The Hand that Trembles (44 page)

‘A couple of steps behind,’ Lindell observed.

Bosse Marksson turned his head to look at her.

‘When I was a little boy, there was a man out here called Tin Nicholas. He got the name from some character in a children’s television program. He was a little slow in the head, but completely harmless. He used to go around on a moped, knocking on people’s doors and asking for scrap to sell. He never bought anything and people knew it, but everyone would invite him in for coffee and talk for a while. He would bring a little gossip from place to place and sometimes he ran an errand like buying snuff for some old man or something. He was careful to give back the exact change and never wanted anything extra for his trouble.’

Marksson fell silent. Lindell waited for a continuation. She felt completely calm. The last pieces of the Bultudden puzzle would soon fall into place, she knew that.

‘Then he died,’ Marksson said. ‘It was in the early 1970s. He had no family to speak of, but there were probably a couple of hundred people at his funeral.’

‘What made you think of him?’

‘My dad attended the funeral and he said that it was unusually elaborate. During the refreshments afterward, several people made speeches. Strange. Torsten Andersson’s father paid for everything, gravestone, priest, and all the cakes. No one really understood why, but no one seemed to question it either.’

Marksson tossed the pitchfork back on the ground, turned around, stared at the edge of the forest, and then started walking back to the car.

Lindell followed.

‘It wasn’t Frisk, was it?’

Marksson stopped and turned around. He shook his head.

‘Let’s go to Torsten’s,’ he said.

Torsten Andersson had hung an advent star in his kitchen window. He shouted ‘Come in!’ when Marksson knocked on the door. He was sitting in the kitchen. His hands were folded and resting on the table.

‘I’ve got a fire going,’ he said, and looked at Lindell, who nodded and tried to manage a smile.  

She walked up to the wood stove and warmed her hands. The sooty stove reminded her of the cottage outside Omberg where her grandparents had lived the last years of their life. They had died one week apart when Lindell was fourteen. She immediately realised where her fondness for wood stoves and crackling fires had come from.

‘How are things, Torsten?’ Marksson asked.

Lindell turned around. Torsten made a face, looking down at the table as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

‘We stopped in at Lasse Malm’s,’ Marksson continued, ‘but he wasn’t home.’  

‘He’s probably in Östhammar,’ Torsten said in an indifferent voice.  

‘Bultudden has been well ploughed.’  

‘It’s just the usual,’ Torsten said.  

‘Do you remember Tin Nicholas?’  

Torsten chuckled. ‘Of course I remember him.’  

‘He had a red moped, a Puch,’ Marksson said. ‘There was an old Puch in Malm’s shed, that must have been why I started thinking about Nicholas.’  

‘Malm’s father had a Puch,’ Torsten said.  

‘You remember that, do you?’ Marksson said.  

Torsten glanced at him quickly, and smiled without warmth, before he rose, walked over to the counter, and poured himself a glass of water.  

‘Why didn’t you say anything about the seal rifle?’  

Torsten drank greedily, put the glass down sharply, and then returned to his seat at the table.  

‘I know nothing about that,’ Torsten said.  

The fire crackled.  

‘You know everything about Bultudden,’ Marksson said. ‘If a pine cone falls, you know about it before it lands.’

‘We no longer believe it was Frisk who killed Patima,’ Lindell said.

‘Then who was it?’

‘Why don’t you tell us?’ Lindell said encouragingly.

Torsten mopped his forehead.

‘I think I’m getting sick,’ he said.

‘When we met that first time you said something about murderers being treated too well,’ Lindell went on. ‘You compared it to dogs who were crazy or mean. Do you remember?’

Torsten looked steadily at her but said nothing.  

‘We know you saw Patima. Why didn’t you say anything about that? Did you kill her? Maybe it was an accident. You got scared and decided to get rid of the body.’  

‘That’s not what happened,’ Torsten Andersson said in a hoarse voice.  

‘Then what did happen? Did you get excited? Did you get horny again last night and sneak around Lisen Morell’s cottage? Did Patima make you want more?’  

Marksson coughed and Lindell shot him a quick look but kept going.  

‘You forced yourself on her and she started to scream, isn’t that right? Resisted. You got scared, maybe even angry.’  

