A berry picker, she thought, and an image of the chainsaws on Såma’s shop wall welled up. She shivered and felt pain radiating out from her midsection. The crow hopped closer, flapped its wings, then lifted off, careening in the wind and finally disappearing behind a car wash.
FORTY-THREE
‘He is a psychological riddle,’ Ottosson said, and Lindell could not help but smile. ‘Come on now, don’t laugh at me. A politician. A man at the height of his career who commits the contemptible murder of a defenceless old man, returns after twelve years, and then seems proud of his actions. No remorse whatsoever.’
‘We’ve seen it before,’ Lindell remarked.
‘But not in this way. Admit that he is a remarkably atypical murderer.’
‘He has a remarkably atypical uncle as well. I told you about him before. Talk about an unbelievable character.’
‘Beatrice has interrogated him,’ Ottosson said.
‘Bea? What did he say?’
‘Ante Persson was dumbfounded when she said that Sven-Arne had confessed to the killing of Dufva. She could hardly get a word out of him after that. He just stammered. Beatrice assessed him as senile.’
‘Completely wrong! He’s sharper than most of us.’
Lindell talked about the contents of Ante Persson’s bookcase, how he appeared to plough through books in any number of languages and had not shown any signs of decrepitude, except that his legs seemed weak.
‘Has he also been in politics?’
‘If so, it would have been to the far left,’ Lindell said.
‘Morgansson went along and took the old man’s prints. As you know, we have a handprint from a piece of furniture at Dufva’s.’
‘And it didn’t match the county commissioner’s?’
Ottosson shook his head. ‘Dufva did not have a large circle of acquaintances. That is to say, he did not have one at all. Jenny Holgersson – the relative who card for him – could not recall a single visitor from outside the family.’
‘So you think Ante Persson came along inside the house?’
‘We’ll see. Allan thinks so. Why would the two of them go there in the car?’
‘A murder on the fly.’
‘That is what Sven-Arne is claiming, but I don’t believe him.’
‘And what do you base this on?’
‘Thirty-eight years of police work,’ Ottosson said, grinning.
Allan Fredriksson popped his head in the door, which was somewhat ajar. He nodded at Lindell.
‘The fingerprints in Dufva’s house belong to Ante Persson. Left thumb and pointer finger on well-polished oak. There’s no doubt about it. The old man was there.’
‘Well, I’ll be darned!’ Ottosson exclaimed. ‘Have you talked to Sven-Arne?’
‘He’s sleeping again. The guy can apparently nod off at any time. Sammy and I thought we would wait for him to wake on his own. We think it’s best. But we have to interrogate Ante Persson again and hear what he has to say.’
‘I’ll come along,’ Lindell said impulsively. ‘I’ve met him before. Can’t you and I handle it, Allan?’
Fredriksson glanced at Ottosson, who nodded his consent after a second or so.
It was a different Ante Persson who greeted Lindell this time. The power and confidence were gone. What remained was an old man with trembling hands and a gaze that expressed confusion and helplessness.
‘The police are back,’ he stated.
Ante Persson was sitting in bed. He was wearing a pair of wrinkled trousers and a cardigan that was more or less clean. He had slippers on his feet. One hand was resting on his thigh, the other was pulling bits of wool out of the front of the cardigan.
‘Hello, Ante,’ Lindell said. ‘You remember me from the other day. This is my colleague, Allan Fredriksson.’
Ante lifted his head and looked at her, and something of his old edge gleamed in his eyes. Lindell realised she had spoken too loudly.
‘We have some things to talk about,’ she went on, and wondered if she should proceed with some small talk. She decided to get straight to the point. ‘As you know, your nephew has confessed to the murder of one Nils Dufva. Now we are wondering if you can shed any light on that day, in the autumn of 1993. We have some new information.’
Ante Persson’s face did not reflect that he had heard or understood a word of what she had said. His hand continued to pull wool threads out of the jumper and roll them into tiny balls.
‘We think you were there,’ Allan Fredriksson said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That you were in the house when Dufva was killed.’
‘I have no idea what Sven-Arne is up to,’ Ante Persson said. ‘He must have got a bit messed up when he was in India.’
‘Were you there?’
‘Nils Dufva is dead and buried,’ Ante said. ‘And that’s just as well.’
‘Please answer the question.’
Ante breathed audibly. ‘Sven-Arne is a peaceful man.’
‘Your fingerprints were in the house,’ Lindell said, and sat down next to him. ‘Were you present at the time of the murder? Had you been there before?’
Ante shook his head. Wrong tack, Lindell thought. Two questions in one breath. She started over.
‘Did you know Nils Dufva?’
She put her hand on his left arm. Ante turned his head and stared her in the eyes. Am I going to get this old, she wondered. His cheeks were covered in red dots. A couple of grey hairs stuck out of his chin. He was breathing heavily, his breath sickly sweet and not altogether pleasant.
‘Dufva was a Nazi, a full-blooded Nazi. He is dead, and now I think you should leave.’
‘Not until you have answered my questions.’
‘You can read all about it in my memoirs.’
‘You’re writing your memoirs?’ Fredriksson broke in.
Lindell shot him a look.
‘You are a socialist, and he was a Nazi. That much is clear,’ Lindell resumed. ‘That means you could hardly have been the best of friends. But did you meet him in a political context?’
‘I had never seen his face,’ Ante said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to think about it, can’t you understand that? There’s so much else I need to work through. I am old, too old. I am one of the last. What do you know about poverty? Squat!’
That’s good, Lindell thought, and gestured to Fredriksson to let Ante talk.
‘You go around and catch small-time thieves but the real perpetrators go free. How many have died? My best memories and friends died before my eyes. They collapsed. So what do I care about Nils Dufva? Not a damn thing. There is a line connecting this place’ – he lifted his hand and pointed to a pale-framed wall-hung photo of a red cottage – ‘and where I am sitting now. The times are different but still the same. It has been crooked at times, but I’ve always had that line. It has been like a war. The whole time. I was born in a war. Why would I tarnish my last days by thinking about a Nazi?’
He fell silent.
‘So, you witnessed your nephew kill Nils Dufva but you don’t want to talk about it?’
Ante Persson smacked his lips.
‘Could be,’ he said.
‘As you know, we have to try to understand what happened,’ Lindell said pleadingly.
The old man held up his hands, palms facing Lindell, warding her off. She could not help but stare at the stumps on his left hand.
‘I have seen the war,’ Ante said, ‘and that was no playground. Why should I care about Dufva? Dufva, or “Dove”, is a hell of a name for a guy like that. He wasn’t the least like a dove. Quite the opposite. He loved to wage war and cause pain. He was a vulture.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That he got a position in the military was perfectly logical. My tax dollars gave birth to that scumbag, can you understand that? I helped to pay for it! It makes me furious to think about.’