He looked at Nyman and then at Lindell.
“Was it that old guy on the moped who saw us?”
Lindell nodded.
“Speak into the microphone,” said Nyman.
Allan Fredriksson could not keep from smiling a little.
Twenty-one
The door-to-door questioning in the apartment building where Ingegerd Melander broke her neck produced a unison response: On Sunday evening there had been noisy partying and quarreling in Melander’s apartment. Several neighbors could testify to loud music, people coming and going, someone had urinated in the bushes in the yard.
“We’ve complained so many times, you just don’t have the energy anymore,” said the closest neighbor, Anja Wilson, a woman in her thirties. “Nothing happens.”
At eleven thirty things calmed down considerably. Several of the partiers noisily left the apartment. But the music continued until midnight. Soon after that a violent tumult arose.
“It sounded like they were smashing apart the furniture,” said the neighbor directly below Melander’s apartment.
The police had found a battered chair in Ingegerd’s bedroom, that was all. But a chair in the hands of the wrong person can produce a lot of noise, as Beatrice put it.
Then it was quiet.
“Johnny Andersson fell asleep,” Sammy Nilsson speculated.
No one heard when Ingegerd fell down the stairs.
“She died immediately in any event.”
Beatrice looked at him. They were sitting in the police station cafeteria, discussing Melander’s case.
“She didn’t have that much alcohol in her body,” said Bea.
“Enough for a stumble.”
Sammy Nilsson did not want to think about the unfortunate woman. While they waited for the medical examiner’s report and the autopsy, Beatrice organized the door-knocking and compiled biographical facts about Ingegerd Melander. There was a sister in Norrköping who had now been informed. She questioned Johnny Andersson again, and in the meantime Sammy had devoted several hours to the thirteen names from the bandy team. During the afternoon the list had expanded to fifteen, when the restaurateur Svensson called and added the remaining two players on the photo.
So far Sammy had not found any sensational information. Five of the bandy players were in the crime registry for minor offences, just as many in the enforcement office’s files, one of them was in hospice, dying of cancer, and two had been living abroad for a long time. They had the same address at a resort in the Philippines. Sammy immediately drew the conclusion that they were pedophiles.
The list had been reduced to twelve names. Sammy had managed to contact seven of them. All of them knew that their old teammate had met a violent death. None of them had been in contact with Gränsberg in recent years, in principle since he put his ice skates on the shelf. Sammy fished cautiously about Anders Brant, but had not produced anything substantial.
Now he did not want to sit and speculate about an alcoholic woman’s unlucky fall and death, but instead get hold of the remaining five individuals.
“It’s typical,” Beatrice continued. “The woman dies while she’s cleaning house and the man is sleeping off his bender.”
Sammy Nilsson sighed.
“What did Johnny say?”
Beatrice reported that he confirmed that they had quarreled, nothing serious according to him, as he had been too drunk. Drunk talk, he called their exchange of words, no physical violence had occurred. The broken chair he explained by saying that Ingegerd barricaded herself in the bedroom and placed the chair against the door to keep Johnny from coming in. “I wanted to cuddle a little,” he explained. When he tried to force the door the chair fell into the room and when he entered he stumbled on it, took hold of it in fury and threw it against the wall. There was also a mark on the bedroom wall, approximately at chest height.
“Breaking apart a chair is physical violence, wouldn’t you say?” Sammy objected.
He could picture the scene in his mind.
“Yes, but he didn’t hit her, just the wall.”
“She had a really nasty bruise on her arm and shoulder,” said Sammy.
“From the fall on the stairs, Amrén thought.”
Jonas Amrén was the medical examiner, whom Sammy had christened “Loose Lips” because he was so uncommunicative.
“It will probably turn out that we put Melander in the files,” said Sammy.
“We can’t prove a crime was committed,” said Beatrice, with a bitter tinge to her voice.
