“That’s fine,” said Sammy. “We’ll just sit down.”
“It’s going to be a lovely evening.”
Despite the calm that prevailed on the farmyard, the only disturbance the sound of scattered cars that passed on the road, Sammy sensed the worry that was in the air. He stole a glance at the workshop owner, and a single look was enough to convince him that the man would not let himself be budged right away. Perhaps the tension he sensed came from inside himself.
“Have you made any progress?”
“Yes, we think we know who the woman is.”
“The whole thing is a tragedy. The one feeds the other. Violence moves on.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much,” said Efraimsson.
“What do you guess happened when the school burned, when the smithy burned?”
The man took a deep breath, and Sammy expected a tired comment, perhaps a lecture, but to start with there was only a sigh, before he tonelessly accounted for what he believed. “Both of the fires were set. As far as the school is concerned there are witnesses. Where the smithy is concerned I can’t be sure, but the murder of Daniel probably indicates that. The arsonist and the murderer are one and the same.”
“Who, which?”
“But there doesn’t need to be a direct connection between the two fires,” said Efraimsson.
“You say that there are witnesses. Is it Friberg you’re thinking of?”
The man nodded. “Did he finally talk with you?”
“‘Witnesses’ is plural.”
“I can’t say that much more in this matter.”
“Is there some kind of honor culture here in Tilltorp, that you mustn’t talk about what you know?”
Efraimsson smiled. “Honor is in decline. It started when Birger Persson was forced to close down his country store, a shop that had existed for eighty years, at least. Then it was the buses. Now there are only two runs per day, so soon they can point to a dwindling base and shut down the whole line. They canceled the bookmobile last year. And so it has continued. And when the authorities, or whatever they are, have cut back and shut down, declared us unnecessary, well, then they send a load of refugees here.”
“You didn’t like that?”
“You miss my point,” said Efraimsson, but did not explain how.
“But there is some life in the village, I’m thinking about the creamery, and the Mattssons have a business that employs people.”
“I’ve drunk alcohol a single time in my life, and it’s not something I miss exactly, but sometimes I wish I could get really drunk, every day, year round.”
“That would be something.” Talk with Ann, Sammy was about to add.
“Those Afghan youths, Hazaras I’ve learned they are, are probably handy. From what I’ve seen they want to work. Put them to work then, so you can separate the wheat from the chaff. You see that quickly, who measures up. Work, that’s everything. Does that sound sad?”
Efraimsson threw out his hands in a movement that came to encompass 180 degrees of the farmyard. “It’s a small world, this.” Sammy did not understand whether Efraimsson meant his own limited sphere or whether it was an expression that was meant to include the whole extent of the globe. “We wander for a short time. What do we know about what others are like, how they live, think, dream? I’ve never led a camel to water, I’ve never been higher than a hundred meters above sea level, and what perspective do you get then? What promised land, what world, have I looked out over? What did I know?”
He lowered his arms. “I’m preaching,” he said with a wry smile.
“Hazaras,” said Sammy. “You’ve read up on them.”
“You have to.”
“You’ve seen the cousin, haven’t you? The one who disappeared?”
Efraimsson shook his head. “They say that the wolves took him.”
“Someone was sleeping in Friman’s cellar last winter. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Talk with Kalle Friman’s stepson. He has your name, but not your sense, if you understand.”
“I’ve met him.”
“Yes, then you know. He breeds rabbits and has a couple of really crazy buddies in his rabbit club. Maybe one of them has stayed there.”
“Why in the cellar?”
“Sam would never dare let anyone into the house. He’s not just retarded, but also cowardly and servile. Kalle has never been nice to the kid.”
“The rabbit club?”
“Yes, they trade rabbits with each other,” Efraimsson said with a laugh, looking really amused. “Breed new ones.”
“In what way was Kalle Friman not nice?”
“The usual, a son that he really didn’t want to acknowledge. Stepsons don’t have it easy with a domineering stepfather, if you understand.”
Bertil Efraimsson laced his hands, soiled by oil and grease. The fingers nestled into each other in a resolute grip. A prayer, or a way to keep the hands under control. Sammy was unsure, perhaps just an old habit, but apparently worry had also consumed the old repairman and smith.
“Nice table,” said Sammy.
“I like what’s rough.” Efraimsson stroked his hand across the surface of the table, which was made of granite. “A long time ago they blasted where the bus stop is, and maybe ten years ago I caught sight of this piece. One of Mattsson’s boys helped me with a tractor.”
“Andreas?”
“Exactly. I like granite, the ruggedness, the heat. A marble surface plays nice, granite never does. What is smoothed out is seldom beautiful.”
Sammy smiled and imitated his host, pulling one hand across the ruggedness.
“What are you working on in the shop?”
“My sister has a birthday. She’s having a party on Saturday and got the idea that she should grill. That’s probably never happened before, but I’m simply making a grill.”
“I’m sure it will be good,” said Sammy. “Do you have other siblings?”
“An older brother passed away before. I’m like the afterthought.”
Sammy felt how fatigue was coming over him more and more. He wanted to get away from Tilltorp, even though much of the old delight at going home had been lost. He stood up.
