The Hand that Trembles (38 page)

‘Were you a threat?’

‘Why would I be a threat?’

‘You are close to your nephew and shared secrets with him.’

Ante fired off a new humourless laugh.

‘When can I see Sven-Arne?’

‘We have to talk to him first,’ Lindell said.

‘Doesn’t he want to?’

‘I don’t know anything about that. But if you want to see him you will have to cooperate a little. You were in the house when Nils Dufva died and now I want to know what happened. You will not help Sven-Arne by keeping quiet. We know you were there.’  

‘How do you know?’  

‘Your fingerprints were in the house. You knew Dufva. You were there. We want a story.’  

Ante Persson stared at her.  

‘How is Sven-Arne?’  

‘He seems relieved,’ Fredriksson said. ‘And tired.’  

‘What did you do during the war?’ Ante asked.  

‘I wasn’t born then,’ Fredriksson said, and smiled.  

Ante Persson scrutinised him.

‘Oh,’ he said, and appeared to lose interest in Fredriksson. He turned back to Lindell. ‘Please arrange for me to speak with him. That is the most important thing.’

Lindell did not comment on this request and waited, but received no further elaboration. Ante Persson refused to speak. It was as if all his strength had drained away. His hands rested limply on the handlebar of the walker and he hung his head.

‘Would you like to rest for a bit?’ Lindell asked after a minute of silence.

Ante Persson looked sideways at her. There was nothing of his anger or resistance left, only a pair of deeply mournful old eyes that regarded Lindell for a few seconds before his head sank back against his chest.

Lindell looked at Fredriksson, who stood up and walked over to the old man.

‘Shouldn’t you lie down for a while?’ he suggested, and put his hand on Persson’s shoulder.

Ante Persson did not reply. Lindell indicated with her head that she thought they should leave.

‘We’ll talk to the staff,’ she said when they were outside in the hallway. ‘They can look in on him. We won’t get anything else out of him right now.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Lindell said absentmindedly. She had caught sight of a woman down the hall whom she assumed was a member of the staff. ‘I’ll talk to her. We can’t just leave him like this.’

She walked over to the woman, whose name according to her name tag was Anneli Hietanen. As soon as Lindell mentioned Ante’s name she started to smile.

‘Oh, Ante. Yes, he’s something else. He gets a little tired sometimes but in general he’s more alert than everyone else put together.’

‘I think it would be a good idea for you to look in on him,’ Lindell said. ‘And keep an eye on him for a while.’  

‘Are you a relative? I haven’t seen you here before.’  

‘I’m a police officer.’  

Anneli’s smile extinguished immediately.  

‘Has anything happened?’  

‘No,’ Lindell said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We were just questioning Ante about … It’s regarding one of his relatives.’  

‘I see,’ Anneli said. ‘Is it the girl in India?’  

‘Who are you thinking of?’  

‘Ante sometimes gets letters from India. I joke about him having a girlfriend there, a geisha or something.’  

‘Geisha?’  

‘Whatever they call it.’  

‘Do you know if he’s kept the letters?’  

‘I think so, actually I know he does. He puts them in a box in the bookcase. That box is so makeshift. But why are you asking? Has anything happened to her? Is Ante sad? Why didn’t you say anything?’  

The woman left Lindell and walked to Ante’s room with swift steps, knocked on the door, opened it, and disappeared inside.  

Lindell rejoined Fredriksson, who was already waiting by the lift. She told him about the letters from India.  

‘That would be something to read,’ Fredriksson said.  

‘We’ll have to bring it up with the district attorney.’  

Lindell checked her watch and thought about calling Fritzén, but dismissed the idea. Sammy Nilsson and Fredriksson could handle that. Lindell had the feeling that she should not get too tangled up in the case, because mentally she was still out in Bultudden. On top of that she wanted to get away to the day care and pick up Erik a little earlier. She had been inconsistent of late and now she wanted an extra hour or so with him.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

Fredriksson leant against the wall of the lift and closed his eyes.

‘Geishas,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they Japanese?’

