“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m ungodly curious.”
He did not react, his facial expression was unchanged and he said nothing. She hated these kinds of situations, when she had to explain herself, start over, talk at length. In her previous life she had mostly avoided that sort of thing; a police officer has an advantage from the start. It was only the most hardened, or disturbed, individuals who could circumvent that advantage by consistently keeping their mouths shut.
Now Bertil was a true man of God who did not want to feast on the quandaries of others, so he broke the stalemate. He led her to the bench, mounted on the wall, not the garden chairs where they’d sat before when Ann came to visit. No, the bench, where you didn’t have to look each other in the eyes and thus could toy with the truth more freely.
“Yes, if such were the case,” he said at last. “If such were the case, it doesn’t change a thing.” He fell silent just as suddenly as he had started speaking, sighed deeply. Ann hurried to add something.
“If it doesn’t become public, that is.”
“Public,” he repeated. “That’s another way to put it.”
“Publicized sounds so … what shall I say … like advertising in the newspaper.”
“It definitely does not change my life. I’m at the tail end.” He went on about this, how everything leveled out, how old grudges and vexations faded away, how the desire for peace and calm shifted your perspective and attitude to life. “I don’t wish for anything, my desires are limited, basically always have been, but it’s become increasingly clear with the years.”
The old men in this village take empty talk to a higher level, she thought, but she could see herself in what he was saying. She was a cheesemaker, no longer a detective inspector. This was no interview room, this was a simple bench where you sat and told tales, and where her jurisdiction was apparently limited.
His smile was ambiguous. He turned his hands and observed them as if he was examining a pair of new bargains he’d found on a shelf at the hardware store in Uppsala.
“It may be so, it would be strange to deny,” he said. “I think he understands, neither Wendela nor I have talked with him, and now, why should we dig up the past?”
“But—”
“I know what you’re going to say: Everyone has a right to know, not just suspect, but know who one’s biological parents are. Maybe so. If Andreas really wants to know, get it certified, so to speak, what deep down he’s already understood for a long time, well, then he can ask. Ask who his real father is.”
“Who knows?”
“You think this has something to do with the fire in the smithy? If not, there’s no reason to root in this.”
The admonition was clear, even though he flashed his parish smile.
“How does it feel for you then?”
“Good.”
A shadow passed unexpectedly across the farmyard, but the sun returned just as quickly. Ann looked up; the clouds sailed ahead at a significant speed, as if a heavenly regatta had been organized. It made her feel dizzy. Nothing was fixed, everything was in motion, it occurred to her. She could see herself and Bertil Efraimsson clinging firmly to the bench, whirling in an earthly course around their own axis, around the sun. It was only the law of gravity that prevented them from being slung out into space on a path toward eternity.
She mentioned something about this, it wasn’t that easy to formulate, but Bertil was a good listener, she already knew that from before. She could never talk about this with anyone else in the village. Carpenter Gösta would certainly burst into laughter. With the right of old age Astrid would scrutinize her with that mildly critical gaze, which would say: Don’t show off.
“Yes, it’s dizzying,” he agreed. “But I have it arranged. Already at a young age I took out insurance. My journey goes on without great surprises and I know the destination well.”
“No turbulence, no air pockets?”
“It happens.”
“The police think that Andreas visited the farm the night of the fire.”
“What would he have done there, you mean?” Bertil said after a moment.
“I don’t mean anything, it’s what my former colleagues are thinking,” said Ann. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s talk. They’re grasping for straws, but there’s probably no evidence, right?”
She understood that he was fishing for information.
“And if such were the case, what does that say? That he visited Hamra for completely sensible reasons, perhaps.”
“I don’t know,” said Ann. She was satisfied, now worry was planted in her otherwise so secure neighbor.
“There may be lots of reasons, maybe he needed to retrieve something from the machine shop, something he forgot. He works all the time.”
“I know no more than you do,” said Ann.
She heard for herself how false that sounded.
“You have the same gestures. Andreas makes that movement with his hand too. And you both have that slightly dismissive expression.”
“Dismissive?”
Ann smiled. “Yes, when you slightly disapprove of what’s said.”
“Yes, we’re alike,” said Bertil. “But he has a more restless mind.”
“Is he going to take off?”
“I know no more than you do,” he said, repeating her words.
A glass of wine would sit nicely, she thought, but without being controlled by the torments that took her hostage before. Then she could feel the grip harden, how she was slowly but mercilessly driven toward the edge of the precipice, where she had to stare down into the abyss, toward her own dependence and degradation. She relaxed, leaned against the wall, and let the wood siding warm her back.
Learn to keep quiet, she kept her inner monologue going, then the thoughts and answers will come to you. She stole a glance at her neighbor. He was still attractive, admittedly graying but still forceful. She understood very well why Wendela Mattsson had fallen for him. How did it happen, was it a one-night stand or did they have a longer relationship? Maybe still? No. Of course it was impossible to ask and had nothing to do with the arsons, but it was still a little exciting to speculate about.
“I’ve never talked with anyone about what happened,” Bertil said, and Ann almost started laughing. “It feels strange and distant, as if it didn’t concern me, my life.”
