by Karin Nordin
‘What are the police saying?’
‘Not much. I’m not exactly on the best of terms with the local inspector,’ Kjeld admitted.
‘What’d you do? Piss in his garden when you were a kid?’
Kjeld thought about Gunnar. Thought about the moment that their friendship was replaced by an unspoken promise never to tell the truth about what happened during their early training years. That had been a mistake. A rookie mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Kjeld had learned from it. Gunnar, on the other hand, well, the jury was still out where he was concerned.
He shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
Esme shook her head disapprovingly. ‘You’re unbelievable, you know that? Do you have any friends? Is there anyone you haven’t pissed off?’
Kjeld glanced over at the large raven with the crooked beak. What had his father called him? Hermod? ‘Probably not.’
‘It’s not a wonder you’re still single.’
‘I’m single by choice,’ Kjeld insisted. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘No one is single by choice, Kjeld.’
‘What about you?’
‘I turned down a hot Tinder date to come up here and check on your pain-in-the-arse self.’
‘Well if it’s meant to be, I’m sure he’ll swipe right on you again.’
‘She might not.’
Kjeld raised his brows. He couldn’t tell from her deadpan reply if she was serious or pulling his leg. ‘Why, Detective Jansson, I had no idea you were playing the field.’
‘I’m keeping my options open.’
‘I prefer my options to leave before I wake up.’
‘Which explains why you can’t keep anyone around for more than a week.’
‘You’ve stuck around.’
‘Unfortunately that’s my job.’
Esme turned around and headed back to the door.
Kjeld couldn’t see her face, but he had the impression that she was frowning. Whether that was from something he said or something else he couldn’t say. As well as he knew Esme, he oftentimes found her difficult to read. They were friends. Good friends. They trusted each other in a way that only partners could trust each other. With their lives, their safety, their truths. But despite their closeness Kjeld rarely ever opened up to her and, whether of her own preference or because it felt too awkward to be too serious with him, she didn’t either. There were times, however, like when Kjeld was on the verge of ending things with Bengt, a period in his life that was overshadowed by heavy emotion and too many prescription medications, when he thought there might be something more between them. Kjeld would have been lying if he didn’t think he’d seen the potential for something between Esme and himself, but Esme, as supportive and sympathetic as she was, always kept a careful distance from him. Either she didn’t feel that way about him or she knew what everyone eventually found out – a relationship with him was a recipe for disaster.
Kjeld followed her out in the yard, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
As they approached the back door a figure trekked around from the side of the house. That swooping blond hair unmistakable even from a distance. Kjeld held back a groan as Gunnar waved his hand like a coach on the sidelines of a football match trying to get a player’s attention.
‘Nygaard!’ he called out. ‘There you are. I’ve been knocking for almost ten minutes.’
‘I wasn’t in,’ Kjeld replied, his expression straight-faced.
Esme sent him a sidelong glance. She knew her partner well enough to know when he was mocking someone under the guise of pseudo politeness.
‘Where’s your father?’ Gunnar asked.
‘He’s not home,’ Kjeld said.
‘Is he at Sara’s place?’
‘He’s in the hospital.’
Gunnar flinched, but the reaction was fleeting, quickly recovered after a slow blink and a throat-clearing cough. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He had a heart attack.’
‘Was it serious?’
‘It was a heart attack.’
‘I see,’ Gunnar said. He smoothed his hair back with a gloved hand. ‘I’ll go speak with him there then.’
‘What is this about?’ Kjeld asked.
Gunnar pursed his lips as though he couldn’t quite decide how to respond to Kjeld’s question. It made him look constipated. Like a man who was trying hard not to strain.
‘Gunnar? Why do you need to see my dad?’
Gunnar took a deep breath and exhaled. There was a slight wheeze in the back of his throat when he finally answered. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest.’
‘What?’ Kjeld’s focus broke. He stared at Gunnar, searching the man’s face for something that would give this information credibility. Something that would make sense. ‘What for?’
‘For the murder of Peter Lindqvist.’
Chapter 32
The hallway outside of Stenar’s hospital room was chaos by the time Erik hurried in, sweat pouring from his bald head after having accidentally turned up the heated seats in his hire car. He wiped a handkerchief across his forehead and approached the arguing group that crowded around the room.
The two Nygaard siblings had practically barricaded themselves in front of the door, Kjeld yelling in the face of the local police inspector while the doctor and an unfamiliar woman in a wool cardigan and with a thick fringe that covered her eyebrows stood off to the side trying to ease the situation by insisting unceremoniously that everyone calm down.
This was exactly why he’d gotten out of family law.
Erik took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and gave his best attempt at looking taller than he actually was.
Then he walked down the hall while nurses watched on like vultures from their station, salivating for something to gossip about with their friends after their shifts. Nothing exciting ever happened in Varsund, after all.
One glance in Erik’s direction sent Gunnar into an exasperated groan. ‘You called a lawyer?’
‘My father has the right to understand what he’s being charged with,’ Kjeld said.