Sammy Nilsson sensed that she suspected that Johnny Andersson assaulted Melander and perhaps flat out pushed her down the stairs, but both knew that at the present time there was nothing that supported such a scenario. There was nothing to run to the prosecutor with.
“When we released Johnny this morning he only talked about Ingegerd Melander’s apartment, whether he had a chance to take it over.”
“It’s a municipal rental unit, isn’t it?”
“Of course, Uppsalahem has its own waiting list, but he was carrying on about buying it under the table somehow. Not a word that he was sorry she’d broken her neck.”
“He wants to move on with his life,” Sammy said casually and got up. “And I have to attend to the teammates.”
Twenty-two
Tuesday morning was promising. The sun shone in between the windowsill and blind. Ann Lindell was already awake by five o’clock. I’ve got to make a longer curtain, she thought, something she’d had in mind since spring.
Perhaps she was wakened by the sunlight, or possibly by the dream, traces of which now lingered in her mind. It had been a real mishmash. Fredrik Johansson, Klara Lovisa, and Anders Brant had been there, as were Sammy Nilsson and Ottosson. It was not a good dream. Eroticism, work, and a desperate sense of loss, of getting too late a start in everything she did, made her wake up sweaty and worried.
“I miss you,” she mumbled, pushing off the overly warm covers.
Anders Brant had not been in touch, either by e-mail or SMS. Maybe he was in some kind of trouble and could simply not communicate, but she pushed that unpleasant thought aside.
If it had not been for everything that was hard to explain about Anders’s disappearance, it would have been a thoroughly good morning. She was well on her way to cracking the mystery of Klara Lovisa’s disappearance. Today would be decisive. She had decided to take Fredrik Johansson to the scene in Skärfälten; he was going to show them the hut. A dog handler would go along. She was certain of finding Klara Lovisa somewhere in the surroundings.
A good day, except for Fredrik who would be arrested for homicide, alternatively manslaughter; she was equally sure of that.
Klara Lovisa’s mother had called the day before, just as Lindell was about to leave work to hurry to the preschool. They had not spoken for a while, but Lindell was certain that the rumor that Fredrik Johansson was being questioned had spread among Klara Lovisa’s friends and on to her mother as well.
Lindell had not told her everything and definitely not the truth. Fredrik was being questioned simply because he might have information that was interesting; that was her white lie.
Now when he had been held in jail overnight the rumors would intensify.
Her body wanted to stay in bed. She was far from rested; the turbulence of the past few days had left its mark. A week before she had been unreservedly happy, satisfied, and slightly optimistic. Now the picture was more divided.
But there was also a more prosaic reason that she was dawdling. The dream had made her wet; in the vacillation between dream and waking up she could feel his hands on her body. There was a tingling in her abdomen as she thought back to the Brant of the dream and how he had recently been in her bed.
She drew her hand across her belly, but it felt wrong to touch herself, that would be admitting that Brant was gone for good. Self-stimulation would only mean a return to her former life’s meager substitute for real love, so she let her hand rest.
Instead she got out
of bed, pulled on the blind so it flew up with a bang, opened the window, and observed the blossoming mock orange bush in the yard. She hoped that a breeze would carry a trace of its aroma to her.
Even though she had not yet showered she pulled on a recently washed T-shirt, just to take in the citrus-scented fabric softener. In the building opposite there were many retired eyes up early, who would enjoy getting a look at a bare-breasted police officer. Here everyone knew who she was. It had attracted some attention when the very first week she was driven home in a marked police car.
The birds were also experiencing a lovely morning. They were going full tilt, broods of baby birds had to be fed. The building manager had set up lots of birdhouses in the lindens on the grounds and on the little back building. Lindell could sometimes see him studying the sparrows and titmice, and whatever else there might be. She thought the caretaker preferred the feathered tenants in the little houses to those in the bigger building.
She was filled with a great sense of calm from standing by the window and observing the rising sun just peeking over the roof of the neighboring building, the persistent yet leisurely and lazy flight of the small birds back and forth, the abundant blossoms and sweet aroma of the mock orange, which reminded her of something from the past, everything combined to help the unpleasantness of the dream subside.