He opened his eyes.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, and looked at her in that way that made him the colleague she so dearly valued, ‘it’s enough to make me despair. There’s such a struggle inside us. Ante Persson is over ninety and deserves a little peace. Did you hear him say: “It’s been a war this whole time. I was born in a war.”’

‘I think he got to be ninety because of those struggles inside him,’ Lindell said.

‘He’s still caught in a war. Didn’t you see his suffering?’

‘Sure, but he’s still alive, maybe more than I am,’ Lindell said.

The lift came to a halt with a little jolt. Fredriksson smiled at her.

‘You’re something else,’ he said simply, and pushed the lift door open. Lindell accompanied her somewhat hunchbacked colleague out into a December day where the snow was falling over Eriksdal’s courtyards and rooftops.

The footprints in the newly fallen snow illustrated the slow progression of a thoughtful man. He turned around once and studied his own tracks. It made him think of hare prints, but hares don’t turn around, he thought. Their trajectories are erratic, they throw themselves this way and that. I walk straight ahead. I have always done so.

Once he reached the boulder and the birch tree with the split trunks occasioned by its great age, he paused a second time. The snow whirled in the wind and he loosened the straps of his hat and lowered the ear-flaps. He looked around: a sparse forest with patches of lichen and brush. It was so reassuring and familiar – nonetheless an unease tingled inside him. It was in exactly this area that he had once intended to subdivide a couple of lots. He tried to imagine a development with two or three houses and was glad he had changed his mind at the last minute.

I made the right decision in the end, he concluded, and felt satisfied for the first time that morning. He walked on. To walk oneself warm, he thought. To walk straight but look to the side. I’ll harvest the timber this winter, he decided, and the thought gave him a moment’s respite. He had actually made the decision earlier, last winter, but confirming it felt good.

He would have to buy a new chainsaw. The old one was no longer usable.

The wind whipped him from the north. He walked himself warm. The sides of the hat flapped but he did not bother to tie the strings under his chin. He would tie his hat after Christmas. Then he would start felling. He longed for the weight of the helmet, the safety headphones cupped over his ears, and the stiffness of the safety clothing against his thighs.

He stopped a third time. Now he was close by and could not opt out of his decision by thinking of woodcutting. It irritated him that he couldn’t drop the thought. And the most painful thing was that he knew what caused this inability to give a damn about the whole situation. Maybe because he had seen her. It had been during blueberry season and she had turned up like an exotic animal, so slender and elfin that she occasionally disappeared between the trees. He had followed her at a distance, sometimes coming close, and he discovered she was quick. She worked with straight legs, which he found pleasing. Crouching down or going down on one’s knees just wasted time.

Her behind was small and boyish, without a womanly definition to the hip bones, but nonetheless enticing. Occasionally she looked around as if anxious. Then he crouched down. How long had he followed her? An hour? Two? She had appeared inexhaustible.

After that, she also appeared when sleep came over him. Recently – when he had understood who she was, or rather had been – she appeared to him more frequently. He could not defend himself.

He could not drop the whole thing and that bothered him. He walked straight. Tracks in the snow on the street. Wind coming from the north. The trees sighing. A pine cone that dropped suddenly. The sound of breakers at a distance. He had soon reached Kalle and Margit’s. He couldn’t walk by without stopping in.

He walked in without knocking. There was a large pot in the hallway. He felt it – still warm. He lifted the lid and saw some kind of stew, glimpses of carrots and onion.

‘Hello there!’ Kalle called from his seat at the kitchen table.

Torsten Andersson pulled off his boots and hung his coat on a hook. He knew that was how Margit wanted it.

‘Well now,’ Kalle said.

‘How are things?’

‘As well as I deserve,’ Kalle said cheerfully.

Torsten sat down.

‘Coffee?’

‘Maybe one cup.’

‘Margit!’

‘I can get it,’ Torsten said, picking out a cup and filling it from the pot.

‘It’s an hour old,’ Kalle said. ‘But poison is as poison does.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Torsten said, after tasting the coffee, ‘has Marksson been by with that rifle? I mean that one that Frisk shot himself with. He came by my house with it.’

Kalle looked out the window and appeared to deliberate over his answer.

