He chuckled to himself. He now knew how he could injure Ohler. A man who panting and on shaky legs made his way down into the cellar at ten thirty at night, like Uncle Helmuth used to do, had important things in his safe, perhaps secrets. In Ohler’s case it was probably not pedophile photos or weapons, but certainly valuable documents and perhaps money.
Where was the safe? Should he make his way up into the house and start searching? He looked at the keys that were in his work glove. Snooping in the cellar was one thing, but sneaking around in the house something else altogether. For such an expedition he must prepare himself better. More flexible gloves, lighter shoes, a smaller flashlight, and a small bag, if he found anything interesting to take with him.
He looked one last time up toward the pipes in the ceiling and carefully put the keys back in the coffee can. He had transformed himself from gardener to burglar. The thought exhilarated him.
Twenty-three
The bank clerk was embarrassed. That was easy for Sammy Nilsson to see, but it did not make him any more kindly disposed.
“You cancelled the loan because Sigvardsson was ‘careless’?”
“Could you please tone it down a little?”
“Tone it down? The hell I will! And there’s no neglect here, is there? Not in your fine bank accounts, no, no. How much have you embezzled with your so-called good advice? How much has she taken for herself in bonuses, the old witch in management?”
Emanuel Roos was perhaps twenty-five years old. He had certainly encountered dissatisfied and sometimes angry customers, but he had probably never been confronted with a furious policeman, who was spitting out his contempt.
“Perhaps Sigvardsson read about that in the local rag before he shot his wife and himself. Have you ever heard of financial stress?”
Roos nodded eagerly, happy to be able to answer a question affirmatively.
“Then you know that’s what you get when you don’t have money, don’t have a job, and at the same time the bank cancels all of your loans. Do you think the stress goes down when you find out that the same bank is showering its managers with millions of kronor in a bonus program?”
Roos shook his head.
“That you put up with it,” said Sammy Nilsson, with contempt in his voice.
“There’s not much I can do,” Roos objected.
“The best would be if you did as little as possible!”
“I can’t possibly-”
“That is your signature.” Sammy Nilsson hissed at him, waving a piece of paper.
“We have to follow the regulations.”
The policeman stared at the bank clerk, turned on his heels, and left the place in long strides. Lindell, who was taking the opportunity to do some errands in town, had just joined him at the bank, in time to hear the final exchange. She took a breath, sighed, and followed. Sammy Nilsson was waiting for her on the sidewalk.
Lindell did not need to say or ask anything to understand, Sammy had lectured on the way to the bank. It was best to keep quiet, she thought, and followed her colleague.
Sometimes he lost his head. It was as if a fuse blew and then it was hard to get him to calm down. She remembered the investigation when a whole family from Bangladesh was burned inside their home in Svartbäcken, how manic he had become when he had familiarized himself with their background and how work in the textile factories was conducted. The woman had been active in some kind of union and forced to flee from her country, only to fall victim to a racist arsonist. That time Ottosson had been forced to crack down to put an end to Sammy’s lectures and aggressive attitude.
He was sitting with his hands on the steering wheel as Lindell got into the car. She shared his indignation but considered it totally meaningless to take out his fury on an individual bank employee. Perhaps it would have happened anyway. Perhaps the letter from the bank had been the triggering factor that made the otherwise sensible garage owner reach for the moose rifle. This did not concern enormous amounts. Another person, in better balance, would probably have tried to find a solution, but for Bo Lennart Sigvardsson this was the last straw.
“Shall we roll?” she said at last.
Sammy started the car.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said Lindell.
“Sometimes I get so angry.”
“I know. That’s why I like you.”
He turned his head and looked at her before he put the car in first gear. The car took off.
“You can drive me home,” said Lindell. “Anders is supposed to pick Erik up.”
“Is it working out?”
Lindell understood that he meant her relationship with Anders Brant. Sammy had followed the drama from close up earlier in the year: the journalist’s return home from Brazil and the solving of two murders that Brant was indirectly involved in. He was also the one who supported her when everything fell apart, when she discovered Brant’s infidelity.
“It’s moving forward,” she said.
“A knife wound like that is nothing to fool around with,” said Sammy. “It takes time.”
“It’s in his head too,” said Lindell. “There’s too much brooding. He’s ashamed of it and tries to cheer himself up. It’s almost touching. Erik is the one who can really get him going. You should see!”
Sammy smiled. Ann likewise, as much at the thought of coming home as that she had such a colleague and friend.
He dropped her off outside her building. It still felt a little exciting to have a new apartment. She was comfortable, and it was close to most everything. In a different way than before she could go out and have a glass of wine, go to a movie or listen to music at Hijazz or Pub 19. Now it didn’t happen that often anyway, but simply the thought that it was possible made life a little lighter and happier.
Before she went home she slipped into the convenience store, picked up a newspaper and some candy for herself. Her increasing desire for sweets worried her a little. Perhaps it was also because she was living with Anders that she had gained weight. She was now eating better, and more, they indulged themselves in good cheese and a lot of other things that obviously had to go somewhere. Anders could put away any amount without it leaving any noticeable traces.
Ann was met by a jubilant son and a somewhat more subdued man. Erik had a lot to tell as usual. He literally bubbled up with information about everything that had happened since they last saw each other. Mostly it was about numbers and all sorts of mathematical questions. Quite unexpectedly, and from Ann’s perspective equally incomprehensibly, Erik had developed a passion for numbers and along with it mathematics.
Despite her fatigue she could not help but smile at his eagerness. She was sitting at the kitchen table and behind her back Anders was preparing dinner, while on the other side of the table Erik added, divided, and subtracted at a furious speed. In front of him he had a pad of graph paper and in his hand a pencil. Perhaps it was the absent-and for Erik completely unknown-father who had given his son this math gene? thought Ann. He was an engineer, or at any rate introduced himself as one the only time he and Ann met.
Erik was like a player piano. “That’s nice” alternating with “that’s interesting” was all she needed to put in. She wondered to herself what Anders thought about the improbable torrent of words, he who always maintained a person’s right to silence.
“What’s it going to be?” she managed to interject when Erik paused for a few seconds.
“An experiment,” Anders answered. “A Turkish dish with ground beef.”
“Cabbage rolls?”
“Something along those lines,” said Anders, turning around, “but not like Mother’s.”