The move had done her good. She was feeling more and more at home in the area. Admittedly the buildings had a somewhat lower standard, but they were more comfortable, the contact between tenants was better, the little yard with two groupings of chairs and a grill invited neighborly interaction.
Erik had grumbled at first but soon adapted and found two new friends at a comfortable distance, one in the adjacent entryway. In the fall he would start school, and Ann had decided to move well in advance of that.
It was not until she was moved in that she realized how ingrown the old apartment had been, ingrown with old thoughts, too many late evenings with too much wine and, not least, memories of Edvard. The new apartment, besides being roomier, felt like a fresh start, and in that connection Anders Brant fit in very well.
A deep sigh and one last sniff to soak up the mock orange, before she went to shower. In fifteen minutes Erik should get up, and he was not a kid who could leap out of bed, quickly wolf down breakfast, and then run off to preschool. He needed plenty of time, first slowly getting dressed, perhaps some quiet play before it was time for a drawn-out breakfast, which he exploited to satisfy his curiosity in the most wide-ranging areas. Many mornings Ann was completely worn out from fending off all his questions. She had never met such an inquisitive person, either adult or child.
The preschool staff testified to the same thing and joked that Erik would be an excellent policeman. Then I’m a bad police officer, Ann thought, because she was not particularly curious and over the years had become less and less interested in her surroundings. Many times she was completely indifferent to her friends’ talk about this and that, even about issues that concerned current politics and the world situation. She had become aware of that during the weeks with Brant. She had never seen so many news stories in such a short time as the evenings when Brant visited her.
She showered off the dream sweat with a feeling of confidence. She convinced herself that everything would work out, including the mystery of Klara Lovisa’s disappearance, a vacation destination, Erik’s starting school, and, not least, her relationship with Anders Brant.
* * *
At exactly nine o’clock in the morning four cars rolled onto a small yard, or more precisely a minimally arranged turning area.
Out of the first car stepped Ann Lindell, Allan Fredriksson, and from the backseat a stout uniformed officer named Jarmo Kuusinen, who was keeping track of Fredrik Johansson. In car number two were the technicians Morgansson and Kraag, who had recovered from his illness, with two patrol officers in the backseat. Then came the dog handler Vidar Arleman with his companion Zero. Completing the motorcade was the prosecutor, Sixten Molin, who was leading the preliminary investigation.
It was seven weeks since Klara Lovisa disappeared. Zero let out an unexpected bark and perhaps that expressed everyone’s emotions. As with most visits to the scene of a crime, there was tension in the air. During the drive Allan Fredriksson had not said a word about the surroundings. Kuusinen confirmed the myth of their neighbors to the east as a taciturn, rugged breed. No one doubted that Fredrik, who had given Lindell directions in a few words, was nervous. His previous somewhat arrogant attitude had been replaced by a pale slump. He was already sweating and the weather outlook was for 26 to 30 degrees Celsius in eastern Svealand.
Sixten Molin was as usual somewhat slow, both in movement and in speech. He smiled often, a bit too ingratiating, Lindell thought, but for the most part he was a competent professional.
Vidar Arleman also had reason to feel worried. Zero was not his dog. His had died unexpectedly only a week before, and Zero’s regular handler was in bed with a fever.
One of the two patrol officers immediately started taking spades out of the trunk, but was stopped by his colleague, and now they were waiting around in the shade of a tree.
Morgansson and Kraag were the only ones who looked somewhat relaxed, taking out their bags at a leisurely pace and surveying the terrain. Kraag pointed out something that had drawn his attention, Morgansson looked up and laughed. Lindell looked in the direction in which Kraag had pointed but could see nothing other than some birch trees and stacks of wood.
Between the birches a path led in toward an area with lichen-covered flat rocks and marshy depressions in between. Perhaps that’s where she’s lying, thought Lindell and inspected Fredrik Johansson. He was standing stock-still, with Kuusinen beside him, staring at the hut.