“Now I want to shake that hand, dirty or not.”
Efraimsson stood up to his full height, put on his most beautiful smile and grasped Sammy’s outstretched hand.
“It says ‘Workshop et cetera.’ What’s the ‘et cetera’ for?”
“We sold eggs too.”
* * *
Before he turned out on the highway he sat in the car for a while. On the other side of the road was the deserted school property, to his left the house where the New Year’s party had been held. Then, less than five months ago, the snow-covered house had looked cozy. Now it looked run-down. The lilac hedge that separated Efraimsson’s lot from “Ottosson’s cottage” was pruned at waist height. Even Sammy could see how poorly the work had been done, the stems were split as if a gigantic, aggressive moose had wandered past and tore them off. A window stood propped open and music drifted from inside the house. It was not an old man’s choice of performer. A section of HAKI scaffolding leaned against the end of the house; hopefully there was surface improvement in progress.
Sammy had questioned Sebastian Ottosson, who had hosted the party, and remembered a taciturn young man who clenched his teeth and did his best to conceal his emotions. From what Sammy could understand there was both fear and hatred. He had mentioned that the house and land would be his. That his grandfather was going downhill. Sammy suspected that the transfer had now occurred.
Fear and hatred were seldom a good combination. It was only to be hoped that the boy had so much to do with renovating the house that it would occupy his thoughts and time.
Sammy turned off the engine, got out, and stepped onto the lot where the lilac hedge was sparse. He called “Hello,” but no reaction came from the house. The front door was ajar. He looked in, repeated his “Hel
lo.” From the top floor came a faint rumble. A head appeared from what Sammy remembered was the kitchen. Sammy immediately recognized one of the partygoers.
“Hi, do you remember me?”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted to stop by. I’m investigating the fire at Hamra.”
“Sebastian’s in the can.”
Sammy did not wait for an invitation but instead stepped into the hall and on into the kitchen. On the table were a couple of beer cans with the tops opened. “I’ll wait,” he said and sat down.
“You were at the New Year’s party too, weren’t you? I don’t remember your name.”
“Stefan.”
“Sanberg, right?”
Stefan Sanberg reached over and lowered the lid on the computer. From the top floor a flushing toilet was heard, and immediately the sound of feet that quickly came down the stairs. When Sebastian Ottosson came into the kitchen and caught sight of the policeman, he jerked back as if he’d been slapped.
“Hey, Sebby, how’s it going? Is the house yours now?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m just refreshing my memory.”
“Do you have permission?”
“For what? Your buddy Daniel was beaten to death, what do you think about that? Did someone want to get revenge?”
“What do you mean revenge?”
“For the school fire, of course. Do you have any idea who he had with him to set the fire? There were three of them. Two left.”
Sebastian and Stefan stared at Sammy, but they were wise enough not to bite at the provocation.
“Nice house you have,” Sammy continued unconcerned, looking around the kitchen. “A little paint and it will be freshened up. Old wooden houses are the best. And an old Norrahammar woodstove, I see. Good when electricity prices go up, and it’s fun to stoke, isn’t it? But have you checked the chimney stack? It can easily start a fire if there are cracks. Don’t forget to insure the house.”
The silence was deafening. Sammy was not pleased with himself, felt no satisfaction over his crude style, even more so when there was no reaction from the two, but it was necessary to get out some of the gall that was burning inside him.
“Now I’m going home, but we’ll meet again soon. Bye now!”
As expected he got no response. He left the house and squeezed out through the lilacs. In the corner of his eye he saw a movement in Bertil Efraimsson’s window.
Sammy Nilsson made the mistake of not going home. But the encounter with the two in Ottosson’s cottage had opened a door into his memory archive, where an image, a thought, or whatever it was was hiding, and it was necessary to get hold of it before the door closed again. Instead of ending the workday he wound up in front of his computer at the office. He looked up the list of partygoers on New Year’s Eve. It struck him that women were lacking completely. On the list were the two young men Stefan Sanberg and Sebastian Ottosson, but also a Rönn, not a strange name, though not that common either. Rasmus Rönn, twenty-six years old, registered in Rasbo.
He changed folders, opened the one labeled “Explosives,” clicked on “NCC,” and went further to “Work Crew.” At the top was Björn Rönn, age thirty-three, foreman, registered in Rasbo.
Two lists, one party and one work crew. Two lists, one arson with several dead, and a theft of Austrogel. And to top it off yet another arson, with a woman burned up and added to that the murder of Daniel Mattsson.
Rönn. That was the name of a tree. Rowan, white blossoms, right? Red berries. Jelly. Sammy let his thoughts flutter as best they could, while another part of his brain processed the new information, drew lines in the landscape, visualized roads and villages, linked towns together and built a network of people in the eastern and northeastern parts of Uppland. Sometimes he liked to compare the process to that of a chemist, who by means of different-colored balls joined sticks together in an intricate pattern, to explain a chemical compound’s construction to the ignorant. Sometimes it all got too complicated, there were always many places and names, but he still thought he could see it all before him.
