“Had he seen anything else?”
“Both yes and no. The Friman house is very isolated, about four hundred meters from the road, where the neighbor lives, but he thought that cars had driven up to the house, in the evening.”
“What’s he like, the neighbor?”
“Nils Enar Andersson, eighty years old maybe, glasses with thick lenses, work clothes. Lives alone and always seems to have. Likes to talk. He has worked here at the farm, he maintained.”
“Who takes care of the house? I mean if the Frimans are out on a long sailing trip someone must see to the house, bring in the mail and so on?”
“A relative, half brother to Lovisa, who doesn’t live too far away, but his name isn’t Friman. The neighbor didn’t remember what his name was. He and the Frimans don’t appear to have had that much contact. I got the impression that they didn’t get along.”
“We’ll check that.”
“The grunt will do that.”
“Who is this grunt?”
“A trainee, who loves to sit in front of the screen, ideal for internal surveillance. I don’t think it’s completely impossible to trace the sailors either. I’ve put him on that too,” said Bodin.
They digested what they had collected so far.
“This is a strange village,” Sammy said, breaking the silence. “Open, yet closed. Idyllic, yet so full of shit.”
“There are a few,” Bodin commented, apparently with no great eagerness to expand on the subject.
“Sweden,” said Sammy, but did not explain further what he meant, didn’t think he needed to. Bodin seemed alert.
Andreas Mattsson walked slowly toward them. At the same moment Bodin’s phone rang. He answered and hummed, clicked away the call.
“The sailors have a page on Facebook. The grunt has sent a message that they should call or message my phone. And the half brother is in progress.”
“My God,” said Sammy, thinking about the parents’ worry.
“Listen up now, I have a few things on Andreas that you don’t know about, but don’t be offended, okay?”
“What do you mean?” Sammy asked, but Bodin did not have time to answer.
“A cheerful group,” said Andreas.
Bodin observed him. This was the first time they’d met. He took out a small tape recorder from the shoulder bag he always dragged with him. “Do you have anything against us recording?”
“If it amuses you, then okay.”
“It doesn’t amuse us,” Bodin said dryly. “But perhaps it will worry you. I have to ask.”
Andreas Mattsson sat down. Sammy observed his colleague. They had not talked about recording the conversation. Now it resembled a regular interview, which Bodin also marked when he turned on the recorder and stated the time and who was present.
“You’ve spoken with our colleague Brundin, but we have to take this again: Where were you the night of the fire? You said that you usually sleep here, in the wing to the left, if I understood correctly, but that night you were with a girl, Therese Andersson, was that it?”
“Yes,” said Andreas, “and…”
“She’s unsure now.”
“Of what?”
“Whether you were there the whole night or not. In any event that’s what she says to our colleague Brundin, who questioned her.”
“Bullshit. She just wants to mess with me.”
“How long does it take to drive from Therese’s house outside Östhammar to the farm here? You ought to know that.”
“It depends on whether you observe the speed limit,” said Andreas.
“Let’s say that you don’t.”
“Maybe twenty-five minutes, a little more.”
“She lives alone there?”
“She rents a cottage.”
During the exchange Sammy had observed Andreas Mattsson. There was nothing to suggest that he was particularly shaken, or even nervous. Maybe you couldn’t be if you were a diving instructor, a strong current that threatened to carry away a client could unexpectedly appear, or else a shark might be approaching.
“Okay,” said Bodin. “Have you had a relationship with Lovisa Friman?”
“You’re unbelievable,” said Andreas. “Why are you asking me if you know? That ended several years ago. We were together for a few months.”
“She was the one who ended it, huh?”
Andreas looked away.
“And now it appears that she preferred your brother.”
“Can I see a picture of her?”
Bodin gave Sammy a quick glance. He nodded, and Bodin took out a folder. “It’s a nasty picture,” he said. “Do you really want to see?”
He handed over a photo, which Andreas looked at for a few seconds. “It’s Lovisa,” he said, and for the first time a crack could be noticed in his previously so self-assured attitude. He looked at the picture again. Motionless, absent for a few seconds.
“How can you be so sure?” said Sammy.
“I just know.”
“Because you saw her on Saturday night by the smithy? Maybe you saw her coming? You said that you went to see Therese in Östhammar around five o’clock. When did Lovisa bicycle to the farm, do you remember that?”
“I don’t know when she arrived, because I didn’t see her. I didn’t even know that Daniel was here.”
“Where did you think he was?”
“I don’t keep track of him.”
“I see,” said Bodin, after a long silence. “You went to Therese’s at five, then you drove to Öregrund and ate at the Bojabäs restaurant, that’s confirmed, and returned to her cottage. Are you a couple?”
“Kind of.”
“We have to go to Östhammar and talk with Therese again, you do understand that?” said Sammy. He felt compelled to assist in the game, even though he didn’t have all the information.
“You’ll do what you want.”
“You said that she wanted to mess with you. Why would she want to do that?”
No reply.