‘Yes, he came by,’ he said finally. ‘An old relic. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything like it.’

‘But you recognised it?’

Kalle looked at his neighbour.

‘I think I need a little more,’ he said, and got up from his chair.

‘How is the hip?’

‘The butcher tells me it’s going to be fine, but the devil only knows.’

He refilled his cup and took his seat. He was breathing heavily.

‘Yes, I believe I’ve seen that gun before.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Probably the same as you,’ Kalle said, grinning.

Torsten nodded. He had suspected as much.

‘And what do you think?’

‘What should I think?’ Kalle said, and drank a little of his coffee. ‘This
is
poison,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll tell Margit to put on a new pot.’

‘It’s good enough for me,’ Torsten said. ‘Where is she?’

‘Pottering around upstairs.’

‘What do you think of the whole thing? I mean, that Frisk—’

‘No, I thought the same thing. He was no one to … It’s mysterious.’

‘Have you talked to—’

‘No, I didn’t want to get involved,’ Kalle said. ‘It’s bad enough as it is.’

‘I know. Who would have thought this would happen. I saw her.’

‘Who?’

‘Her. The one who … disappeared,’ Torsten said.

‘You saw her? Where?’

‘In the woods.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Little, thin.’

Kalle nodded as if this confirmed his own idea.

‘And then she disappeared,’ he said with a sigh.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I don’t know. But the fact that Frisk had her hidden away seems pretty clear. Maybe she wanted to leave. It’s hard to say in these cases. I mean, with women.’

Torsten finished the last of the coffee. It felt better now that he had told someone he had seen her, but now he should move on. He was also grateful to have spoken with only Kalle. Margit would have urged him to go to the police.

He thanked Kalle for the coffee and brought his cup to the sink.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, and Kalle raised his hand.

Malm was at home; he knew as much because his car had gone by about an hour earlier. Torsten didn’t know how he would take it. They knew each other well, but had not had much contact the past few years. Torsten and Lasse Malm’s father had been childhood friends and after his suicide, Torsten had often walked over in the evenings to talk to Lasse. Everyone in Bultudden had done what they could to support him. Margit had invited him for dinner many nights and Kalle had taken him out to sea. For a while it was as if the suicide had brought the area inhabitants closer to each other.

Malm’s pickup stood parked outside the front door. There was a large shrink-wrapped package in the back. Lasse Malm stepped out on his front porch as Torsten walked up to the house.

‘Your timing couldn’t be better,’ he said, and gestured to the car.

‘Is it a fridge?’

‘A wardrobe,’ Malm said.

‘You can carry that yourself,’ Torsten said, and smiled.

Malm laughed and punched Torsten on the shoulder.

‘How’s things?’

Torsten muttered something and turned back to the pickup. He didn’t want to ask, but had to. Now or never. He was no coward, but it felt disloyal to bring up the subject of weapons with Malm. Torsten knew that he had detested firearms of all kinds since the day he had found his father on the second floor.

‘There’s one thing,’ Torsten said, and turned to Malm. ‘Something I’ve been thinking about. I have to ask, even though it doesn’t feel quite right.’

‘Yes?’

‘The seal-shooting rifle,’ Torsten said. ‘How did Frisk get hold of it?’

Lasse Malm stared at him before he turned his gaze to the side. Torsten tried again.

‘I have to—’

‘You don’t have to do fuck!’

Take it easy, Torsten thought.

‘Marksson came by and asked me if I recognised it and I said no. I did it for your sake. I would never—’

Lasse Malm raised an arm to stop the flood of words. His face was dark and there was a flicker of something in his small eyes that could be taken for hatred.

‘I knew the talk would start up sooner or later.’

‘No one is talking,’ Torsten said, and made sure not to raise his voice. ‘No one along the Avenue is talking. No one has said anything to the cops. I just wanted to know. This is between you and me.’

Lasse Malm lowered the tailgate and started to pull on the wardrobe box. Torsten laid a hand on his arm.

‘We can do this together,’ he said. ‘Just calm down. I’ll jump up on the bed.’

‘I don’t need any help. You can go to hell!’