The two poems following also did not appear to have any connection to a love story, but the poem of the fourth letter, dated December 10, 1945, made Irene’s jaw drop.
Take me.—Hold me.—Touch me softly.
Embrace me gently for a moment.
Weep awhile—such a sad truth.
Watch me sleep a moment with tenderness.
Do not leave me.—You want to stay,
Stay then until I myself must go.
Place your loving hand on my forehead.
Yet a little while longer we are two.
“This is not a love poem. It’s so … filled with pain and sorrow,” Irene said.
Höök nodded. “Certainly it was a painful love story, especially when you consider she killed herself.”
Of course Tekla’s illicit love affair gave her great pain. Having to give up her lover and then even her child would still be in the future here. This poem was simply about her pain in the relationship with Hilding. Irene didn’t mention this to Höök, but she had to give him credit for his intuition. Surely an invaluable quality in a journalist.
There seemed to be no connection to the love affair in the letters written between January and April 1946, as far as Irene could tell. On the other hand, the letter dated June 7, 1946, was as clear as a belclass="underline"
He came like a rushing wind.
What does the wind care for what is forbidden?
He kissed my cheek,
He kissed all the blood from my skin.
The kisses should have ended there:
He belonged to another, he was on loan
One evening only in the time of the lilacs
And in the month of golden chain.
“Well, that takes the cake! I know this poem. Hjalmar Gullberg. You can’t get any clearer than this. She regrets having an affair but finds she can’t resist him. ‘He comes like the wind …’ and she just toppled right over!” Kurt laughed.
“Hjalmar Gullberg. She had one of his poetry books, I remember.”
Irene went to the small pile of books. On the top was a poetry collection by Hjalmar Gullberg. She flipped through its pages until she found the poem. It took a second for her to realize that the quote had been changed.
“Look here. Tekla writes ‘He belonged to another, but in the book it says ‘You belonged to another.’ And she also writes ‘He kissed my cheek …’ while the book says ‘He kissed your cheek.…’ ”
“Well, there’s your code,” Kurt said calmly.
Irene could hardly restrain herself as she flipped to the next poem. The letter was dated November 30, 1946:
We women we are so close to the brown earth
We ask the cuckoo what he expects from spring
We throw our arms around the cold fir tree
We search the sundown for signs and comfort
Once I loved a man, he believed in nothing.…
He came one day with empty eyes
He left one day with forget written on his forehead
If my child does not live, it is his.…
It was a horrible poem, heavy with anger and a reproach to the callous, coldhearted father of her child. Probably well deserved.
The last poem, which headed the letter Tekla wrote just before her suicide, at first appeared to be totally innocuous, but Irene shivered as she realized how the few lines connected to Tekla’s death:
I intend to undertake a long journey
It will be some time before we meet again
This is not a hasty escape, this plan has been in my mind for a long time
Though I could not speak of it till now
She must have been declaring her intention to commit suicide. And she had taken a trip, if only to Göteborg.
Kurt Höök stood up and stretched his long body. “How about we have a Friday-night drink?” he asked.
Irene almost said yes, but then Hannu and Tommy appeared at the door. They threw questioning looks at Irene and Kurt.
“Sorry, we’re not done working yet,” Irene told Kurt in a light tone. “Thanks to you, we’ve solved the mystery of the letters.”
Kurt nodded, wished them all a good weekend, and disappeared down the hallway.
Tommy lifted an ironic eyebrow and did an imitation of Höök. “ ‘How about we have a Friday-night drink?’ Since when has he ever offered someone a drink? Watch out for the fourth estate, Irene. The mass media can do a number on a tiny little police officer.”
To her annoyance, Irene could feel that she was blushing. It was crazy how Tommy suddenly had so much to say about the men around her. He must think I’m going through a midlife crisis, Irene thought, and she started to laugh. That was the least of her problems!
“He was just helping me figure out if there was a secret code in these letters. How are things with Siv Persson?”
“We drove her to the airport and made sure she was on the evening flight to London. Her son lives there. I called him, too, and we all agreed that was the best plan. She was extremely relieved. These past twenty-four hours have been rough on her.”
Tommy told Irene about Siv Persson’s late-night encounter with the blonde. She couldn’t say if the person was a woman or a man dressed as one. Both Tommy and Hannu were convinced her story was true.
“We have to believe that this murderer is likely to kill again. Siv Persson is the last living witness,” Tommy concluded.
Irene turned to the letters and showed them how the poems that began them contained hidden messages.
Hannu nodded and said, “It’s as if she’s left word for us from the other side of the grave.”
IRENE’S HOUSE WAS filled with the tempting scent of good food. Only Sammie noticed as Irene came through the door, but he exhibited his usual joy. She could hear cheerful chatter and the clatter of utensils in the kitchen. Both girls were home and helping their father make dinner. It sounded very pleasant. Irene’s mouth was already watering as she followed the wonderful aromas into the kitchen. Filled with expectation, she heard her husband say happily, “Hello, sweetheart. Dinner’s almost ready. Go ahead, sit down, pour yourself some beer.”
Krister bent to take a bubbling casserole from the oven.
“We worked together on dinner tonight. And guess what. Papa’s going to go on a diet.” Jenny said, beaming.
“So what’s the menu you’ve created?”
“Endive gratin covered in cheddar cheese, served with boiled sugar peas and a tomato salad,” her daughter said with pride.
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what’s for dinner?”
Her whole family looked at her in surprise and answered in chorus:
“This is the dinner!”
Sadly, Irene anticipated lean times at the Huss household.
Chapter 18
SATURDAY FLEW BY in a blur of long-overdue tasks. Clipping Sammie’s coat was chore number one, certainly high time by now, since he was beyond shaggy. He hated every minute of it, but once it was over, he pranced about and showed off. Must feel great to be rid of half a paper bag’s worth of excess coat, Irene thought. She hadn’t clipped him too severely, since winter wasn’t over yet.
Afterward the entire family pitched in with the cleaning, laundry, ironing, and weekly shopping.
To Irene’s great relief, Saturday’s dinner included meat: a wonderfully aromatic pork-chop stew with the last frozen chanterelles and lingonberries from their fall harvest. Krister had purchased a red Chianti slightly flavored with black currant. Jenny happily microwaved the leftovers from yesterday’s vegetarian dinner, while Katarina opted for the pork. Both girls had soda.