“I understand that you think it’s annoying to talk with us,” said Sammy. “But we must get this clarified. You’ve lost a brother … and an ex that perhaps you still have feelings for. That’s heavy and we understand—”
“And now you doubt your girlfriend, Therese,” Bodin interrupted. “That can’t be fun.” His language, which Sammy thought was downright boorish, underscored in a peculiar way the impudence in his conduct and teasing interrogation style.
Andreas showed no signs of worry, other than that his jaw was grinding, as if something was stuck between his teeth.
“Are you having a rough patch, you and Therese?” said Bodin.
“That has nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it does, if it influences her testimony, if she wants to put you in a jam, maybe get revenge for something you’ve said or done.”
He’s clever, Sammy thought, and I don’t even know what his first name is. I know nothing about his family or background, other than that he comes from Norberg or something like that.
“Yes, things are a little shaky for us right now,” Andreas admitted.
“Is Therese jealous? She knew that your old girlfriend had come back, didn’t she?”
Andreas did not reply.
“You have a BMW, right? Speed yellow.”
“How is that?”
“It’s conspicuous, I saw it right away when I drove up to the farm.”
“You’re just trying to lock me up!”
“Yes, if you’ve done something illegal, that’s my job.”
“You have to find a scapegoat.”
“Okay,” Bodin said with a sigh. “Let’s drop the car, let’s drop Therese, and talk a little about the party.”
“What party?”
“Yes, which one is it now? There are a few on that side.”
“Which side?”
“You appear—”
“I’ve put that behind me, get it? Don’t come here and talk about things that a person did years
ago.”
Now Sammy wanted to break in, but he couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse.
“You’ve made an apology?”
“I don’t need to tell you a thing. Am I accused of anything?”
“No, not at all,” said Bodin and smiled, but in the context it stood out mostly as a promise of future difficulties. “But of course it’s interesting. Does Lovisa have any tattoos?”
Andreas looked up. Now, if not panic, then in any event there was fear in his eyes. He looked at Sammy, as if he could clear up the situation.
“You’re actually the one who did it?”
“On her neck,” Andreas said barely audibly, because now he knew for sure that it was Lovisa who died in the smithy. The silence that ensued was only broken by a blackbird sitting at the top of a scrubby spruce. It spoke quietly at first about spring, but then sang out its joy. Andreas raised his eyes and observed it. Sammy and Bodin waited. If there was anything to admit, or even confess, it could come now.
“Did you burn down the smithy to create a little panic in the village? It would undeniably look like revenge for the school fire and the victims there. The party and the militias would come running and shout about retaliation. Facebook would be overflowing with hate.”
Andreas did not seem to be listening, did not give Bodin any notice, but stood up instead.
“Maybe you didn’t know that Daniel and Lovisa were there. He was supposed to go with the others to Stavby, wasn’t that so?” Bodin resumed.
“It was like a contagion,” said Andreas. “You know, plague. I was involved, I marched, there are pictures on YouTube. I was drawn in and I drew Lovisa in. Infected her.”
Bodin pushed the tape recorder closer to Andreas.
“She became a different person. She went to Ludvika where there’s a gang of crazies. I recognize a couple of them. They hang out in an old country store or something like that, they have weapons training in the forest and believe in the return of the Third Reich. She went there!”
“When was this?”
“Two years ago. Then she came back and started dating Daniel, left for England for a while and then to Dalarna again and then…”
They waited for him to continue but he left it at that. “She became a different person,” Andreas Mattsson repeated at last. This worn formulation, which Sammy had heard so many times, and which was brought out when you uncomprehendingly faced the other person.
“And then back here,” said Bodin, “only to get burned up.” For the first time you could sense a bit of empathy in his voice.
Andreas sank down on the garden chair. Bodin reached over and turned off the tape recorder. Sammy felt relieved. It had been a strain to see Andreas’s transformation, from powerful to crushed. He was no longer straight-backed, but had gradually been slumping more and more.
“I have to ask one thing, outside the protocol so to speak. What were you thinking, how would the racially pure Sweden be achieved?” Sammy asked.
Andreas showed no desire to answer the question. Sammy was unsure whether he even understood it.
Sammy’s phone rang. “I have to take this,” he said, getting up and walking away.
“Hi! I have an idea about who the woman in the smithy is,” said Ann Lindell.
“Lovisa Friman,” said Sammy.
“How did you know?”
“Classic police work. More interesting is how you guessed correctly.”
“I did what Berglund would’ve done,” said Lindell.
“And that is?”
“I sat down and had a chat over a cup of coffee with someone who keeps up on things. A former coworker from the creamery who came to visit. She’s the same age as Lovisa. They were friends before.”
“Do you have any more info?”
“Are you upset?”
“No, but I’ve just been questioning a guy who’s falling apart.”
“Big brother Mattsson, maybe? I saw him drive up half an hour ago. He didn’t look happy, but he has a cool car.”
“Listen, I have to talk with Bodin. We’ll be in touch!” Sammy pressed away the call. He couldn’t be angry at her, but he was a little irritated. He’d always had a problem with private investigators. He turned around; Andreas had disappeared. Bodin looked content, as if he were soaking up sun.
