She had mentioned her new routine to Ottosson. He had laughed heartily, perhaps mostly because of the expression on her face, but had said something about how if she turned in the receipt for her expenditure he would gladly accept it.
Now she wrote down “motive” and smiled to herself. Thereafter she listed the various financial motives she could think of, skipped jealousy but wrote “conflict with neighbors,” “a failed robbery,” and finally “accident.”
What the latter would be Lindell could not imagine, but she had enough experience to know that many crimes-even if they involved violence-were the result of unplanned circumstances.
She heard a car pull over on the main road and sensed that Allan Fredriksson had just arrived. This investigation is probably to his taste, she thought; he likes the country air. The Violent Crimes Division’s own country boy.
Who was Petrus Blomgren? How did he live? She rounded the next corner of the house. The place suggested peacefulness, but loneliness even more, especially like this in the final days of October. May probably looked different, more optimistic. Now nature was switching off, dropping leaves, closing in around piles of rock and underbrush. She stopped and looked right into the vegetation surrounding the house. Static. The wind had died down. She imagined funeral wreaths. Fir branches. Bells that rang out in a doomsdayish way on a bare autumn day over a cowering congregation that tried to minimize its movements.
Don’t let it get to you, she thought. There’s no time to be depressed.
She had to create an idea of Petrus Blomgren’s life in order to understand how he died. The good-bye letter was a fall greeting from a person who had given up hope. The irony of fate meant he had not been granted the time to take his own life.
Lindell crossed the yard at the same time as Fredriksson walked in through the gate.
“Male, around seventy, not in our database, lived alone, killed in the barn, no signs of robbery.” Lindell summed up the situation for her colleague.
“Nice hill,” Fredriksson said. “Have you seen the maple?”
“No, I must have missed that,” Lindell said, and smiled.
“A lot of leaves. When I was a boy we weren’t supposed to jump in the leaf piles because you could get polio.”
Two
Dorotea Svahn suddenly got to her feet, walked over to the window, and looked out for a second before once again sinking down at the table.
“I thought…,” she said, but did not complete her sentence.
“Yes?”
“I thought I saw someone I know.”
The woman spoke in short sentences, forcing the words out, audibly gasping for breath and it looked like such an effort that Beatrice Anders-son inadvertently leaned forward across the table as if to help when Dorotea got ready for another attempt.
“Petrus and I, we got along. I’m a widow.”
She looked down at her folded hands. Behind her, on the wall, a clock was ticking.
“Have been for many years now,” she added and looked at Beatrice. “Are you married?”
Beatrice nodded.
“That’s good.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“I was born in this house.”
Beatrice could discern a streak of defiance, as if it were a strike against her to have been born in Vilsne village, in Jumkil county, and not ever to have gotten around to leaving.
“This is a beautiful area,” Beatrice said.
“I’m the only one left.” Dorotea sighed.
“Could you tell me a little more about Petrus?”
“He was”-Dorotea Svahn searched for the right word-“strict with himself. He didn’t indulge himself in very much. He kept going as usual. For a while he worked in carpentry, in town as well. He got a lot of work. And that helped. But all that was long ago. The last couple of years he didn’t come over as often. But I could see him sitting in that chair by the corner of the house. He sat there, philosophizing.”
“About what?”
Dorotea smiled for the first time.
“It was mainly small things,” she said, “things like, well, you know… small things. No big thoughts. It could be about that squirrel that disappeared or the firewood he had to get to. He picked mushrooms too. And berries. Could come back with buckets of it. I had to make jam and juice. My legs aren’t so good anymore. For going in the forest, I mean.”
Beatrice nodded. The clock struck a few peals.
“Was he worried about anything?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did he mention anything? Did he have any conflicts? People he didn’t get along with?”
“Then he would have… He didn’t say anything like that.”
“Did he have any children?”
Dorotea shook her head. “No,” she said flatly.
“Did he have many acquaintances?” Beatrice Andersson asked, although she knew the answer.
“No, maybe in the past. He belonged to the road committee and sometimes he might have gone hunting. But not very often.”
Dorotea paused, glanced out the window. The begonias on the windowsill were still in full bloom.
“A long time ago the library bus used to come by,” she continued. “He borrowed a lot. I did, too, for that matter. As long as the Kindblom’s children were still at home it was more lively.”
She made a movement inside her mouth, produced a smacking sound. She must have repositioned her false teeth.
“Do you remember him receiving any visitors out of the ordinary the past while?”
“Like in the ads, you mean, a tanker running aground in his garden?”
Beatrice laughed at the unexpected comment and could sense a younger woman’s mischievous presence in Dorotea’s eyes.
“No, he didn’t get many visitors. The postman sometimes stops by. And then Arne, but that got less often.”
“Who is Arne?”
“Arne Wiikman. He’s an old friend. Their fathers worked at the mill together. One day Arne simply disappeared.”
“Really? When was this?”
“Well that’s a story in itself. He had inherited his father’s temper. A real troublemaker who picked fights with everyone.”
Dorotea smiled at some recollection and seemed to have collected herself somewhat. Her breathing was calmer.
“He was a communist. Everyone knew that, of course. But he was good anyway. A hard worker.”
“Are you talking about Arne’s father?”
“His name was Nils. Petrus’s father’s name was Karl-Erik, but they called him Blackie. They were always together. He was an edger working the saw. Nils was a lumber hauler. Of course, Petrus also worked at the mill when he was young. And so did Arne. Then he disappeared.”
“When was this?”
“I guess it was the midfifties.”
“But he came back?”
“Yes, that was about ten years ago. He bought Lindvall’s old house and renovated it.”
“And Arne and Petrus spent time together?”
“Yes, that’s how it went. But so different. Petrus was calm, Arne fiery.”
“Does he still live here?”
“Oh yes.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to take Petrus’s life?”
“No, no one. He didn’t harm a fly. He had no trouble with anyone.”
“What was his financial situation?”
“He managed. He had a pension, of course. He lived frugally.”
“Did he have any cash in the house?”
“You mean that someone would have wanted? I don’t think so.”
“Are you afraid now?”