“The rabbits you mean? Can’t they run loose like the birds?”
“Then they bite. Rabbits can be mean to each other.”
* * *
“Do you want a rabbit?”
Sammy held out a box which at one time had been used for clementines from Morocco. Between the laths a nose was visible.
“What would I do with a rabbit? Did you buy it?” Ann asked.
“You have a fence, it can run loose.”
“No, thanks. I’ve had enough with pets, living or dead, and that poor thing is going to eat up my flowers and then die during the winter.”
Sammy told about his visit, that now he knew where the doves in the mailbox came from. “Rothe is afraid, he definitely recognized one or more of the intruders, but doesn’t dare talk.”
“Good,” said Lindell. “Then I know, but I think it’s best to drop the whole thing. We’ll have to see it as a boyish prank. They are young men, but more like boys. If there’s more, we’ll have to call in the cavalry and strike back.”
“A dead badger in the bed,” Sammy reminded her.
“Haven’t you ever had one?”
Sammy grinned, but despite her carefree attitude, Ann could keep from laughing. She didn’t want to tell him how dead it felt. The village had changed with that “boyish prank,” worry and uncertainty had crept in. Murder and arson she could take, even explain, but the meanness in the attacks against her house and peace of mind undermined the basis for her life in the village. Who could you trust? Even the increasingly waffling carpenter Gösta seemed like an unsure card. She did not want to openly account for the uncertainty to Sammy, even if he could certainly guess how it felt.
“Tomorrow there’s a party at Astrid’s, the woman who lives on the other side of Ottosson’s cottage. She’s Bertil Efraimsson’s sister. She’s turning eighty, and I’m going. It will be fun, gossip a little, have cake.”
“Then you can keep snooping,” said Sammy.
“No, I’ll eat cake.”
“There will be grilling,” said Sammy.
“You can check one thing: Mattsson’s family background.”
“What do you mean?”
“The population register can provide information, but I can’t call and ask.”
“Why?”
“We’ll have to see,” said Ann, seeing how irritated he got.
“Monday,” he said.
“Is she back?”
“Still in Mölle, or Copenhagen, I don’t really know.”
“How does it feel?”
“Good,” said Sammy. “I have time to think.”
“So are you doing that?”
He shook his head. “Are you sure you don’t want a rabbit?”
Twenty-Eight
Gösta Friberg stood on the front stoop, dressed up in a blazer and a pair of freshly ironed trousers, and as he approached, Ann caught a whiff of cologne. In one hand he was holding the wrapped hydrangea. She had the agapanthus in a box.
She said something about how nice he looked, and he seemed visibly pleased. He took her hand and for a moment she got the idea that he was going to kiss it, but he was content with a cautious squeeze, and countered by saying something about her dress. This was a different Gösta than the irritable one she had encountered recently.
“I don’t often wear a dress,” she said. It was new, simple and flowery like spring.
It was an amazing day in an amazing month of May. Doves and badgers were forgotten, she was going to a party. She only wished that Edvard could be by her side. She had tried to get Erik to come out, but he’d laughed and said something about pensioners meeting. He was mistaken! The first person to meet them was a young woman, Ann thought she was around eighteen, who was greeting guests by Astrid’s gate. She was almost too perfect, as if styled for a TV commercial.
“Welcome,” she said, opening the gate. “It has to be kept closed because of the dogs,” she explained when Gösta suggested leaving it open.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Naomi, Leo’s daughter, Astrid’s granddaughter.”
“But my goodness how you’ve grown!”
“You’re the one who’s the policewoman,” Naomi said to Ann.
“Not any longer.”
The young woman observed her with a serious expression for a moment, before she resumed her smile. In the garden half a dozen pieces of garden furniture were set out. Astrid must have borrowed them, and there were already a lot of people sitting in chairs and couches even though it had just turned twelve. In the village you arrived on time, preferably before the designated time, she’d learned. It seemed that everyone knew everyone.
They went together to a table where Matilda and Anders from the creamery were sitting. She stopped. It felt good.
“Where’s Astrid?”
“In the kitchen, of course,” said a woman whom Ann vaguely recognized from a meeting at the historical society. Then it had been about cable for the internet. The woman had ardently and verbosely opposed the whole project.
“A little something,” Astrid had said, but it was already clear that there would be quite a lot to choose from. On two tables in the shade under an apple tree were numerous plates covered with plastic wrap, from a grill came the aroma of meat, evidently Andreas Mattsson would take care of that, and in plastic cases were bottles and cans submerged in ice. Party.
She did not want to talk cheese with Matilda, or greenhouses with Gösta either, which he’d brought up on the way there, and definitely not the events at Hamra farm, or dead badgers. But, it struck her as she let her gaze sweep across the party attendees, what should she talk about?
“I’ll go in and see if I can help out with anything,” she said.
The front door was open and Ann went right in. A roomy kitchen was directly to the right and it was full of activity. Astrid caught sight of her and came up, giving Ann a quick hug. “Congratulations! I thought I could carry a few things out.” On the kitchen table were trays with plates and silverware.
