Sammy turned his head and studied the directory on the wall in the stairwell. I. Melander lived on the top floor.
At that Beatrice Andersson walked in. Nilsson was expecting his colleague.
“Now maybe we can get a quick identification,” he said to Bruno. “Bea was here a few days ago.”
“Oh, shit.”
“The homeless guy who was killed, you know, he had a connection here.”
Beatrice nodded at Bruno. Sammy stepped to one side and let her in.
“Is it her, do you think?”
They went up the stairs together. The stench of vomit became stronger and stronger.
“The newspaper carrier,” Sammy explained.
“What the hell had he been eating?”
They stepped over the vomit on the third floor.
“An apple and strawberry yogurt,” he said.
“You’re too much!” Beatrice exclaimed.
The woman was on the landing between the third and fourth floors. Someone had placed a kitchen towel over her head. Sammy noted the neatly embroidered monogram. Her right hand tightly clutched a trash bag. At her feet was a newspaper. Sammy read the headline on the front page: Henhouse Burned Down in Alunda.
Ortman was standing halfway up the stairs. The pale, expressionless face testified that he had had more enjoyable assignments.
“Okay?”
Ortman nodded.
Bea leaned over, lifted the blood-stained hand towel, put it back immediately, and straightened up.
“It’s her.”
“That sucks,” said Sammy.
“Any curiosity seekers?”
Ortman shook his head. Can he talk, Sammy wondered, and tested him with a question that reasonably required a somewhat more advanced reply.
“The newspaper carrier? Where is he?”
Ortman managed it by making a motion with his head and pointing one floor down.
Sammy started to laugh.
“This job really sucks!”
Beatrice stared at him. Sammy fell silent, but burst into laughter again when he saw Ortman’s dismayed expression and bewilderment.
“You can go ahead and switch with Bruno for a while, so you get a little fresh air,” Sammy said to Ortman. The patrol officer disappeared down the stairs.
“And you! Do you know if Forensics is on their way?” Sammy called after him.
“Think so,” was the answer.
“He can talk,” said Sammy.
“Shape up,” said Beatrice. “I’ll go up, you take the paper carrier,” she decided on the division of work. “We’ll save time that way.”
Urban Fredlund had apparently recovered somewhat. In front of him on the table was an empty glass.
“Would you like some too?” Maja Melkersson asked. “There’s nothing like a glass of cold milk in the morning,” she continued, taking Sammy Nilsson’s reply as a given, as she immediately set out a glass, got a jug from the refrigerator, and poured in milk.
“Yes, that was good,” said the carrier.
“It’s the least I can do,” said the woman. “You run here every morning and make sure I find out who’s died.”
Sammy Nilsson guessed that she was referring to the obituaries in the local newspaper, but this particular morning her comment sounded macabre, to say the least.
“Can you tell me a little,” said Sammy Nilsson, as he sipped the milk and nodded appreciatively at Maja Melkersson, who was observing him.
“I noticed the smell first,” Urban Fredlund began.
“What smell? Was there already vomit when you arrived?”
“No, that’s my fault,” he said, giving Sammy Nilsson a quick look. “I’m sorry about making a mess.”
Sammy Nilsson made a deprecating gesture.
“It smelled like garbage,” the carrier continued. “Old cheese, mainly. Then when I came up to the third floor I saw… I saw the legs first.”
“You went up and looked?”
“Of course, I had to check whether or not she was injured.”
“But you knew right away that she was dead.”
Urban nodded.
“Then I ran halfway down the stairs. I thought I would make it outside, but I didn’t.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Sammy Nilsson. “Did you recognize her?”
“No, but there aren’t too many you recognize on your route. Most of them are still asleep when I’m working.”
“You didn’t see anything strange, anything that was different, in the yard or in the neighborhood?”
“No, it was a typical Sunday morning. Quiet and peaceful. Until now.”
Sammy Nilsson wrote down his name and contact information.
“One thing,” said Urban Fredlund. “Could you deliver the last newspaper to Wilson, at the very top? It’s probably on the stairway.”
Sammy Nilsson nodded, said thanks for the milk, and left them.
In the meantime the forensics technicians had arrived, the inexhaustible Morgansson and the considerably less energetic Johannesson.
“We don’t really have time,” said Morgansson. “We were just getting in the car to drive up to Dalarna.”
“Dalarna?”
“Yeah, a young kid in Hedemora was cut down with an ice pick last night,” said Johannesson. “Half of Dalarna is down with the flu, our associates in Falun anyway, so we have to intervene.”
“But there must be more than the two of you in Forensics?”
Morgansson smiled apologetically.
“They’ve got it too. Haven’t you noticed that half the building is coughing and sniffling? Jakobsson is the only one who’s healthy, but typically he’s on vacation. That’s the situation.”
“How’s it look?” Johannesson asked. “Can the apartment wait until tomorrow? I mean, it looks like an accident.”
“Okay,” said Sammy. “But wrap up the trash bag, then I’ll take it along and put it in your fridge.”
Sammy continued up the stairs and stuffed the newspaper into Wilson’s mail slot. The door to Ingegerd Melander’s apartment was open, but only slightly. He took hold high up on the door frame and pushed it open.
Beatrice was in the kitchen. She had put on protective socks and gloves. There was a smell of smoke and old, dried-up beer.
“He’s lying on the couch sleeping, evidently dead drunk,” she said. “I thought I would look around a little before we wake him, if that’s even possible.”
“Who is he?”
“Johnny Andersson, her new boyfriend. Ola and I met him here the last time.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“Is this a crime scene?”
“Doubtful,” said Beatrice. “It looks like she started tidying up, went to take out the garbage, and fell down.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Not so far. There’s been a party, that much is clear.”
The kitchen counters, which on her first visit had been almost clinically clean, were now overflowing with plates, glasses, and food scraps. Sammy counted three whole bottles of liquor, all empty, plus a fair number of beer cans.
“There were several of them,” he determined.
He counted six large serving plates and just as many table settings. On the stove was an ovenproof dish that presumably contained potato casserole. Three jars of different kinds of herring were on the kitchen counter, all empty.
He lifted the lid of a saucepan, in which there were three new potatoes left. In a frying pan was half a sausage, which someone had bitten off in the middle, perhaps a final nighttime bite.
Sammy sighed and put the lid back on. It reminded him that he had not had any breakfast.
“Shall we wake up Mr. Andersson?”
“I’d like to look around a little in peace and quiet first,” said Beatrice.
“You’ve had breakfast, I’m guessing.”
Beatrice ignored his comment.
“Let’s take the bedroom first, that’s where women hide their secrets,” she said.
“Shouldn’t we let Morgansson-”
“There’s nothing that indicates a crime,” said Beatrice.
“But if she was going out with the garbage, why just take one trash bag? It’s full of shit here, enough to fill a container.”