling Laura close and taking her.

  The index finger that he used to press the doorbell was trembling. Laura opened at once, stared at him in amazement for a second, and then ran back into the house. Stig heard something that sounded like a scream before the sound of an opera boomed through the loudspeakers and filled the whole house.

  “It’s my way of celebrating,” Laura said fervently and pulled him into the hall.

  “Does it have to be so loud?”

  His glow was going out as if the opera music was a bucket of water thrown over a fire.

  “I’m on a high,” she said. “I’m ecstatic.”

  He stared at her in wonder. Her unruly hair, glistening forehead, and glassy gaze bore out her words.

  “Are you drunk?”

  Laura shook her head.

  “No,” she said, “I’m just happy.”

  She danced around the hall, pulling him to her, letting go of him as quickly, ending up standing in front of him, her arms hanging at her side.

  “Now we can travel soon,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  The symphony orchestra in the living room thundered on with undiminished strength. The kettledrum rolls went through the house like waves of rumbling thunder. Laura’s eyes were on fire. The strings burst into a showdown. Stig stood there paralyzed.

  “Can’t you turn it down?” he yelled.

  Laura didn’t answer, just grabbed Stig by the arm, led him to the kitchen, closed the door, and looked at him eagerly.

  Even though the volume was somewhat lower in the kitchen the contrast between the peace at the shipyard and the chaos in the house was overwhelming. All his feelings of freedom and longing for Laura were blown away, but when she crept into his lap, put her arms around his neck, and pressed her body against his, the paralysis brought on by the music lifted and became a vibrating backdrop to his growing lust.

  It’s remarkable how she affects me, he had time to think before desire took over and made him tug at her clothes with impatience and excitement.

  “You are a magical creature,” he whispered and she nodded eagerly with her mouth attached like a suction cup to his neck.

  He groaned with pleasure. The image of Evita returned.

  “We’ll go away together,” he muttered and she moved his suspenders out of the way, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled it down over his shoulders with surprising force.

  “We’ll go away together,” he repeated as she licked his chest and nibbled his stiff nipples.

  It was over in a few minutes in a crescendo that made Stig cry out and Laura beat her hands on the kitchen table so that glasses and bottles rattled, tipped over and rolled over the edge, and shattered into a cascade of slivers against the floor.

  Laura swept her arms over the table and swept it clean. The smell of wine and desire mingled, and they sank exhausted onto the table.

  Ann Lindell registered all of the sounds as she stood on the uppermost step. The sound of the doorbell, a man’s voice and Laura’s overwrought tone, the music that came crashing on, the banging on the table against the wall, the scream, and bottles shattering.

  She could imagine what was going on up there. Despite her predicament she felt a twinge of envy toward Laura. This must be the man she had talked about, the married colleague. What was it Laura had said his wife’s name was? Jessica. Laura said something about it being her task to solve the problem, to separate the two of them, that the man was too weak and afraid for something like that.

  Suddenly Lindell was convinced that Laura was going to murder Jessica. In light of what had transpired and in light of Laura’s complete lack of empathy her comment could not be interpreted in any other way. Was the man in on this? Perhaps two people had been involved in the murders of Blomgren, Andersson, and Palmblad?

  When the sounds of intercourse had ceased Lindell thought about resuming her attempts of trying to make herself heard, but realized the senselessness of screaming to the point of exhaustion. She would not be heard and perhaps it wouldn’t matter anyway if the man was part of it.

  Then it struck her: Laura turned on the music to cover her screams. The man was unaware that Laura was keeping Lindell imprisoned in the basement. The music could not be interpreted any other way.

  She summoned her courage, started beating on the door with her left hand, and screamed.

  Stig Franklin stepped out onto the stairs. He carefully closed the door behind him. The music was still thundering in the house. He smiled to himself. The fact was that it
worked with the music. After the initial shock and displeasure over the volume he found that opera was a great background for making love.

  He checked the time. A quarter to five. Jessica usually came home around five. Now is the time, he thought and walked swiftly to the car.

  Forty-two

  Gunilla Uhlén, who was closing, had been alternating between concern and anger for the past fifteen minutes. Of course Ann was sometimes late but then she usually called to let them know. This time she hadn’t said a word. Gunilla had even lifted the receiver to make sure the phone line was working. She had also dialed Ann’s cell phone number but had not received an answer.