“Is the boy here? No? What a pity, I thought he could spend a little time with Naomi.”
Ann took hold of the tray, heavier than she’d expected, and lugged it out to the garden. There was Bertil, who without a word took over the load. “Have you gotten anything to drink?”
She let herself be passively led around by chance, talked a little here, a little there. She did not want to sit down at a table, only to get stuck in a limited company where the conversation perhaps went on idle. Most seemed to be village residents, some she was acquainted with, others she recognized, and everyone seemed to know who she was, as shown by greetings and comments. It felt good, if a trifle frustrating, as if everyone had googled her in a kind of network of curious local historians and gossips. This was white Sweden at a party, the whitest of all conceivable parties, freed from fifty years of demographic change.
She was one of many, there was no noticeable expectation about her conduct or what she said, no demands were made, simply questions about how she was doing. She was free to talk with anyone at all. She could behave, more or less knew the codes for socializing. Occasionally Bertil passed by and put on his best smile.
This is the village, she thought, leaning against a pear tree with a glass of punch. It’s probably good, but not completely free of anxiety. Could she see herself celebrating her eightieth birthday here?
At a nearby table sat an elderly woman. By eavesdropping Ann understood that she was an old schoolteacher who was temporarily visiting the village. The woman radiated a rare mixture of authority and warmth. A schoolteacher to respect and love, as Gösta explained when she stopped him to confirm her theory.
“She’s writing a book,” he said. “She interviewed me.” You pompous geezer, Ann thought, but with the lowest conceivable level of aggression. Ann headed for the punch bowl and filled her glass, observing the inhabitants of her village.
The Mattssons from Hamra were of course not there, but their son Andreas appeared to
be content by the grill. She went up to him. They had only said hello to each other from a distance, but no more than that. Now it was time. She introduced herself and mumbled something consoling.
He just shook his head. “Is it possible to live and be content here?”
“You know more about that,” said Ann. “But there are those who are doing everything to make me feel uncomfortable.”
Andreas looked up from the steaks, which in Ann’s opinion had already been on the grill too long.
“How’s that?”
She told him that she’d been harassed, mentioned the doves and the piece of wood that had been thrown through the window, but said nothing about the badger.
“I’ll be damned” was his only comment.
“Let the meat rest,” she said with a smile. “Set the steaks to the side.”
“Well done, or well burned, is what counts,” said Andreas, and evidently did not realize what was macabre about his words.
There were many things Ann wanted to ask about, but she realized that then she would reveal she had information that she shouldn’t have access to. Instead she pretended to be curious and gossipy.
“I heard that Sebastian Ottosson is going to start raising goats.”
“I see, who said that? I have a hard time believing that, he doesn’t have any money. I don’t think old man Ottosson had many pesetas in the bank.”
“Matilda at work mentioned something. There’s some consultant who is helping with the plans. He’ll get a subsidy and a favorable loan, if I understood it correctly. Goats are good and we need milk for the creamery, but of course it costs.”
“My God! There’s nothing but subsidies in this country!”
“Of course it’s strange,” said Ann. “But you get quite a bit of EU subsidy too, don’t you?”
He gave her a quick look while he added meat to the grill.
“I don’t get involved with the farm.”
“How does that feel?”
Ann’s question was direct, as if they’d been friends a long time, but it was also deliberately unclear. Did it concern his presence at the party and the grilling, or was it about his situation in general, and perhaps the situation at Hamra in particular? Andreas stared down into the bed of coals, hung up the tongs on a hook, and wiped his hands on a flowery apron.
“I shouldn’t be here but I promised Bertil to help out. And you’re a former police officer who can’t stop asking questions?”
Ann nodded. “Do you have the keys to what’s happening in the village?”
Andreas was about to say something, but looked around and kept his reply to himself.
“I heard that you constructed the grill,” Ann said to Bertil, who had come up to them, “and put the meat master to work.”
“Is it working?” Bertil said, putting his arm around Andreas’s shoulders.
“The police are helping me with good advice.”
“Do you want a replacement?”
“Have you ever grilled anything in your whole life?”
Bertil smiled. “It may have happened.”
Ann observed the two tall men and slipped away before she was tempted to say something unconsidered. She sensed that the duo in front of the grill had many of the answers to the questions about what had happened and was happening in Tilltorp that occupied her, the village, and the police. If not unambiguous answers, then in any event the psychological and material background for what had occurred. It struck her, while she aimlessly wandered around Astrid’s yard, that many things were ridiculously trivial when it came to people’s maneuvering and bargaining. It became even clearer in a small village, where much of the noise in more expansive, and therefore more complicated, environments was filtered away. The events stood out as natural, even necessary. That was a crude simplification, a kind of vulgar deterministic psychology, she realized. The people in the village were, like everyone else, reflective, often wise, and responsible, with choices to make. It was not fated that the school would burn, nor that Lovisa would die in a fire and Daniel be clubbed down. But there was a bit of Midsomer Murders about it all.
