She chose the same bench as that time. It was ten minutes to five. She was completely calm. There were not many visitors, and they were walking between the herb beds with bowed heads, as if submerged in prayer or deep thought, but it was probably to be able to read the squiggly handwritten signs with the names of the plants. A child came running on the path and with her laughter and playfulness created a certain disorder in the otherwise gloomy Linnaeus system.
Justus Jonsson had not yet arrived. This did not surprise her. He was just as likely to show up as not. And she herself was divided, on the one hand curious about what he had to present, while on the other hand it would be a relief to escape being taken back to a different time, reminded of what had been.
There was movement by the entry. A group of tourists were flocking around a portly man outfitted in period gentry clothing and a wig. Were they Korean or Japanese, she could never tell the difference, even though she’d been told that Koreans weren’t as well-dressed. She understood that it was the guide who would portray Linnaeus himself, a man she’d seen numerous times. He appeared in the most varied contexts, showing up like a green-clad chameleon and letting his voice resound over everyone, regardless of dress and nationality. The Japanese, as she decided they were, moved obediently according to the guide’s instructions. He pointed and gestured, spoke convincingly and knowledgeably, provoked smiles and laughter. She snapped up some of the words and sentences. He was to be envied, he had his Linnaeus, he knew his character and his garden, his program, his phrases and jokes practiced through the years. What could happen to him? A bad day? An occasional lapse? Even so. New Japanese and Koreans, Americans and Germans were constantly arriving. His clearance rate was far superior to the police’s.
Justus freed himself from the group of Japanese. He had seen her, she understood that, but he gave no sign, did not smile. He walked neither quickly nor slowly, did not look around. His clothes were Korean, in the sense that they seemed cheap and simple. There was something vaguely hostile about his figure, an impression that was strengthened the closer he came. He had changed since they last met. Exactly in what respect it was hard to put her finger on. In terms of appearance there was no obvious difference, but perhaps it was the way he made himself known to his surroundings. Like a man without hopes about others. He made way instinctively for the group of Japanese tourists, flower lovers, and the happy girl in the path, without actually seeing them, without caring.
Even so she got a smile when he was standing in front of the bench.
“Hi, Justus,” she said, standing up, perhaps to create a little balance. She took a step closer, perhaps to give him a hug, perhaps to take a sniff test, determine whether or not he’d been drinking. He jerked his head, shrugged his shoulders, and feinted with his body like a boxer. It was a movement she recognized from his uncle, Lennart, the petty criminal with a big heart but shaky judgment, as she had perceived him then. It was a dismissive movement, she understood that, he did not want to be hugged. It might be noticed, someone could see him giving a cop a hug, was that it?
She sat down and signaled with her hand that he should do the same. They sat in silence for a few seconds. “You came at last.”
“Listen, I’m in a bit of a bad way.”
“How is that?”
Without any qualms Justus fished a beer can out of his jacket pocket, but did not open it. He looked around, as if it occurred to him too late that perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to drink in a public garden.
“You said that someone might die. Who?”
Justus smacked his tongue, as if his mouth was completely dry.
“It’s a long story,” he said at last. That was a line she’d heard numerous times. Often it was to gain time, sometimes it was an attempt to wriggle out of a difficult situation through a stream of words. She answered like she always did, that he should take it from the beginning.
“I have an old buddy. We hadn’t seen each other for a while. We went to Boland together, the idea was we were going to be masons.”
“And you did.”
“Both of us. Got jobs at NCC. That was a good time. Smulan met a girl, they had a kid, then … Then things went downhill.”
He glanced at his beer.
“My grandfather was a sheet-metal worker, and he fell down from a roof. The funny thing, even if it wasn’t that funny, was that the same thing happened to my buddy’s grandfather. We thought it was a little … well, what should I say … exciting. Do you get it? Sheet-metal roof it was, damned slippery. They were careless, maybe loaded.”
A stream of words, she thought, but nodded.
“My buddy…”
“What’s his name?”
“He goes by Smulan. Last name Edman.”
Now she needed Berglund. He would have wound this up in no time flat, said something along the lines of “I see, that must be Kalle Edman’s grandson, and didn’t his old man work at the stove factory?” and Justus would laugh, or at least smile, and say something about Smulan’s old man, and then the talk would flow like a spring flood.
“Why aren’t you in the phone directory?”
“I was a police officer.”
“So you’ve quit?”
“For good.”
“But not completely, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw how you looked at the beer.”
“No, I still drink wine.”
“You were good, I remember that. You had a little kid.” He marked the size with his hands.
“He’s a teenager now,” she said, and measured like a fisherman. “Do you remember Berglund, my colleague and coworker?”
“The guy with the hat?”
She nodded, looked down at the ground, and hesitated a moment before she continued.
“He told me what it was like when Lennart died. He fell from a roof too. Berglund’s gone, but he sometimes talked about the two of you.”
“Why is that?”
