Ann Lindell got off the bus at Dragarbrunnsgatan and walked quickly down to the Fyris River, crossed the Nybro Bridge and continued down Västra Ågatan. Her menstrual pain had died down. She slowed down. This was where Marcus Ålander had fought with Sebastian Holmberg, who had later been found dead in the children’s bookshop on Drottninggatan.
This was her city. Her memories. Ödeshög was no longer ‘home.’ She decided to stay in town over the holidays. Take it easy and give all her time to Erik, maybe take him for a spin in a patrol car, which he had been begging her to do for a long time. She would talk to Torstensson. He was good, maybe a little interested in her. That didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t get any ideas.
How long since she had gone to bed with a man? She did not want to count the months, or rather, years. She was drying up. Her desire came and went, her dreams of intimacy likewise. Sometimes a great longing came over her but her mechanisms to keep loneliness at bay were so entrenched and refined that she rarely felt the bottomless despair that used to plague her.
But deep inside, in the dark crannies, slumbered a bereft little creature, these days without fangs and claws, but with very mournful eyes. Sometimes he – for it was a he – still made his presence known. Like now, on Västra Ågatan, with her body in the midst of its periodic sparring, with Christmas on the doorstep, with people around her, neighbours, colleagues, and friends, all determinedly subjugating life.
She picked up the pace again and tried to think about something else, preferring to let her work mechanism take over. Her thoughts returned to Bultudden. Torsten Andersson’s words, or perhaps above all his unexpected display of aggression, still bothered her.
‘Damned old man,’ she muttered, aware of the fact that her negative feelings resulted almost entirely from having been had. She had felt cozy in his kitchen, become lulled into comfortable repose, listened to the crackle in his stove, registered the everyday objects, seen how well he had arranged his home, liked his thoughtful words pronounced in a dialect that strangely enough sounded like home. He had offered her freshly caught fish, as if she had been an old friend.
She should have known better, she should have learnt the lesson: People are two-sided. She had let herself be taken in.
Maybe he was a killer? Maybe he was the one who had sawed off that foot? The talk of getting rid of the murderers was only a front, or perhaps an internal defence; for he was no murderer, it had been his right to ‘get rid of’ someone.
She had seen this before, how perpetrators rationalised their actions and justified their crimes: an abused woman had ‘been asking for it,’ a murder victim had ‘deserved’ his fate, or a rape victim ‘had herself to blame.’
A couple with a small child somewhat younger than Erik were standing at a low fence of the swan pond feeding the birds. The wild ducks were nattering and the gulls were shrieking. A swan slowly floated past.
Lindell observed the three of them, how the man snuck a hand around the woman’s waist, and how she laughed at the young boy’s excitement. Her high peals of laughter rang out and could be heard above the sound of the traffic for an instant.
Berglund was sitting at the window. He had shunned his hospital clothes and was dressed in jeans, a shirt with a pattern of large squares, and brown slippers edged in fur. Lindell thought he looked ten years younger than at her last visit.
‘Here you are enjoying yourself,’ she said.
Berglund smiled and gestured to the table in front of him, where papers were stacked up.
‘Any strokes of genius?’
He shook his head.
‘No, I’ve gone through this material countless times, always in the hopes I’ll find something, but nothing doing.’
The gaze he shot her was his old one. He had not only changed his clothes.
‘You look rosy.’
‘I was out walking,’ Lindell said.
‘I see,’ Berglund said.
Lindell did not know exactly what he was getting at, but sensed that he realised she was trying to alleviate her cramps while walking. She had done this before, it usually worked, and maybe Berglund had put two and two together.
‘I was coming from a conversation with Sven-Arne Persson’s uncle,’ she said, and sat down right across from him.
He gathered his papers together on the table while she described her visit to Elsa Persson’s neighbour, how Elsa was now admitted to this same hospital, maybe even in this same building.
‘Yes, it’s a strange story, this Sven-Arne,’ Berglund said, but Lindell could tell his thoughts were still caught up in the old case.
‘What was he like as a politician?’ she said, trying anyway. ‘His uncle said something about how Sven-Arne never really believed in his cause. What’s up with that? Was he just a fake?’
‘No, I think people regarded him as honest. He was a champion orator. But it must have dried up. He probably got tired of the nonsense. Or else he just snapped.’
‘Was he really a plumber?’
‘Something in the construction field. Then he became an ombudsman.’ Berglund paused, then continued almost immediately.
‘I remember a meeting in town, shortly before some election. It was when New Democracy was in full swing. I was there overseeing Forum Square. There was some kind of threat, some letter that Persson had received. There was a hellish wind but people stayed and listened. I remember thinking he talked like my old man.’
‘And that felt good?’
Berglund smiled. ‘Yes, actually. I actually voted for the Social Democrats that year.’
‘Because of Persson’s speech?’
‘Maybe not only because of that, but there was something there that…well, you know how it is…’
‘Nostalgia?’
He chuckled.
‘Did he receive a lot of threats?’
‘Not that I know of. It must have been some dingdong who sent that letter.’
‘I was thinking maybe he ran off because he felt pursued or threatened for his life,’ Lindell said.
‘We looked into that, but I don’t think that was the case. We found nothing to suggest it, at least. All politicians get fan mail so I’m sure Persson could handle it.’
‘But maybe there was a threat you weren’t aware of?’
Berglund looked at her.
‘Persson’s got under your skin,’ he said with a smile.
‘I don’t know, unexpected turns of events are always exciting and that uncle made me more curious. He is writing his memoirs. The whole room was full of books, like a research institute. He speaks several languages. And then Persson’s wife, who walks straight out onto Luthagsleden Expressway.’
‘Yes, Elsa.’
‘You mentioned something about her possibly seeing someone.’
‘It’s only a rumour,’ Berglund said.
‘Could it have been the reason that Persson went to India? That there was already a man in Elsa’s life?’
‘It’s doubtful. From what I remember we checked into their lives pretty thoroughly and found no signs of infidelity or marriage problems.’
‘What do you think will happen now? I mean, if it is him – and that’s how it seems – his uncle admitted he knew about Persson’s India stint. How are we going to handle it?’
‘It’s not a matter for the police. Persson is a free man and can go as he wishes. He is not suspected of any crime.’
‘Isn’t it a crime to…’
‘Disappearing is not a crime,’ Berglund said.
‘I know, but…’
‘Forget Persson,’ Berglund said. ‘Tell me how things are going with the foot.’
‘I’m going door-to-door like a salesman. It’s kind of exciting in a way, but hasn’t turned up much. I’m doing the last three houses tomorrow. I’ve talked to them and everyone will be home. Then I’ll wrap up.’
‘How are things with you otherwise?’
‘Fine,’ Lindell said, unwilling to return to the chain of thoughts she had on her way to the hospital.