Uppland mining and mill towns: Gimo, Skebo, Harg, Bennebol, Österbybruk, Dannemora, Norrskedika, Lövstabruk, Herräng, Länna, Tobo, Ramhäll, Forsmark, and many more. Sammy had been in many of them, mostly to visit art exhibits, galleries, and handicraft shops that Angelika dragged him along to. Now it had been a while. He ought to call home but couldn’t bear to hear any more acid comments, not on an evening like this, now when the investigation had taken a step forward, when he could sense connections between ostensibly separate events. He looked at the lists again, read the names. Only men. In order to crack the solid front of white, mostly young men, he needed to shake them up, put pressure on and get at least one of them to talk.
Rönn. Sour grapes, said the fox. He called Lindell. That was the only direct thing to do. He ought to contact his colleague Bodin, but the old connection was too strong, it took over, and the puzzle piece, perhaps the most important, was actually hers.
The phone rang seven times, but no response, and he guessed why. She was repairing, mending, and patching, revisiting something lost, something he himself should have done instead of sitting in a mostly dark police station on a lovely spring evening.
* * *
First to be questioned was probably the foreman Björn Rönn. He called Bodin, didn’t matter if it was evening, but he didn’t answer either. “What the hell is this?” Sammy Nilsson muttered, getting up, cracking open the door. Not a movement, not a sound. The nighttime lighting had come on, so the corridor was in semidarkness. Was he the only one working? He returned to the desk, noted and saved addresses and driving instructions on his phone. He got the idea to drive out to Rasbo and pay a visit to Björn Rönn, but put that out of his mind. He would deal with him tomorrow instead.
He called home. She didn’t answer.
Twenty-Four
Ann had suggested that he should take it a little easy. They could have coffee in the morning together in the garden.
“I’ve got work,” said Edvard. “And I have to go home first.” She brought the coffee with her and followed him out into the yard. He did what Ann had seen him do so many times, taking in a breath through his nose, as if to smell the new day. “Have to pick up some things on the island,” he said and left. Once at the truck he turned his head and smiled. She sat down on the bench by the east wall and watched him drive away. It was half an hour after daybreak and Ann had two and a half hours to herself before the cheeses were calling.
What did she feel? Some soreness in her body, of course, but above all an inner calm. She sat there long after the coffee was finished, thought about how simple everything seemed now, more than fifteen years since they met for the first time. Of course much had been lost, but maybe they could regain some of that terrain, mined to be sure, but if they took it carefully it could succeed.
The phone vibrated in her pocket. The inconceivable came to her: that Edvard had driven off the road, and that Brundin in Östhammar was texting her so that she would know. But it was another policeman, Sammy Nilsson. “Call me!” Relief was mixed with irritation that the morning devotions were over, but also with a touch of curiosity. The time was 5:20.
She called. “Has something happened?” Nothing had happened, he assured her, and then told her about the Rönn brothers. She caught herself smiling broadly, while he related all the details. He sounded calm, but had that sharpness that she recognized so well from their joint investigations, those moments when things fell into place.
“And yesterday I stopped by one of your village buddies, Ottosson, who had a visit from another local talent, Stefan Sanberg. Both looked capable of slinging a plank of wood through a window.”
Ann knew that old man Ottosson had died and that his grandson had taken over the house, and was now a neighbor of the Efraimsson siblings, Bertil on the one side and Astrid on the other.
“Take little brother Rönn first,” Ann suggested. “Giv
e him a good scare. Then he’ll be sure to call his brother, and when you show up at the construction site Dynamite Rönn will be properly shaken. Maybe he’ll think that little brother tattled about the theft, if he even knew about it, or else the older brother’s protective instincts will be awakened.”
“You’re right,” said Sammy immediately. “Both are on Facebook. If you check you’ll see what kind of wingnuts they are. They’re real racists, but not that bright, not the younger one anyway.”
“And therefore maybe dangerous,” said Ann.
“If you swipe a box of explosives you’re dangerous by definition.”
“Is it him?”
“That we don’t know, but my guess is: Yes, it’s him.”
“Take Bodin with you.”
“No, he has other things to do,” said Sammy, without saying what. “And I feel like going solo.”
“You’re up early.”
“You too,” Sammy countered.
“Hard to sleep.”
“Did he stay?”
“You saw his truck, right? Edvard stayed, and had to leave early. You know how he is. In contrast to you he’s a morning person.”
She waited for a comment, but none came. “Are you there?”
“Good luck, Ann,” said Sammy, his voice a little shaky. Now she knew that the early hour was not completely self-chosen. She could guess what it was about, but didn’t want to ask.
“Thanks. And thanks for getting in touch.”
She went in for another cup of coffee, remained standing a moment to digest the information, and then went to retrieve her laptop, paper, and pen.
* * *
The 528 steps became more than 550. For the first time she didn’t want to go to work. It was underscored when she came up to Ottosson’s house. There the two of them, the homeowner himself and his buddy Sanberg, were putting up scaffolding. She stopped by the gate. She had their attention, even if they pretended that they hadn’t seen her.
The Night of the Fire Page 15