  Erik was not one to whine but now he was starting to make noise. He had asked for his mother probably ten times during the past half hour. Now they were sitting together in the studio, painting—or rather, Erik was dabbing paint on an enormous piece of paper while Gunilla was listening for the sound of a car. At any moment the door would burst open and Ann would rush in, full of apologies.

  Gunilla looked at the clock, stood up, walked into the office, and took out Ann and Erik’s file. There were three contacts: Görel, the parents in Ödeshög, and Ann’s supervisor at the police station. Görel, who also had children at the day care, was listed first. Gunilla dialed the number but there was no answer. The next name was Ann’s supervisor. Gunilla hesitated, tried Ann’s cell phone one more time without result, before she called the police station.

  “Ottosson!”

  The preschool teacher flinched at the sound of the gruff voice, but collected herself and explained that she was trying to track down Ann Lin-dell who had not picked her son up from day care. Ottosson interrupted her immediately.

  “When should she have been there?”

  “At four thirty. It’s quarter past five now.”

  “I know what time it is,” the policeman said sharply.

  “Ann comes in late sometimes,” Gunilla said, “and by the way I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snap at me.”

  There was silence on the other end until Ottosson apologized in a regretful voice.

  “We are both worried,” he said. “I’ve actually been searching for her all afternoon. She hasn’t called in at all?”

  “No. I’m going to close up here now. I don’t know what to do about Erik.”

  “I’ll send a car over,” Ottosson said quickly. “My wife can take care of Erik. They’ve met and get along well. If Ann turns up then call me immediately.”

  “Okay,” Gunilla said, and now she was very worried.

  Ten minutes later an unmarked police car pulled up in front of the day care center. Asta Ottosson stepped out. Gunilla and Erik were already bundled up and ready. Erik stared wide-eyed at the woman.

  “Hi there Erik, my friend,” Asta said, as she shook hands with Gunilla. “Why don’t we go back to my place and do a little baking. You like cinnamon rolls, don’t you?”

  Erik nodded. Gunilla couldn’t help but smile even though she had a heavy weight in her stomach. She remained standing outside the front doors a good while after Asta had taken the boy by the hand and trotted off to the car.

  At the same time Ottosson was pulling out the big guns. News of Ann Lindell’s disappearance was broadcast and information abouther dress, type of car, and license plate went out to all authorities. The search was immediately underway. The disappearance of an officer involved in a murder investigation wasn’t your usual fare. Ottosson could easily imagine what an effect this kind of alarm would have.

  Thereafter he called in Haver, Sammy Nilsson, Berglund, and Beatrice and told them the news. The silence that followed did not last longer than a few seconds but to Ottosson it felt like an eternity.

  They stared at him with a mixture of consternation and disbelief, before Sammy Nilsson opened his mouth.

  “She’s been gone all day,” he burst out.

  “Not exactly,” Ottosson said, “but all afternoon I guess. I’ve called countless times. No answer. Have left messages. I even called the Savoy. She has simply vanished into thin air.”

  It was simple with Ann Lindell. In the daytime she was on duty, always reachable with the exception of those moments when she retreated to the bakery cafe Savoy to think. Then she turned her phone off. In the evenings she was almost always at home. Ottosson had always gotten ahold of her the few times he had dialed her home number.

  Everything spoke for the fact that the absence was not voluntary. Lindell was not one to stay away like this, but what clinched it was the fact that she had not picked up Erik at day care.

  “What was she doing?” Sammy asked. “She must have said something to someone.”

  “You know what Ann is like,” Haver said.

  “We went our separate ways after we had visited Allan,” Ottosson said, “and she didn’t say anything at that time. We talked a little about the chess theory and she muttered something about it seeming unbelievable, but don’t you also have the impression that she was keeping something to herself?”

  Sammy Nilsson got up abruptly, took a few paces across the floor, and then sat down in Ottosson’s visitor’s chair.

  “She found a photograph in Blomgren’s house,” he said. “The picture of a woman who apparently had a relationship with the farmer dude. We know he went to Mallorca with a lady. Maybe it’s her. I think Ann is hunting down this lady.”