Twenty
The two policemen lingered at Hamra for a while. The blackbird had resumed its concert. A gentle breeze carried aromas with it. If it weren’t for murder and arson, it would all appear really pleasant.
“How’d you get the info?”
“The grunt called when I was on my way here. And then Nils Enar Andersson, the Frimans’ neighbor, gossiped that Andreas Mattsson had been together with Lovisa, and a little more too.”
“Have you checked whether Lovisa’s parents have been in contact?”
“Nothing yet,” said Bodin.
“Can we go into the house?”
Sammy already knew the answer, but tried the idea anyway. Bodin just grinned.
“We’ll probably have to wait nicely,” he said. “And I don’t think the answers are there. I think she just became an unplanned victim, that the target was Daniel, and perhaps not even that. The smithy was the target.”
“So where do we find the perpetrator?”
“Hard to say,” said Bodin after a moment’s thought. “But revenge is probably close at hand. You burn up our school, we burn down your house. Someone thought the smithy was empty, but then Daniel rushes out and the murder becomes a necessity to silence him.”
Sammy was doubtful, but did not object. He had almost completely stopped doing that. Whether that was a sign of maturity or simply indifference was hard to say.
“Let’s get going to Friman’s! What time is it in the Caribbean? Maybe they’ve gone to bed.”
“On the contrary,” said Bodin. “They’re having lunch now.”
“Let’s go there, check the terrain, so to speak, maybe exchange a few words with the neighbor.”
Bodin did not look convinced, but hauled himself out of the garden chair.
* * *
The house was dilapidated. For some reason Sammy had expected a lovely villa, maybe it was sailing in the Caribbean that made him think that, but the money had probably gone to the boat and not to fixing gutters, paint, and window putty. Lovisa probably hadn’t done much to decorate; it simply looked trashy.
Sammy walked around the house, peeking in through the windows. The kitchen was one big mess, with beer cans, pizza cartons, and glasses piled up, but the living room looked neat, with simple, nice-looking furniture and a well-maintained wood floor. One wall was dominated by a large maritime painting depicting a sailboat, from what Sammy could see under an Åland flag, perhaps en route home from Australia with wheat. He stood awhile and observed the painting. He heard how Bodin opened a door in a storage building, perhaps a woodshed. He was truly a lone wolf who liked poking around on his own.
On the back side of the house a stairway led down to the cellar. The handrail had rusted away. Trash had collected around a covered well. There was also a punctured soccer ball. He took the seven steps down with hesitation, because he had experienced this before, suspected mischief. The window in the door was broken and covered with a piece of cloth, which was also starting to give way to weather and wind. He pushed down the handle. It was unlocked. He went up, looking for Bodin, who was not visible, went down again, and carefully opened the door. A puff of unclean air streamed out. On the inside was a lone key. The room smelled enclosed, of sewage and old rotten garbage. Shit. Human shit.
“What are you doing?”
He ignored Bodin’s call and instead opened the door wide, stepping to the side, as if he instinctively wanted to air out the bad smell but not get caught in the draft streaming out. A narrow corridor with a couple of doors on either side. A pair of skis leaned against the wall and a bucket with a lid was at the far end of the corridor, that was all. The bare concrete floor was stained. He turned his head. B
odin was standing at the top of the stairs. Sammy nodded.
“I think we have something here, maybe a crime scene,” he said. Bodin’s expression was hard to decipher.
Twenty-One
How unimaginative was the first thing she thought, a piece of wood thrown through the window. She picked it up from the floor, twisted and turned it to try to make sense of it. There was a printed message. Black marker. Three words. The message was simple and could not be misunderstood: “Stop snooping cop.”
It’s Gösta was her second thought. That was probably mostly due to the piece of wood and not from any reasonable suspicion, because the carpenter wasn’t the only one with access to a wooden joist. It was amateurishly cut besides, crooked in a way that Gösta would never allow himself to do.
Ann went out in the kitchen to get a plastic bag. Maybe someone at Forensics could find something interesting, but then it struck her that it wasn’t worth the effort. She couldn’t keep from calling Sammy, however. Maybe because she had to talk with someone, maybe to tease her old colleague a little, that it wasn’t just Sammy who perceived her as a private detective.
He answered immediately and she told him.
“Where’s the board?”
“I’m saving it for now. If there are more, then we’ll probably have to do something about it.” She avoided bringing up the stinking badger in her bed.
“This fucking village,” Sammy said with emphasis.
Lindell smiled. “Yes, it sure is,” she said.
She could hear someone talking in the background. “Could you take fingerprints from the woman in the smithy?”
“No, her hands were completely destroyed, but DNA is no problem of course.”
“Are you still at the farm?”
“No, we’re at Lovisa’s house. We’ve made contact with someone who has a key, and he’s given us permission to go in. He’s on his way. We’re doing that, even though the parents who own the house haven’t called.”
“You sound a little agitated.”
“This may be a crime scene.”
“How’s that?”
The Night of the Fire Page 13