‘That’s not what happened,’ Torsten Andersson repeated. ‘I saw her, that’s true, but I never touched her. She was a skinny little thing. I only followed her for a while. She never saw me.’  

‘You wanted to know where she lived?’ Marksson said.  

‘I knew where,’ Torsten said. ‘She lived with Frisk for a long time. But she wasn’t headed that way.’

Lindell leant across the table and fixed her gaze on him.

‘Then where was she headed? Did you invite her home to taste a little lamb?’

‘She was headed to Lasse Malm’s house,’ Torsten Andersson said so quietly that Lindell could barely hear him.

‘Did you see her go in?’

Torsten nodded.

‘The rifle was his, wasn’t it?’ Marksson asked.

Another nod.

‘It was Gunnar’s rifle, Lasse’s dad.’

‘You think that Malm …’

‘I think he’s gone down to the dock,’ Torsten said finally. ‘You know Axel Johansson’s old place. The shed is still there. He goes down there sometimes. He’s got his dinghy stored down there.’

Marksson nodded.

‘Lasse came by a little while ago,’ Torsten said. ‘He was on his way somewhere but changed his mind. “I’ll go down to the dock instead,” he said. I wanted him to stay for a while but he insisted and was—’

‘Has the road been ploughed?’

‘No, not really. I only went down part of the way, maybe fifty metres.’

‘Why?’

‘Dad always did,’ Torsten said. ‘He was related to Axel.’

‘But Axel has been gone for decades.’

‘I do it anyway. An old habit. It’s nice to pretend a little, get away from the Avenue. I have feeling of … well, you know.’

Marksson smiled.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘One thought gives way to another. Everything is old and familiar, but still new each time. Axel was a remarkable man.’

‘He walked his own way,’ Torsten said. ‘Do you know he once sailed in Australia?’

‘I saw a photo of him once in a book,’ Marksson said. ‘It was about Åland grain shipping.’

‘He wasn’t old back then.’

‘That’s how it was. His dad …’

‘Oh, he was something!’

Lindell wanted to move on, but couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. She had been listening to the conversation with ambivalence. In part she was ashamed of her own aggressiveness, in part she was moved by their spare exchange, where so much was said without words. She had experienced this before, the rarefied use of language and phrasing between two people in tune with each other and their environment. She knew that even in this apparently trivial exchange, significant information could be extracted.

‘Well, we really should get going,’ Marksson said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Malm was unhappy. Really unhappy,’ Torsten said. ‘Lasse is not really a bad person.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he is,’ Marksson said.

He sighed heavily and lingered in silence for a moment before he stood up, nodded at Lindell – whom he had not looked at until then – and left the kitchen.

‘Thanks for the fish,’ she said, and followed her colleague.

Torsten dismissed it with a wave.

* * * 

As usual, Marksson had rushed ahead and was waiting by the car.

‘It’s Malm, isn’t it?’ Lindell said. ‘He got nervous when he knew we were going to talk to Frisk, and set the whole thing up like a suicide. He swapped the chainsaws, putting his Stihl in Frisk’s shed and taking the Jonsered instead.’

‘Looks that way,’ Marksson said. ‘But I wasn’t sure.’

‘But now you are?’

‘Torsten knows something that we don’t. He has seen or heard something. Maybe we’ll never know what it is, or it will eventually emerge, but he has been thinking about it, and now he is sure. I saw it in him.’

They got into the car, backed down Torsten’s driveway, and drove south again. It occurred to Lindell that they were probably dealing with a murderer.

‘Shouldn’t we call in what we’re doing? He may be armed.’

‘I don’t think we need to worry,’ Marksson said. ‘But we can let them know what’s going on.’

He picked up his mobile phone and called the station in Östhammar. He told them what had happened and that they were on their way to collect Lars Malm for questioning.

‘No, we don’t need any assistance. I’ll call you later.’

He turned off the phone and at the same moment waved his hand at a ploughed side street. Lindell had barely registered it before. She turned, and drove some twenty metres down a road with big pine trees on either side before making a sharp swing. Lasse Malm’s pickup was parked by the piled snow on the right.

They got out. Marksson walked over to the car and felt the hood.