How many think they know, or at least suspect? she thought. Astrid, perhaps. Gösta, doubtful, he’s so occupied by his own demons. Waldemar Mattsson, probably not. And what did Sammy know or guess? The impatience sat like a spear in her chest. How she longed for Sammy! If she called him, would he come? It was Saturday, his wife had run off to the upper class in Skåne, and he’d never had any extensive connections or specific recreational activities that could occupy his weekend. And above all: He was just as crazy and eager, just as merciless to himself, as she was. As she’d been before anyway.
“You’re having a good time, I see,” said Gösta, who had slipped up by her side. She gave him a smile in response.
“The mood is a bit subdued. Astrid thought for a while about canceling,” he said.
“I think it’s a little strange that Andreas Mattsson is here. His brother was killed a week ago.”
Gösta leaned forward. “You’re not the only one who thinks that.”
“Perhaps they weren’t such close friends?”
“They’ve always been very different. Andreas the quick-witted one, Daniel a little slower. Waldemar saw that too, but despite that he always talked about the youngest.”
“Maybe Andreas is too independent, or what do you think? And he’s quite unlike Mattsson.”
“That may be so,” said Gösta. “Have you gotten anything to eat? I’m going to help myself anyway.”
Ann made her way closer to the table where the old schoolteacher was sitting. She was an interesting person, Ann had already gathered that by eavesdropping.
“And now they’re free to choose. But I think it’s a deceptive choice. Because who chooses actively? And chooses what? Who can drive their kids to the other end of the municipality?”
“Isn’t there school transportation?” someone around the table objected. The teacher’s gaze rested for a moment on her opponent before she answered. “Ulla, you’re still living in the sixties, and in a way you’re right to do that, but think about it, who is in a position to choose actively? Would your parents have done that in 1960? You must excuse me, but I don’t think so. They were the most honorable people imaginable, but in today’s race they would have come up short. You studied, you were successful, weren’t you, and you can thank primary school for that, which I actually think your parents voted for.”
The conversation at the table, which was attracting more and more participants, continued. Bertil stood by Ann’s side.
“I came here in the fall of 1945, when the Nazis were beaten and the war was finally over,” the teacher said. “The same year Astrid started school. And now we’re sitting here, on her eightieth birthday.”
“She was born in 1923,” Bertil whispered, “and didn’t retire until 1990.”
“It’s a birthday party, but at the same time a funeral, isn’t it?”
Bertil started as if he’d been struck, but Ann saw in his eyes that she had hit the mark, that he understood and accepted her statement.
“The village is a sinking ship,” he said. “We’re the last ones.” He looked around before he continued. “Do you see him over there?” Bertil pointed to a middle-aged man, Ann thought she’d seen him before. By his side stood an aged woman bent over a walker.
“His son was involved in setting fire to the school.”
“Who is he?”
“Allan Sanberg.”
“And Stefan is the son, I understand. Are you certain?”
Bertil Efraimsson hesitated, closed up. Ann recognized the signs.
“Tell me about Allan.”
“He’s self-employed, carpentry, foundations, all that sort of thing, all-around. Capable, but a bit hot-tempered at times. He’s going to work himself to death. Has problems with the pump. Grew up a short walk from here. His mother, a magnificent woman, is in a nursing home these days, about the same age as Alexandra Gauffin, married to Six
ten Sanberg, a navigational engineer who was from the village. He’s dead now. One of the men I admired when I was young, one of them…”
Ann saw that it was hard for Bertil to continue, the memories overcame him.
“And the son, Stefan, I’ve met. A real charmer. What do you know? How certain are you?” she asked.
“Not a hundred percent, but almost.”
“Have you mentioned anything about your suspicions? To the police, I mean?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk with a detective?”
“No, not really. I don’t believe in revenge.”
“It can also be called justice.”
“I didn’t believe it to start with, but then…”
“Then you talked with your neighbor, Gösta.”
“You think so.”
“Gösta is like a restless hen, and I think it has to do with the school fire. He said something, didn’t he?”
“Ask him.”
“Who do you want to protect?”
Bertil did not answer immediately. He looked around with a distracted expression, as if he didn’t care about her anymore and was looking for new company.
“I’ve learned not to run around with speculations, especially in a village like ours. It only leads to discord. What happened is frightful and sad, human lives have been lost, hope has been wiped out, and what’s left is we who are assigned to live, and judge. But I can’t, I no longer know what road to take.”
“Is it the case that besides Stefan Sanberg, Daniel Mattsson was there and set the fire, and now you don’t want to add to the burden for the family? That some kind of justice was served when he was killed.”
“That would be a grotesque justice. It’s not up to us humans to … I think God is going to mete out the punishment.”
“Can’t we help God get started?”
“I have to talk with Astrid, she probably needs assistance,” Bertil said and left. You run off when things start to heat up, thought Ann. She had little use for that talk about God, and Astrid had a whole platoon helping refill, set out, and clean up.
Coffee and cake came to the tables. The mood rose, the sound level was high, the spiked punch bowl had certainly done its part, and there was lots of laughter. There was singing and cheering. Sherry was sipped. Astrid shed a tear, thanking everyone, and the guests applauded.
The Night of the Fire: A Mystery Page 19