‘I don’t know if it means anything,’ Fredriksson said modestly, but had trouble concealing his satisfaction.
‘It could mean a great deal,’ Lindell said. ‘It could mean-’
‘-that the foot came from a long way away,’ Fredriksson inserted. Lindell was silent for a few moments. She visualised the bay with Bultudden Point on the other side.
‘What kind of procedure are you having?’
‘Routine examination,’ Fredriksson said.
Lindell was tempted to ask more but ended the conversation by thanking him for the tip.
‘It’s nothing,’ Fredriksson said, and hung up.
Meanwhile Erik had been trying to pour more yogurt into his bowl all by himself, but with mixed results, and had thereafter managed to tip the box of muesli on its side.
‘Good work,’ Lindell said. ‘We don’t need bowls anymore, we can eat straight off the table.’
A couple of hours later she was back at the bay. ‘Bultudden,’ she murmured quietly to herself, and let her gaze sweep over the terrain and come to rest on the tall pine. The crown of the tree looked strange, the branches like fingers outstretched to the sky. It was probably the result of a lightning strike.
Fredriksson’s theory that it could have been a nesting tree was not implausible. There were a number of old sticks in the palm that was created, but not enough for a whole nest. Perhaps the work had been interrupted.
The remains of droppings on the trunk, dirty white streaks, had been left over a long period of time, that much she understood.
The foot had been found next to the tree on a bed of pine needles. She decided to adopt the theory as her own, and dialled Bosse Marksson, who was in Forsmark checking on a series of summer cottage break-ins.
He explained the way to Bultudden Point. There was no direct route from where Lindell was located, so she would have to retrace her steps to the main road, take a right turn north and drive a couple of kilometres, then turn south again.
Lindell did not tell him why she wanted to go out to the point and Marksson did not appear the least curious. He also did not ask her why she wanted the mobile phone number of his friend who had discovered the foot.
She parked outside the first house half an hour later. Marksson had told her that there were seven properties on the point, but strangely enough none of them were holiday homes.
Lindell stepped out of the car and looked the two-storeyed house up and down. She estimated it dated from the forties, now in terrible condition. The red siding was faded and flaking and the metal roof was corroded. Some twenty metres to the right there was an older barn and a few other smaller structures.
Lindell thought she glimpsed movement in one of the windows and sensed that she was being observed. The gate was hanging on its post and the gravel path was thick with weeds. Beds planted with perennials lined either side of the path, the withered remains of which breathed neglect.
When she was halfway to the house, the front door swung open and a man appeared. He was dressed in blue work clothes, and was about sixty and almost completely bald. He stared at Lindell for a couple of seconds before he launched into a string of invectives.
‘Go to hell! I said no, got it? The fact that he sent a woman doesn’t change anything.’
Lindell stared back at him with astonishment. The outburst came completely unexpectedly and was so forceful it took her aback. He lifted one arm frenetically in a gesture that indicated she should leave, and his almost distorted facial features intensified with a next salvo.
‘Can’t you hear me? Go to hell!’
He slammed the door hard. A flowerpot on the porch railing fell down and broke in two.
Lindell walked over to the window where she had thought she had caught a glimpse of the man, took out her police identification, and held it up against the windowpane.
After half a minute the door swung open again.
‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’
‘Are you always this hospitable?’ Lindell said with a smile.
‘Are you from the police?’
She nodded. The man backed up into the hall and gestured something that Lindell interpreted as an invitation.
Torsten Andersson – Lindell had noticed the name on the mailbox – pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Lindell sat down. She saw that he was still agitated but there was also curiosity in his eyes.
‘Are you putting on a pot of coffee? It’s been a while since I had a cup.’
He looked at her for a moment, shook his head, then turned, opened a kitchen cabinet, and took out a jar. His hands shook.
‘New coffee maker?’
‘The old one went bad,’ he said, his back turned.
As he supplied the machine with water and coffee and set out two cups on the counter, he snuck glances at the table, but never met her gaze.
He is not used to company, Lindell thought. His movements were awkward and he executed everything very slowly, as if he had to think about each step.
The cups came to the table, as did a sugar bowl and a creamer filled with milk.
‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here.’
‘Is it about the hens?’
‘No, it’s about a foot.’
She explained why she had come to Bultudden, but said nothing of the eagle theory.
‘A severed foot,’ he said with disbelief. ‘Who cuts off a foot?’
‘Is it you?’
He twisted around, a plate in his hand.
‘Just joking,’ Lindell added hurriedly.
He muttered something, took a couple of cinnamon buns that he had thawed in the microwave and slid them onto the plate, then planted himself to wait in front of the coffee maker.
Everything in this kitchen seemed to take time. Lindell looked around. The forties atmosphere was reinforced by the cabinets.
‘You don’t have the wood stove going.’
‘Only morning and night,’ he answered gruffly, pouring out the coffee and sitting down across from her.
They drank in silence. The man made a gesture with his hand as if to say ‘help yourself’ and she picked up a cinnamon bun. It was still warm. She smiled and chewed, the man peered out the window, but she noted that he was furtively observing all of her moves.
‘And I do have a wood-burning furnace in the basement,’ he said.
Lindell nodded.
‘Wonderful cinnamon bun.’
‘They’re from Margit.’
‘Does she also live out here?’
‘Next place over,’ he replied, and nodded his head to indicate a southerly direction.
She took out the map that Marksson had given her, and laid it on the table. Torsten Andersson leant over it inquisitively, almost eagerly, as if he had never before seen a map of the area. Suddenly his hand shot out.
‘This is where we are,’ he said, ‘Margit and Kalle live over there.’
The nail on his index finger was cracked.
‘This is where we found the foot,’ Lindell said, and pointed.
He lifted his head and looked at her, but said nothing.
‘Tell me a little about the point,’ she said, as she helped herself to another cinnamon bun.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said.
Lindell sensed that indeed there was a great deal to tell, and was pleased that Torsten Andersson was the first she had encountered. There was a secure feeling in his kitchen, despite his initial show of anger. She let her gaze wander once more around the room, discovering details, noticing the antique toaster tucked in behind an almost equally old radio, a wall decoration with an embroidered text where ‘though we may roam’ was rhymed with ‘humble home,’ the socks that were hung to dry next to the stove hook, and an old cupboard that was topped by a one-litre Höganäs ceramic jar on a moth-eaten doily.
‘You’ve made it look nice in here,’ she said, and caught a swift glint of amusement in his eyes.