“I’m as silent as the grave,” Ann felt compelled to say.
“Yes, now I don’t want to make a confession here and now, but perhaps we can reason a little with each other in the future.”
“Let’s do that,” said Ann. “We’ll reason a little with each other.”
“I talked with Naomi, Astrid’s granddaughter. She said that the two of you met at the party.”
“A fine girl.”
“She’s Astrid’s joy. She’s in high school, some kind of theater program. It doesn’t sound all that serious, but she speaks good English and that’s important. At the school twenty percent voted for that Åkesson. One-fifth. In Gimo the Social Democrats probably had an absolute majority at one time. I wonder how it will be this fall.”
“I remember that there was a lot of coverage about the refugee facility in Gimo. It was closed down, right?”
“That was years ago,” said Bertil. “There was a lot of ruckus and protests. They tore the buildings down too, no one wanted to live there. There was so much sorrow in the walls.”
“You’re thinking about refugees?”
“I’m thinking about people. They are people.”
“Was Andreas there raising a ruckus too, ten years ago?”
“He was in school then. It must have been fifteen years ago. Of course he was influenced. Bullying has probably always existed, I remember it from the school here, and then a lot of Iraqis and Syrians come, of course they’re bullied.”
* * *
The TV in the kitchen ground on. It was a bad habit she’d started when she moved there, shamefully aw
are that maybe Erik would spend a little more time with her if there was a screen in the vicinity. Something cultural was on, or maybe a travel program, it was about the city of Dubrovnik, and she stayed seated. In front of her she had a little wine. Should I travel there? She followed along in the narrow alleys, enticed by sidewalk cafés, and marveled at all the stone that had been heaped together to build the city. So much work, it struck her, and then she smiled to herself; that was a typical Edvard comment. Would he go with her to Dubrovnik? I have money, enough that I could invite him. “I have the money,” she mumbled, stealing a glance at the wineglass. How much had she saved the past two years through her reduced consumption? It was thousands of kronor.
The last sweeping images showed sea and beaches. It will have to be something like that, she thought, and her already good mood was reinforced. I have command over my life. Edvard, come with me, don’t be silly, relax, you like the sea.
Dubrovnik was followed by Sammy Nilsson’s mug on the TV. The shock—it was nothing less, astonishment and surprise were words too feeble—the shock was immediate and total. A special segment from the news studio showed a tousled Sammy talking about explosives. The vein that ran along the side of his left eye was pulsing, like it always did when he got going. He did it well, there was a drive and a drama that was unrehearsed, and for that reason so good. His dogged expression, the tone of voice, his gaze fixed in the distance, consistently looking to the right, as if he was still on his guard, all of it was authentic and stylish. Ann understood why they chose the clip as an introduction to the story.
She took a sip, turned up the volume, and felt the excitement grow. That he dared was her next thought. Normally a media spokesperson or someone higher up in rank would have that kind of first talk on TV in such a serious investigation, but she also understood why he could take the risk. He was untouchable in a way, it was his work that led up to the raid in Rasbo, how could he be seriously criticized? There was nothing spectacular in his action, he’d done the right thing, led the SWAT team to the right place, to the right person, and then left it all. But had they arrested the right person? Time would tell. That was naturally the weak point. Sammy could be adventurous, but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d maintained that Björn Rönn knew about what happened in Hökarängen and that the construction worker almost blurted out that he knew. Ann believed Sammy on that point. If he’d seen it, then it was so.
She took out her phone, pressed speed dial 2. Busy. She wanted to know if Erland “Smulan” Edman had also been brought in. She left a voice message, began with congratulations and was on the verge of ending by saying that she and Edvard were thinking about going to Croatia, but left it at a traditional goodbye.
Should she call Justus? Maybe a little later when he was home from work. She stood up, walked over to the window and peeked out, glanced at the wineglass, empty, left the kitchen without knowing what she should do. Days off during the week were not a good idea.
“Think,” she told herself. She opened the front door. Think, like you did once upon a time, many times when you were ahead of your colleagues, when the unit boss Ottosson looked up during the morning meeting and gave you that look that seemed to say: I’ll be damned, of course that’s how it is. She recalled the good memories, expertly suppressed the less good ones.
“Who benefits from Daniel Mattsson’s death?” The most obvious answer was probably his brother, or more precisely his half brother, Andreas. He was now the sole heir to the Mattsson empire, unless there was something deceptive in the line of succession at Hamra Farm & Contracting. She didn’t really know Mattsson, hadn’t been able to study and assess him, and definitely not after the smithy fire.
On the other hand, Waldemar Mattsson could live another thirty years, and if he threw in the towel earlier, then Wendela would surely be sitting on an undivided estate. Was Andreas prepared to wait for his inheritance until he was over sixty? Wouldn’t he want to realize his dreams of a life in the tropics before then? Okay, he could probably do it on his own, without inherited money, and see the farm as pension insurance when the heat got too heavy and healthcare too primitive in Southeast Asia.