“I think he liked your family, it was that simple. He knew your grandfather, the blocks where they lived, where Little John grew up.”
Justus raised his head and looked toward the sky, as if he might catch sight of his father. “I’ve driven there a few times, parked the car, and walked around the block. Pop used to talk about Ymergatan, what it was like for them, but it doesn’t really look very special. Smulan Edman grew up there in the neighborhood, on Väderkvarnsgatan.”
“Yes, what happened with him?” She asked the question as if she’d known him for years. “What’s he doing now, I mean?”
Justus shook his head. “It’s gone to hell. He’s part of some Nazi front. He’s a good guy really, but he just gets more and more strange. It started when his dad died a few years ago. The old man was an alcoholic and died in a drunk tank. Maybe you remember, wasn’t there a lot about it in the news?”
Lindell hummed, but didn’t recall anything about an Edman who died in a cell.
“He started hating everything and everyone, especially cops. Now it’s mostly talk about refugees.”
“Is it political?”
“He got a little strange. All the talk about darkies and such. And that fucking music he played. He’s basically stopped that, but the talk just gets worse and worse.”
Justus leaned over and picked up a fistful of gravel, let the pebbles slowly sift through his fingers before he quickly closed his hand around the last pieces, as if he were afraid of losing them all. His hands were rough and angular, a couple of his knuckles scraped. Ann remembered the photographs taken at the Libro snow depository, where his father was found. Little John had been tortured, his fingers cut off. Did Justus know about that, had he read the documents and seen the pictures?
“Were your mom and dad rich?” he asked suddenly.
“No, far from it.”
“Did you live in a villa?”
Ann nodded, and Justus hummed, opened his hand and let the stones fall to the ground. Single-family house, she thought, a home of your ow
n. We had that, on a boring cul-de-sac.
The group of Japanese, with the constantly talking guide in the lead, was approaching. Justus squirmed from worry or aversion.
“I’ve never been in Thailand, like everyone else. Some of Smulan’s Nazi buddies are living there. He wants us to go there, he has a house in the works. He talked about heat and freedom, and that I can understand, compared with this shit. But what then, who the hell needs a mason in Thailand? And the ones who hate darkies … they pick up seventeen-year-old Thai girls. It doesn’t add up.”
“Do you have a job?”
“I just came from work.”
She wanted to ask if he was happy, if he was dating anyone, what he dreamed about, but none of that was said.
“We’re marked.”
“What do you mean?”
“My old man was murdered, Lennart fell down from a roof when the cops were chasing him, their little sister was run over when she was little. Their old man, my grandfather, died on the job. It’s as if we have a stamp on our foreheads that says, Die, you bastard!”
“Are you scared that it’s your turn now?”
The Japanese tourists were getting closer and closer. The guide leaned down, pinching off a vine that he held up and said a name. Justus seemed to be listening.
“I worked on Thunbergsvägen last year,” he said. “I don’t know who Thunberg is, but he’s probably one of those.” He made a weak, vague gesture with his hand over the garden.
He sighed heavily. Jeez, thought Ann, he’s a compendium of all the markers of depression.
“That old guy probably knows everything,” said Justus. “But think how tired his brain must get, going around talking flowers for days on end.”
“When you called the police you said something to the effect that someone may die. Who is that?”
“It’s not anyone you know.”
“Well, I get that. What does he have going, this ‘Smulan’ Edman?”
Justus stood up from the bench.
“You want to talk but somehow not, is that so?”
“I don’t like crowds,” he said.
“They’ll be gone soon.”
“I know that he swiped explosives.”
“For what?”
“One thing is certain, he isn’t going to help a homeowner blast stones.”
“Where did he steal it?”
“An installation in Almunge, a few months ago, I think he said. A buddy of his works there.”
“That’s why you think someone is going to die?”
Justus nodded.
“Get blown up?”
Justus made that boxing movement again, jerked his head, feinted with his body.
The group of tourists scattered. The guide dressed in green stepped away. Ann could see the relief in the man’s face. He didn’t seem to like crowds. The playing girl had now been caught by her father. They walked hand in hand toward the exit.
“You’re still a cop.”
“That’s probably true,” she admitted. “What is he going to blow up?”
He did not answer, perhaps because he didn’t know, perhaps because for some reason he was hiding what he felt, perhaps because he thought that it was the job of the police to figure that out.
“I’m going to talk with a former colleague, do you understand that?”
He looked at her while he soundlessly formed the word “colleague” with his lips. Ann got the sense that he was testing how it fit in his mouth.
“You’ve got a name,” he said, and she understood by his tone of voice that it didn’t feel quite comfortable for him.
“‘Smulan’ Edman,” she said.
“In the past his type became greasers, now they become Nazis,” he said, and she was surprised by his brief analysis, which despite the simplicity was of Berglund class.
“Greasers are preferable,” she said.
“My old man was a little like that. He told me a little. Big cars and such.”