‘Understand?’ Sara interrupted. ‘How can you expect him to understand? He’s sick. You’re all insane. This is entirely unacceptable. I can’t believe you would stoop this low, Gunnar.’
‘I’m just doing my job, Sara,’ Gunnar said.
Erik stepped into the fray.
‘If I could interrupt for a moment,’ Erik began, holding up his hands in a gesture of impartiality. ‘I think it would be best if I speak to the doctor and Inspector Ek about this in private so we can discuss the legality of the situation and determine what’s best not only for the police investigation but for Stenar’s health as well.’
Doctor Goswami breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, I think that would be wise.’
Gunnar nodded, but Erik could see he wasn’t exactly pleased with having to agree. He looked like the kind of man who only agreed to things when it was politically advantageous to do so. Whether this was one of those occasions was yet to be seen.
‘Do you have an office where we can talk, doctor?’ Erik asked.
‘Yes, of course. This way.’
Doctor Goswami led Erik and Gunnar down the hall, but before they turned into another corridor Erik glanced back at Kjeld and his sister who stood fuming in the doorway to Stenar’s room. This was why he hated getting involved with families. They were all the same.
* * *
It took thirty minutes for both Erik and the doctor to convince Gunnar to agree to allow Stenar to remain in the hospital until an impartial psychiatrist from outside of Varsund could give their opinion on the state of Stenar’s mental health and whether he had the cognitive ability to understand the charges against him. When he relayed this information to Kjeld, the son seemed satisfied that his father was receiving appropriate protection. Erik noticed that there was a considerable amount of suspicion on the younger Nygaard’s part with respect to the local police inspector, but he didn’t ask. To be honest, he
didn’t want to know. Sara, on the other hand, seemed less pleased with the circumstances, insisting that there be another option wherein she could take their father home. The unfamiliar woman with the fringe just looked on quizzically like she was mentally solving a sudoku puzzle.
‘The doctor said he would be able to go home today,’ Sara insisted.
Her tone was even more demanding than her brother’s and Erik briefly wondered if this was something she inherited from one of her parents or just something she’d picked up from having lived in the unforgiving backwoods of Jämtland county for her entire life. Both, he imagined.
‘Doctor Goswami said there were still some concerns with Stenar’s tests this morning. They want to do another ECG later this afternoon and keep him under observation. I know this may seem unfair to you, but this actually works in Stenar’s favour.’
‘How’s that?’ Kjeld asked.
The woman with the fringe perked up and stared at him like she could see right through to his bones. It made Erik uncomfortable.
‘Your father’s Alzheimer’s, provided the psychiatrist declares it to be in the later stages, protects him from undergoing police questioning. If he’s physically ill then even if they do have compelling evidence against him, they won’t be able to force him to trial. Even if they determine he is responsible for the death of Peter Lindqvist—’
‘He’s not,’ Sara interrupted.
Erik paused before continuing. ‘Even if they determine he is responsible for Lindqvist’s death, the state won’t require him to serve time. They can’t punish a man for doing something that he can’t remember doing.’
‘He’d be able to go home?’ Sara asked.
‘Or remanded to a care facility,’ Erik said. ‘I don’t specialise in criminal law, but I’ll get in contact with someone who does. Don’t worry. We’ll settle this quickly. In the meantime, try to keep him calm. And don’t talk to him about the case. God forbid he actually admit to something. Truthful or not, that would make things more difficult.’
* * *
Erik adjusted the heat level on the seats of his hire car while he waited for his hands-free calling to connect. From his spot in the car park he had a direct view of Kjeld, who stood outside the hospital entrance blowing clouds of cigarette smoke into the air while talking to the woman with the fringe in the fuzzy cardigan.
The call connected and Roland’s voice boomed out of the speakers.
‘Norberg! Wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. Did you get the final documents from the MineCorp agreement?’
Erik lowered the volume. ‘Yes, I did, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m in Varsund.’
‘Varsund? I thought you were going to finish everything up from Stockholm.’
‘I was called back for something else,’ Erik said. He watched as Kjeld finished his cigarette and lit up another. ‘We need to have a chat about Nygaard.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line, interrupted by static crackles from the car speaker. When Roland responded it was with confused uncertainty in his voice. ‘Nygaard? You mean Stenar? The old bird-watcher?’
Erik watched as Kjeld dropped the cigarette to the pavement and stubbed it out with his boot before following the woman to an ugly green Volvo.
‘No,’ Erik said. ‘Not Stenar. The other Nygaard.’
Chapter 33
While the doctors took his father away for his afternoon testing, Kjeld drove back to Norrmalm Industries and tried to get a meeting with Roland Lindqvist while Esme went into town to get the groceries he’d been putting off and to see if she could find any information on the disappearance of Valle Dahl. Not for the first time he found himself questioning how he’d managed to keep Esme as a friend after all the grief he gave her. When this was all over, he would have to remember to be more appreciative.
‘You just missed him,’ said the young intern behind the desk, pushing his thick-framed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
Bengt had glasses like that.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I think he took the rest of the day off.’
Kjeld cursed under his breath.