She returned to the kitchen, pulled the laptop to her, and googled pictures of various Toyota models. Therese owned a twenty-year-old metallic-gray Corolla, Sammy had told her. Of course, it could very well have been one like that she saw the night of the fire. Her inattentiveness was irritating, but her focus had been on the flames. “Bloody amateur,” she muttered and closed the computer.
Was it Andreas Mattsson who took off after setting fire to the smithy and killing his half brother? If he was returning to Östhammar he was heading in the wrong direction, but he had probably seen her headlights approaching, and the fact was that it was possible to come out on Route 288 from that direction too, even if it was a few kilometers longer.
Her testimony would never be enough, she understood that very well. There would have to be other evidence to link Andreas to the scene, but that was not something he needed to know. In an interrogation Sammy Nilsson and Bodin could maintain that he was recognized at the scene and at the right time, in order to undermine his defense in that way, get him to wobble, start lying, start wrapping himself in explanations that would not appear credible.
You could convict a perpetrator in that way, but Andreas Mattsson seemed to be made of sturdy stuff. If he were wise he could simply flatly deny it, maintain that Therese was really intoxicated that night, where the waiter and the bill from the restaurant in Östhammar would support his description, and add that she was filled with a desire for revenge because he wanted to abandon Sweden and her as well, and for that reason wanted him to go to prison for something he hadn’t done. An attorney would crush her testimony; an assertion that a car key is hanging on the wrong hook in a key cabinet would not hold up in court. And could Ann herself swear that it was a gray Toyota she’d seen in the semidarkness? No, she would be forced to answer in a courtroom.
Had Andreas observed the speed limit? There were probably at least a couple of speed cameras that he must have passed on the way to Östhammar. But were they activated at night? Sad to say she didn’t know, and most likely he drove lawfully. He knew the road well too, knew that there were cameras.
Ann worked through the arguments, for and against, testing different perspectives. Now she was at her best, with a glass of wine, and only one, pumping around in her body. It struck her that she had met all those involved except one, Sam Rothe, the rabbit man, as Sammy called him. He would also benefit from the smithy fire, if you could put it like that. His sister died inside, and he too would become a sole heir. That was a horrible thought, but reality was that brutal, after many years in the police force she had no difficulty realizing.
From what she understood the two of them, Lovisa and Sam, had not been particularly close. On the contrary, Sammy had hinted.
If she hadn’t been drinking wine, she would have gotten in her car and visited him. There was a reason, or rather a pretext, and that was the dove that ended up in her mailbox. That was an entry as good as any. She decided to wait an hour or two.
Thirty-Six
“It’s your damned fault, Nilsson,” the disembodied voice hissed out of the speakerphone. He was a boss of some kind, a boss somewhere, no doubt in the capital. Maybe they’d been introduced. Sammy did not recall. There were too many others in the room, a tumult almost, before it gradually calmed down a little.
His voice was like a snake’s avatar, cold and slippery in that deceptive way that now seemed prevalent among the higher command. Maybe there were courses for that sort of thing too, Sammy thought, or else they were influenced by Netflix, an idea that Lindell had tossed out, that the schooling of the big bosses happened outside the actual legal system.
Sammy did not reply. Bandits and commanders were vulnerable to silence, that was generally known. Åhlander stared at him, the whole gathering glowered. “Well? Do you understand that?”
Sammy cleared his throat, bu
t did not say anything. His own phone beeped, but he ignored it. It beeped again. “It’s probably a reporter,” he mumbled and sheepishly pretended to smile. The segment on TV had opened a floodgate. Sammy had become popular.
Vidar Stefansson, police master in the city, stood up. He was known for speechifying, often with formulations so far-fetched and provocative, deliberate or not, that they could be misunderstood and misused by colleagues as well as the media and general public. “We have an arrest, we have a confession,” he stated for the third time in ten minutes. “And that’s more than what Greinefors achieved, wasn’t that his name, that guy who was shouting out of the speakerphone? Where is he anyway, at a conference in Andalusia? I thought I heard flamenco in the background.”
A virtually general guffaw erupted, because the gathering was relieved, and in somewhat high spirits. Naturally there were those who were not so easily amused, but they were clearly in the minority, because this was truly a breakthrough. The Uppsala police had shown initiative and force at a time when the whole world was wondering what was going on in the kingdom of Sweden, where street markets were as dangerous as in Baghdad or Kabul.
“It’s your fault,” Åhlander repeated, “that continued surveillance is compromised. Using TV to make yourself known in the media, that’s not police work.”
“Change detectives,” someone in the gathering tossed out. “So far we here in Uppsala have managed ourselves well.”
The meeting on late Monday afternoon, where prosecutors, various experts, and a motley group of police officers from widely separated areas and authorities were gathered, rationally got no further than that. Everything had been plowed through, accusations and gibes had been delivered, and nevertheless a kind of order had been established.
* * *
Björn Thomas Rönn had confessed that he, and he alone, was behind the theft of explosives at his workplace in Almunge. It had happened on March 3. It was a “mission” he had been given.
The statement was deemed credible, even if there were question marks. He had access to the workplace but had nothing to do with blasting work, which was managed by a different company, and the safety procedures were rigorous. But sure, it had been possible to carry out the theft.
The Night of the Fire: A Mystery Page 24