“Wasn’t Little John too young for that? I mean, greasers, wasn’t that more in the fifties?”
“There have always been big cars,” Justus replied. “Lennart had a DeSoto. He sold it later. He had to.”
“Did he lose his driver’s license?”
Justus smiled. “They really liked each other, my old man and Lennart.”
“That business with Smulan,” attempted Ann, who realized that he was being carried away by memories, but Justus didn’t want to continue. He took a couple of steps away, as an initial attempt to flee the field.
“Can I trust you?”
“If I run into Smulan I won’t say hello from you, that’s for sure. What’s his real first name?”
“Erland. That’s a shitty name, but they’re all named Erland in that family. He named his kid Erland too. That was a shitty thing to do.”
He nodded and went his way. Ann remained seated. The guide dressed in green had stayed behind. She noticed that every so often he looked in her direction. Then he came walking up, with dignified steps, as if he really hadn’t left his role as Carl von Linné.
“May I buy you a beer?” he asked in a courteous voice. “You get thirsty from talking.”
“Do we know one another?”
“No, and perhaps that’s an advantage,” he said. “We can go to Costa’s,” he continued unconcerned. “I don’t like being alone over a beer.”
“Where’s Costa’s?”
“Very close by. It’s a lovely spring evening.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“No, I have a busload of Chinese seismologists, or else it was retirees from Eskilstuna, in forty minutes,” he said. “But we have time for a beer, even if a beer seldom comes alone.”
They left the garden together and walked to the Greek restaurant. They sat down at a table on the sidewalk.
“I recognize you,” the guide said. “You’ve probably heard that before,” he added when he saw her expression. “I remember the murder here on the street, that’s why your face is familiar.”
“I see.”
“I’ve thought about something, this business of justice.”
“Listen!” Ann Lindell interrupted him more brusquely than she intended.
“It’s about my character, Carl von Linné, nothing else.”
“Okay,” Lindell said, taking a sip of the cold but ever-so-nonalcoholic beer. “But I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“Not me either, actually, but we can just sit here anyway, and pretend to be enjoying it.”
Sixteen
When the guide hurried off at the last moment to his waiting group—Ann could see that they were Chinese—she remained seated for a while outside the Greek restaurant. This is the city, she thought, spring is beautiful even on streets and squares. She was tempted to order a glass of wine, but immediately dismissed the thought. Her car was waiting on Östra Ågatan.
The group of seismologists disappeared into the Linnaeus Garden. In the same direction, north, was her former workplace. If she were still in service it was a few minutes’ walk to the police station, where she would be able to check up on Erland “Smulan” Edman and the alleged theft in Almunge a month ago. Then she also could have found out more about the assault on the Somali at the sausage stand in Gimo, and not least produce the list of who had been at the New Year’s party in Ottosson’s cottage, the party that Daniel Mattsson had attended. Perhaps there was an “outsider” among them, who was prepared to speak more openheartedly, especially now when everyone had gained a little perspective on the school fire, the arson in the smithy, and Daniel Mattsson’s death.
Instead of hurrying away toward the police station she lingered on the sidewalk outside a dry cleaner’s on Svartbäcksgatan, and blankly observed the antique irons in the display window. Could she call Sammy? It was seven o’clock. Maybe he was still in Tilltorp, but the risk was that he had made it home. She sent a text message.
She got an answer a few minutes later: “Come to the fort, I’ll pick
you up down there.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later she was introduced to Regina Rosenberg. For Ann it felt like meeting an old friend, even though until now they had only talked on the phone.
“I see, so that’s what you look like,” Regina said with a smile, and the introductory remark reinforced the feeling. “I think Sammy boy has a little crush on you, but you probably know that already.” Her words made all three of them laugh. Sammy actually looked embarrassed, while Ann felt at ease.
“It’s nice to be here,” she said. “It’s the first time since I quit.”
“It’s good that you quit,” Regina decided, “because only a lot of police work here, and what fun are they? What do you do now?”
“I make cheese, mostly blue cheese,” said Ann.
Regina looked at her a moment, as if to decide whether that was a joke, before she took a step closer to Ann.
“Cheese … how nice,” she said in an unusually quiet voice.
The silence that lasted a few seconds was interrupted by an incoming call. Sammy and Ann left the communications center and took the elevator up to his office. It felt as if she’d been picked up in a bar and now was on her way to a hotel room with a strange man in a strange city.
“Who was at the party in the house right across the road from the school?” she asked without any unnecessary introductory talk. She explained what Bertil Efraimsson had said about two independent witnesses who maintained that the fire was set, two witnesses who didn’t know each other, didn’t even know about each other. “Were either of them from outside the village?”
“We’ve questioned everyone who was partying in old man Ottosson’s cottage,” Sammy said. “You know that, but no one saw or heard anything. There was one who stuck out, Stefan Sanberg is his name, a rather unpleasant character, but he lives in the village.”
The Night of the Fire Page 10