‘At a café? Frisk was a baker – could that be the connection?’
‘That was what I was thinking, but you are the one who has been to his workplace. I’ve only talked to Ahlén on the phone. I know from previous experience that it is often images that I respond to. I can read for hours and talk to a bunch of people without anything being set off in my mind, but then I catch sight of a single detail – it can look completely insignificant and ordinary from the outside but it makes everything become clear for me.’
They discussed what it could have been at the café. Lindell re-created the picture of the busy eatery, even pulled over a sheet of paper and started to sketch it out to jog her memory.
‘Coffee, children, retirees, Christmas cakes…’ Marksson rattled off. ‘There’s no space and perhaps stale air… there’s the sound of children crying, mothers, pushchairs… a couple of teenagers… a child that doesn’t want to take its coat off… maybe Christmas decorations on the table…’
‘Hold it!’
Lindell held her hand up in a theatrical gesture but lowered it after a couple of seconds.
‘No,’ she said.
She knew she had been close, but the image that had flickered in front of her was only exposed in pieces, and quickly faded away.
‘That’s okay,’ Marksson said after a brief pause, ‘I’m sure it’ll come back. We’ll have to start somewhere else. If Frisk wasn’t the killer, why would he commit suicide?’
‘Shame,’ Lindell said. ‘He knew that I was on my way and he wasn’t a particularly good liar. He knew he was partially responsible for Patima’s death since he had brought her to Bultudden, and he knew he would not be able to bluff.’
‘Too complicated,’ Marksson said. ‘It’s one thing to import a woman from Asia and quite another to kill her. A lot of men would-’
‘I know, but maybe Frisk agonised over it. He may also have known something about how and why she died.’
Marksson stared at her.
‘Implicated, and yet not,’ he said finally.
‘Shame,’ Lindell repeated.
‘But then all men would be taking their own lives.’
‘He was an unhappy man,’ Lindell said. ‘My investigations in the area brought everything to a head for him.’
‘A skilled baker, a fly fisherman. The Frisk I knew was a pretty considerate man.’
‘The considerate murderer,’ Lindell mused.
‘We won’t get much farther now,’ Marksson said, confirming her own conclusion.
‘Is that your wife?’ Lindell asked, and pointed to the photograph in the window.
‘Yes, that is Inga-Marie. It was taken a couple of years ago. We were at Lofoten.’
‘Was it fun?’
Marksson looked at her and smiled.
‘What you are really asking is this: Are you happy?’
‘Maybe,’ Lindell said, returning his smile. ‘Am I so easy to read?’
‘You are an open book,’ Marksson said. ‘I think these visits to Roslagen have caused a bit of inner turmoil for you, haven’t they?’
‘Maybe,’ Lindell repeated.
The tension between them broke when Marksson stood up from his chair.
‘Should we go for a spin?’
Lindell sensed what he meant by ‘spin.’ Drive around on the gravel roads outside Östhammar, and Marksson would talk about his youth, point out various houses and tell her about the people who lived there. After a while they would end up at Bultudden.
‘Is there anything in particular?’
‘No,’ Marksson said, but she heard something else in his tone. She did not know what was going on in his head but had no intention of asking. She realised he was as much a searcher as she was, but as opposed to her, he did not air his doubts.
Just as the last time things had heated up, when they had been outside Lasse Malm’s shed, he left. He grabbed the car keys on his desk and walked out of the room.
‘Let’s scram,’ she heard him say from the corridor, and when she found her way to the reception area, he was already standing next to his car.
‘Men,’ Angelina said, reading Lindell’s expression.
That’s right, Lindell thought. Wouldn’t be so bad.
Once they were at Bultudden, Marksson stepped out at Torsten Andersson’s house. They had caught a glimpse of him at the kitchen window. Lindell took over the wheel and continued down the Avenue.
Marksson had not asked what Lindell was planning to do on the point, but she thought he had an inkling. They were going to keep in touch by mobile phone.
Lisen Morell’s car was parked up between a clump of bushes and a couple of enormously tall pine trees, just like last time. Lindell could not tell if it had even been moved since then. She looked around.
It was absolutely calm, the sea a polished surface. The low clouds appeared to press down on the bay, a stillness where not a single breeze could be detected, the tall pine tree trunks and between them the dark, oily water as a backdrop, creating a spooky feeling. Not a single movement. A static landscape. There was nothing charming about the scene. This is also the archipelago, she thought. As still as death.
‘Hello,’ Lindell called out, mainly to break the silence.
She took out her mobile phone and punched in Marksson’s number but did not hit the call button.
She walked over to the fishing cottage, listening at the door, but heard nothing. She knocked, then repeated her knock after a couple of seconds. Her hand on the phone was sweaty. Not a sound. A new knock that sounded almost obscene in the intense stillness.
She had stood outside a single woman’s door once before, knocking. She had not received an answer that time either. The woman they were trying to reach had been strangled to death.
She pushed down on the door handle, which more closely resembled an old-fashioned iron rod than a handle, with her elbow. The door opened with a faintly mournful sound.
‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ she called out, even though it appeared unlikely.
Suddenly the sun broke out and beamed a ray of light into the cottage through the window that faced the sea. Lindell ended up standing on the spot. There was a painting on the left wall. It was a watercolour and she recognised the subject, the outermost point on Bultudden.
She took a couple of steps into the room and thereby gained an overview of the space, including the sleeping alcove to the right. The bed was unmade, the blanket turned to one side so that it formed a triangle, and the pillows were rumpled. Lisen Morell had got out of bed. Lindell exhaled. She had subconsciously feared that Lisen would be lying on the bed, strangled to death.
Lindell left the house, pushed the door shut behind her, and heard the lock click. Then she rounded the corner and walked all the way around the building. Next to the bench that she and Lisen had sat on there was a bottle of wine of a brand that she knew well.
The clouds had drawn their veils again. The surface of the water was ruffled by a faint breeze. An old dock lay pulled up on the shore and a bit higher there was a boat with a green tarp over it. The ends of the rope that held the tarp in place were well knotted around nails fastened into the lumber that functioned as underlay. She resisted the temptation of loosening the knots to peek into the boat.
Lisen was somewhere close by, that much was clear. The car was in its place and the cottage was unlocked. But was she alive or dead?
Suddenly Lindell heard a crack and jumped around, crouching as she did so as if she were expecting a blow. Instinctively she also pressed the button on her mobile phone.
‘What do you want?’
Lisen Morell’s voice was loaded with so much explosive tension that Lindell could not bring herself to reply. She waved vaguely and heard a voice from her phone at the same time. She held it to her ear.
‘No, everything’s fine. I just happened to knock the phone.’