‘You could possibly catch him at home,’ the intern said, voice waffling. Normally it would be inappropriate to give out the personal information of a colleague, but they were all about to lose their jobs anyway. Well, he would, at least. And he’d have to find another company to finish his internship at. A task that wouldn’t be too easy in the middle of the year.
‘Where’s that?’ Kjeld asked.
‘Älgvägen. Across the river.’
‘Number?’
The intern laughed. ‘Seriously? It’s the only house on the street. And trust me, you can’t miss it.’
* * *
The intern wasn’t wrong. Even if there had been other houses on the street, and there wasn’t one for miles in either direction, Kjeld never would have mistaken which was the Lindqvist house.
It was a two-storey building with a singularly peaked roof and three dormered windows on the upper floor, architecturally uncommon for the region. The wood was painted traditional Falun red, like most houses in the country, except the tone appeared slightly darker and less coppery than the colour on his father’s home. Kjeld wondered if that was a trick of the light – a few minutes after three and the sun was already disappearing beneath the tree line – or if the paint had been specifically chosen to stand out. The trim around the windows was bright white and the front door – blue, sheltered by an upstairs balcony accented by curled moulding – sat back on a rectangular veranda.
He was met at the door by a cleaning woman who led him into a parlour. The walls were covered in an intricate design of textured wallpaper, not unlike what could be found in the royal palace in Stockholm, that was probably original to the house. The furniture was ornate and antique. Dark wood. Gold-leaf. Not what Kjeld expected when he met the younger Lindqvist, who exuded nothing but modern style and ego. This was the room of a wealthy family. Old money. The kind that someone, generations before, had worked hard to obtain. And this room was the last remaining shrine to that past.
But Kjeld knew this room although he’d never set foot in it before.
This was the room with the piano.
The one his mother played before he was born.
The room from the photograph.
He thought of that image of her. Glancing over her shoulder. Smiling. Exuding a vibrance that Kjeld had never known.
He gently lifted the piano fallboard and looked down at the keyboard. Pristine. Seemingly untouched. And he caught himself wondering if his mother’s fingers had been the last ones to touch those keys.
‘Jesus Christ!’
Kjeld turned to see a woman standing in the doorway.
She was probably in her early sixties. She wore a long dress, mauve-grey in colour with pintucks and floral appliqués, that while slightly loose still flattered her figure. Her hand was clutched to her chest and around her wrist was a gold bracelet shaped like interwoven leaves. Her hair was blonde. That same icy shade as David’s. And she looked as though she’d just seen a ghost.
‘I apologise if I startled you,’ Kjeld said, placing the fallboard back down on the piano and covering the keys.
‘It’s not that,’ the woman said. ‘It’s just that for a moment I thought you were someone else.’
Kjeld was about to ask who when the woman stepped through the doorway to approach him. He held out his hand to her by way of introduction, but she didn’t accept it. She merely held her hands clasped in front of her like a surly schoolmarm and stared at him straight in the eyes. It was unnerving not because of the directness but because Kjeld had a sense that she saw something in his face that he did not.
‘Sylvia Lindqvist,’ she said.
‘Kjeld Nygaard.’
‘Nygaard?’
‘Yes, my father lives in—’
‘I don’t mingle with the townspeople,’ she said a tad too curtl
y. Then she relaxed her shoulders. ‘That must sound incredibly vain. And it’s true, I won’t pretend that I don’t have a measure of narcissism in me. Cynicism, too, which is why I haven’t asked you yet why you’re here.’
‘I was hoping to meet with Roland.’
‘Of course, you were.’ Sylvia made her way over to an antique bar cabinet that stood in the corner behind the piano. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ Kjeld replied. And then as an afterthought added, ‘I’m driving.’
‘That’s very law-abiding of you,’ she said, fixing herself a glass of brandy.
‘I’m a police inspector.’
‘Aren’t you all supposed to be incorrigible drunks? Or is that simply a Hollywood stereotype?’
‘There’s an element of truth to most fiction, isn’t there?’
‘And an element of fiction to all truths.’ Sylvia smirked. ‘I like you, Inspector Nygaard. You’re not boring. Even if you are only here to see my husband.’
‘Is he in?’
‘He is not.’ She drank the entire glass in one gulp and poured herself another.
‘Will he be back s—’
‘He’s with his mistress. Trying to get over the news of his brother, no doubt.’ Sylvia closed the cabinet and made her way back towards Kjeld. She looked at the piano as though suddenly remembering that he had shown interest in it. ‘Do you play?’
‘Not well and not recently.’
‘Nobody in this house plays either, but it is customary to have a piano, is it not? It gives a room a certain kind of warmth and weight. Stature. And there’s inevitably someone at the dinner party who can play something that isn’t “Chopsticks”.’
Kjeld reached into his pocket and took out the photograph from the Christmas party. ‘I wanted to ask your husband if he could tell me more about this photo.’
Sylvia took the photo and held it up to eye level. Then she flipped it over, reading the date. She shook her head.
‘I didn’t meet Roland until 1980.’ She turned the photograph over again, her expression tightening. ‘Look at him. Leering. He never could keep his hands to himself.’