‘Still warm,’ he said.

Lindell loosened the tarp over the back. There was a chainsaw underneath. A Jonsered.

Footprints led straight to the sea, which could be glimpsed between the trees. Marksson took out his gun from its holster under his arm.

The shed was some fifty metres away. Lindell took large steps through the snow in Malm’s footsteps. Marksson suddenly stopped. A breeze swept over the water and stirred the yellow-brown reeds at the edge of the shore. Marksson turned and looked searchingly at her.

We stand out too much, Lindell thought. She saw an image of Frisk’s bloody head in front of her eyes.

Marksson went on. Suddenly he turned to the left and Lindell knew he wanted to check the door to the shed. It was open.

‘Lasse,’ Marksson yelled. ‘It’s me. Bosse. Can we talk? I’ve just been to Torsten’s.’

The only answer was the faint rustling of the reeds.

‘Stay here,’ Marksson said.

He walked on slowly. Lindell deliberated if she should follow. Marksson reached the door. He hesitated for a moment, pressed against the wall of the shed, before he peeked in. Lindell took a couple of steps closer. Marksson straightened his back and stood still a couple of seconds. He drew a couple of deep breaths and then waved her over.

Lasse Malm hung in a noose that he had fastened to a hook in the ceiling. A wooden box lay at his feet. The rope had cut deeply into his neck. His mouth was open as if he had screamed at the moment of death. The tongue was blue, the eyes closed.

Marksson straightened the box, stood on it, and was immediately able to determine that Lasse Malm was the third case of death in Bultudden in recent months.

Lindell forced herself to look at the dead man’s hands. His nails were dirty and the hands black with soot. She recalled the first time she had seen them. Then they had seemed so powerful. Now his body appeared diminished. It struck her that he appeared more human in death.

‘He was going to get rid of the chainsaw, but changed his mind and got rid of himself instead,’ she said.

‘I wonder what Torsten said to him,’ Marksson said.

He left the boat shed, went and stood on the granite outside, and stared out at the sea. Lindell looked at his wide back and saw his chest heave in deep inhalations. Then he turned back. Lindell was standing in the doorway.

‘Patima left Frisk and went from the frying pan into the fire,’ he said. ‘Poor girl.’

‘There won’t be any charges,’ Sven-Arne Persson said.

Ante lay outstretched on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sven-Arne was unsure if Ante had heard what he said, but went on anyway.

‘They only have the girl’s version. The guy denies everything.’

Ante turned his head and looked at his nephew but didn’t say anything.

‘It would be strange if he did, of course,’ he said. ‘He’s kept his mouth shut for twelve years, so why would he start talking now? And who knows what really happened? She seems a bit off, to put it mildly.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘I went there,’ Sven-Arne said.

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to see the house.’

Ante snorted.

‘“See the house,”’ he echoed. ‘Why on earth? And then you went and turned yourself in?’

Ante braced himself with his hands and managed to drag himself up into a seated position.

‘The police say they have nothing. I talked with the prosecutor this morning. I know him from before. He said the same thing.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, “why”?’

‘Why did you confess?’

‘I didn’t want you to have any trouble,’ Sven-Arne said.

‘No, I didn’t even get that,’ Ante said. ‘That man was a pig and lived off of our money, like a civil servant.’

‘But why did you want to see him dead? Wouldn’t it have been better to reveal his past and let him bear the public humiliation?’

Sven-Arne stared at Ante. He didn’t answer. It had always been that way: Ante made himself inaccessible and left so many questions unanswered when it suited him. Sven-Arne had a desire to attack. Ante had closed his eyes to oppression as long as it was done in the name of the working classes, made light when human rights were violated as long as it was for the right cause. But why take up the old worn arguments? He knew his uncle too well and had been through it all so many times. Ante’s belief in justice was in large part his own. He had chosen the step-by-step reformer’s path and found political work a bottomless marsh. He had participated in the game, been underhanded and careless with the truth, and seen his party lose its health and its original mission. As a county politician he had swallowed and swallowed until his disgust stuck in his throat. He had stepped off the track. Chosen to flee. Now he was sitting in front of an old man who had fought his whole life and who had even been prepared to offer his life to resist Nazism.