  “When did she find it?” Bea asked.

  “Yesterday,” Sammy said. “She didn’t want to say anything because it would look bad for Allan who had searched the room.”

  “Did she say anything about . . .”

  “No,” Sammy said. “Not a thing.”

  “Damn,” Haver said, “that she didn’t—”

  “Let’s drop it,” Ottosson said firmly, “what matters now is finding Ann and nothing else.”

  “And then this damned Silvia visit.” Beatrice sighed.

  The five officers discussed the possible directions that Lindell’s investigation could have taken but since they were searching in the dark they only came up with speculation.

  “Okay,” Sammy said, “if we assume she’s standing there with the photo in her hand. How does Ann think?”

  “She went to see the neighbor, Dorotea,” Bea said, “to see if she could identify the woman in the photograph.”

  Sammy nodded energetically.

  “Let’s call her right away. What’s her last name?”

  “I’ll call,” Bea said and walked over to the phone.

  It was quickly done. Bea shook her head during the conversation. Ot-tosson looked at his watch.

  “Sammy,” he said, “search Ann’s office. Ola, see to it that Alsike is checked out. Maybe she went out to Andersson’s cottage. The same goes for the stables and Palmblad’s relatives. Berglund will have to call Andersson’s niece in Umeå. Ann may have contacted her.”

  He paused for a few seconds before he continued.

  “Berglund, you’ve been at this a long time, what would you do?”

  There was a note of pleading in Ottosson’s voice that made the others start. They looked at Berglund, who had not said anything up to this point.

  “We’ll contact all the taxi companies and ask the drivers to keep an eye out for Ann’s car. Maybe we’ll even ask Radio Uppland to appeal to the public to do the same. It’s a drastic move, I know, but we’re fumbling in the dark. Ann is out there somewhere and we need to find her, and fast.”

  Ottosson and Berglund exchanged glances. Bea closed her eyes for a moment. Sammy Nilsson imagined she was praying. Haver drummed his pencil against the back of the chair.

  “Taxi companies are fine,” Ottosson said, “but the radio?”

  “We can wait on it,” Berglund said.

  Sammy Nilsson sighed heavily.

  “Can you please stop tapping like a woodpecker?” he said to Haver.

  Sammy Nilsson turned on Ann Lindell’s computer. He knew the password and typed it in: “Viola.” He knew she kept a daily log of notes. Many tim
es they had leaned over her computer screen together, discussing various cases. Her system of note taking was somewhat difficult to understand, with many abbreviations and words that did not always relate to the main text. It seemed as if she freely jotted down her associations even in the middle of her notes. Sammy had read some poems by a famous Swedish poet—at the urgings of his sister-in-law who had a fondness for the incomprehensible—and Ann’s creations reminded him strongly of the cryptic, hard-to-interpret lines.

  He opened this morning’s document, created at 8:51, which consisted of three words: “Mallis,” “Sorrow,” and “Threat.”

  He understood “Mallis” or Mallorca immediately. That was where Petrus Blomgren had gone on vacation over twenty years ago. “Sorrow” and “Threat” were not as easy. Who felt the sorrow? Petrus seemed the most likely candidate. He had written a farewell letter. Did he also feel threatened? Sammy was struck by the fact that they had found the telephone number of a man who installed alarm systems. He had denied all knowledge about the farmer and that might have been true. Blomgren might have looked up the number in the phone book with the intention of calling but changed his mind.

  Had Andersson and Palmblad felt threatened? Nothing they had turned up indicated this.

  “Okay,” Sammy muttered. This Petrus guy felt threatened, wanted to install a burglar alarm but instead decided to commit suicide because of his grief.

  Who threatened him? The murderer, of course. The woman in the snapshot? He sighed. Ann had gone a step further. Her sleuthing had led her into a minefield and now she had disappeared. Had she been killed? Sammy pushed the chair back from the desk. He didn’t even want to think the thought.

  He studied Ann’s desk. As usual it was covered in loose papers, transcripts of witness questioning, and files. It was a miracle that she ever found anything. Sammy maintained a very different level of order, he sorted and filed, threw out or archived material that was no longer relevant. Among the piles on the desk Sammy caught sight of files that pertained to cases they had worked on over six months ago.