Lindell had a hard time believing this was a hunting cabin. In that case why would it be here? Fredriksson thought it was more likely an old shed for forest workers.
“It’s reminiscent of Gränsberg’s last residence,” he said. “Shall we get going?”
Lindell had deliberately held back so that the young man could calm down a little and get used to the sight of the place, but now she nodded and went up to Fredrik.
“How does it feel?”
“Not good,” said Fredrik, and his entire physiognomy underscored his discomfort.
“So this is where the two of you went? You’ve been here before?”
“With Sis and Mom to pick mushrooms. We parked here and when I got tired of mushrooms I went back to the car. Then I discovered that the hut was unlocked.”
“So you thought it would be suitable for a romantic encounter with Klara Lovisa?”
Fredrik nodded.
“No one would see us. Klovisa was … she didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“I understand,” said Lindell. “So you came here, it was the end of April, admittedly sunny, but wasn’t it a bit chilly in the hut?”
“No, I didn’t think so anyway. Although Klovisa thought it was a little disgusting in there.”
“Was she happy otherwise? I mean, it was her birthday and all.”
“Yes, I think she was happy.”
Fredrik sobbed and Kuusinen watched with contempt as he hid his face in his hands.
“You went in,” said Lindell, starting to walk at the same time. She nodded toward Kuusinen, who took hold of Fredrik’s arm and shoved him forward. In the corner of her eye Lindell saw the prosecutor and Fredriksson trudging along.
They came up to the hut. Lindell took out a plastic glove and carefully opened the door with two fingers. A musty smell struck her.
She stepped up on the flat rock that served as a step, peeked in, and turned toward Fredrik.
“Not exactly a love nest,” she said.
Fredrik stared at her blankly.
“You went into the hut and then what happened?”
“We were there and then…”
“You started making out, in other words,” Kuusinen unexpectedly interrupted in his m
elodic Finland Swedish.
“And then Klara Lovisa didn’t want to anymore, was that it? You said she changed her mind.”
Fredrik nodded.
“You also said yesterday that you started to quarrel, what does that mean?”
“She said she wanted to, but then it turned out so wrong. She just wanted to go home.”
“But you wanted to?”
He did not answer.
“Did you quarrel? Did you take hold of her, shake her?”
“No, I tried to hug her, but then she hit me.”
“You didn’t hit back, as a reflex, I mean?”
“I got totally sick of it and just left.”
“How long were the two of you here?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes, no more. Then I left. I knew that Klovisa wouldn’t change her mind. She’s always been super stubborn. I promise, that’s what happened!”
“And she stayed here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t feel lousy?”
“Yes, afterward, but then it was too late.”
“Okay,” said Lindell, looking at the prosecutor, who shook his head. “Now you can ride back to the police station, and we’re going to do an investigation of the hut. But I think it’s good that we’ve gotten this far. You’ve been helpful.”
Kuusinen made a face that clearly showed what he thought of Fredrik Johansson, took him by the shoulder, and more or less turned him on the spot.
Lindell watched how Kuusinen, Fredrik, and Fredriksson got into the car. Fredriksson made some elaborate maneuvers to wriggle the car out of the yard and it then jolted me out of sight.
Lindell had made an agreement with Sixten Molin to ride with him back to Uppsala.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It doesn’t look promising for our dear Fredrik,” said Molin.
“Now we’ll let the dogs loose,” said Lindell.
“The dogs?”
“Zero, Morgansson, and Kraag,” said Lindell.
* * *
Vidar Arleman did not need to worry. Zero, who was first allowed to sniff a few of the garments the police had obtained from Klara Lovisa’s parents, immediately marked by the door to the hut, even if the dog handler did not believe that Klara Lovisa’s scent was still lingering after two months. Zero was not allowed to go into the hut. The technicians wanted to do their work first.
Black Lies, Red Blood: A Mystery Page 15