Sammy Nilsson turned away. He could not shake his aversion. They were treating Brant as a possible suspect and on very flimsy grounds at that. It was now clear that he had visited Gränsberg’s trailer, and there was much that suggested he had done so the day the murder was committed. The fact that he travels abroad the following morning may be flight but just as easily a planned trip. That he booked it as long as a few days before departure meant nothing.
A journalist, thought Sammy Nilsson, a politically oriented freelancer, would he kill a homeless former scaffolder? Well, unexpected things happen, he reasoned further, but the probability, how great was it?
“Listen, do you think Brant is our guy?”
Morgansson stopped, still leaning over, turned his head, and observed his colleague.
“No,” he said, somewhat unexpectedly for Nilsson, but did not develop his viewpoint.
“I’ll be in the living room,” said Sammy.
Morgansson nodded and continued his work.
Nilsson sat down in the other armchair with a vague hope that it might be somewhat more comfortable, and continued thinking. He could hear the tow truck leaving the parking area.
Morgansson came into the living room a few minutes later and sat down in the other chair.
“He hasn’t changed the sheets for a while,” the technician observed. “I’ve secured two different types of hair, one light and one very dark. There are stains besides, probably semen, on one of the pillows.”
“My God,” said Sammy Nilsson.
“Maybe she had a pillow under her ass,” said Morgansson.
Then a few minutes of unforced silence followed. That was one good thing about the guy from northern Sweden, thought Nilsson, he knew the art of keeping quiet without making it feel strange. But it was Morgansson who broke the silence.
“So, what do you think about Haver?”
Sammy looked up with surprise.
“What should I think about him?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed how difficult he’s been, mostly goes around sulking and snaps at everyone. I think Beatrice is really sick and tired of it.”
“I guess he’s tired and worn out,” said Nilsson, feeling some discomfort.
“We all are more or less,” said the technician. “This is different.”
“He’ll probably get out of his slump,” said Nilsson.
“I think it’s on the home front,” Morgansson continued, who obviously did not want to let go of the topic.
“With Rebecka, you mean?”
Morgansson nodded.
“We know nothing about that,” said Nilsson, and now his tone was plainly unsympathetic.
“Maybe it’s something with Lindell?”
“What?”
“She hasn’t been herself either recently.”
“You mean that Ola and Ann might be together?”
“Depends on what you mean by together, I don’t know,” Morgansson retreated.
“Well, you know her better than most,” said Nilsson.
Morgansson’s cheeks immediately turned red. He’s jealous, that bastard, thought Nilsson. Lindell and the technician had had a brief affair, shortly after Morgansson moved there from Umeå.
“She seems to be off her game,” said Morgansson. “Completely absent for long periods.”
“It’s Klara Lovisa that’s haunting her.”
Morgansson shook his head.
“It’s love,” he said.
“And the reason is Haver, you think? That those two would… and that Haver is thinking about divorce, is that what you’re thinking?”
“Something like that,” said Morgansson.
Sammy Nilsson shook his head.
“Never,” he decided, getting up from the chair.
Morgansson laughed awkwardly.
“Nice chairs,” he said, patting the armrest.
Nine
Andreas Davidsson had a distinctive hair style; his head was shaved on the sides with a short Mohawk on top. In one earlobe he had an earring. He had adopted this style in an attempt to look tough, Lindell believed, but he only radiated fear.
“You finished ninth grade last spring,” she noted.
He nodded.
“What will you be doing this fall?”
“Graphic design at GUC,” he answered.
“Is that good?”
“Mm.”
Is this what Erik will turn into, thought Lindell, taciturn and a little sullen, unwilling to look you in the eyes?
“First I want to say that we do not suspect you of anything. You were in Gävle when she disappeared. We know that you and Klara Lovisa were seeing each other last year, wasn’t that the case?”
Another nod, and now the boy appeared on the verge of tears.
“Then she broke up with me right after New Year’s,” he said. “On New Year’s Day.”
Lindell nodded. She knew all this from when they questioned him back in April.
“Do you have a new girlfriend?”
Andreas shook his head. Lindell sensed that he still thought a lot about Klara Lovisa. Not only because she disappeared in a dramatic way, but because he was still in love with her.
“Was any other boy interested in her? I mean, did she hint anything?”
His jaws tensed, and he gave her a quick look.
“She didn’t say anything, that she had met someone else, or something?”
“No, she just left.”
“But perhaps you suspected-”
“No, I said that!”
“Okay,” Lindell backed up immediately. “I believe you, but as you understand this can get a little tedious. I want to know what happened, just like you. Did she say anything at all about other boys? I mean, she is pretty.”
“There was someone stalking her last fall,” Andreas said suddenly.
“What do you mean by ‘stalking’?”
“Well, he was after her.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t want to say anything, just said something about some retard who was trying. He was going to invite her to Stockholm.”
“I see, why did she tell you that, do you think?”
He responded with a sigh.
“To make you jealous, perhaps?”
A bird, Lindell thought it was a blackbird, came hopping across the lawn in front of the terrace where they were sitting. She observed the bird and thought about how she should keep coaxing.
“What were they going to do in Stockholm?”
“Shop and go to Gröna Lund, or something, I don’t know.”
“But there was no trip to Stockholm?”
“Not as far as I know.”
He smiled a joyless smile.
“Do you think it was someone from school?”
“No, it was someone older.”
“How much older?”
He shrugged.
“He had a driver’s license, anyway. She said that.”
“When exactly was this? Fall, you said.”
“Maybe some time in September.”
“And then she didn’t say anything about this unknown admirer?”
“No, nothing.”
Lindell felt sorry for the boy in front of her, for his way of nervously and unconsciously taking hold of his left wrist with his right hand and twisting it around, back and forth, as if he was trying to slip off a bracelet, and inhaling through his nose as if to steel himself to not start crying. It was torture to make him go through this again.
It was summer break, he should be doing fun things, celebrate that nine years of school were over, lie on a beach or whatever, instead of meeting a police officer and recalling the girlfriend he still dreamed about. There was nothing exciting about that, only regret. The memory of Klara Lovisa would fade, but Lindell was convinced that for his whole life he would remember her shoulder-length hair, lovely profile, and tender young breasts, which perhaps he had caressed. Perhaps they had slept with each other, perhaps it was the first time for both of them.
“What happened last fall with Klara Lovisa? Were things going well in school for her, did she do anything special, did anything happen that you can recall?”