‘If you carry things that are too heavy, you might get heel spurs.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something nasty in your heels. A good friend of mine’s had it. Ture, the vet. He’s been through hell.’
‘We should become pilgrims,’ she mumbled. ‘But not just yet. I need to get some sleep. So do you.’
The next day Birgitta Roslin contacted her doctor to confirm her follow-up appointment in five days. Then she gave the house a thorough clean, no more than glancing at the plastic bag with the diaries. She spoke to her children about arranging a surprise party for Staffan’s birthday. Everybody agreed it was an excellent idea, and she called to invite their friends. She listened to the occasional news bulletins from Hudiksvall. Information seeping out from the embattled police HQ was scanty, to say the least.
It was not until late afternoon that she sat down at her desk and took out the diaries. Now that a man had been charged with the murders, her own theories seemed less important. She thumbed through until she came to the last page she had read.
The telephone rang. It was Karin Wiman. They set up a time for Birgitta to visit the following day.
In his diary notes JA continued complaining about nearly everybody he had to work with and was responsible for. The Irish are idle drunkards, the few black men the railway company employs are strong but unwilling to make an effort. JA longs for slaves from the Caribbean islands that he’s heard about. Only lashes of the whip can induce these strong men to really make use of their strength. He wishes he were able to whip them like one could whip oxen or donkeys. Birgitta Roslin was unable to establish which race he disliked most. Perhaps the ‘Red Indians’, the Native Americans for whom he had so much contempt. Their reluctance to work, their two-faced cunning, were worse than anything he’d come across among the scum he was forced to kick and beat into submission to ensure the eastern advancement of the railway. He also wrote regularly about the Chinese: he would be only too pleased to drive them into the Pacific Ocean and make them choose between drowning and swimming back to China. But he can’t deny that the Chinese are good workers. They don’t drink hard liquor, they keep themselves clean and they obey the rules. Their only weakness is their predilection for gambling and strange religious ceremonies. JA continually tries to justify his reasons for disliking these people who in fact are making his job easier. Some lines were almost impossible to make out, but Birgitta Roslin thought he must be suggesting that the industrious Chinese were cut out for this work, and nothing else. They had reached a level that would never be raised, no matter what was done to help them.
The people JA holds in highest esteem are the ones from Scandinavia. The army of workers building the railway contains a little colony of Nordic labourers: a few Norwegians and Danes, but more Swedes and Finns. I trust these people. They don’t try to fool me, as long as I keep an eye on them. And they’re not afraid of hard work. But if I turn my back on them, they’re transformed into the same gang of thugs as all the rest of them.
Birgitta Roslin pushed the diary aside and stood up. Whoever this railway foreman had been, she found him more and more repulsive. A man from a simple background who had emigrated to America. And then he suddenly found himself with enormous power over other people. A brutal person who had become a little tyrant. She got dressed to go out and went for a long walk through the city in order to shake off the disgust she felt.
It was six o’clock when she switched on the radio in the kitchen. The news bulletin began with Robertsson’s statement. She stood as if transfixed, listening. In the background was the noise of flashbulbs and scraping chairs.
As on earlier occasions, he was clear and precise. The man who had been charged the day before had now confessed that he, and he alone, had committed all the murders at Hesjövallen. At eleven o’clock in the morning he had requested, through his lawyer, to speak again to the female police officer who had first interrogated him. He had also asked for the prosecutor to be present. His motive, he said, was revenge. There would have to be several more interrogations before it could be established just what he had been taking revenge for.
Robertsson concluded with the details that everybody had been waiting for.
‘The man charged is Lars-Erik Valfridsson. He is a bachelor, employed by a firm that carries out excavation and rock-blasting operations. He has been sentenced several times in the past for assault and battery.’
The flashbulbs continued to pop. Robertsson began answering questions from the barrage fired at him by the mass of journalists. The female broadcaster faded out Robertsson’s voice and embarked on a summary of what had happened so far. Roslin left the radio on but turned her attention to teletext. There was nothing new, only a summary of what Roberts-son had said. She switched off both the television and the radio and sat down on the sofa. Robertsson’s voice had convinced her that he was sure they had found the murderer. She had listened to enough prosecutors to be able to draw conclusions about the sincerity of what he had said. He was convinced he was right. And honest prosecutors never based their indictments on revelations or guesses, but on facts.
It was too soon to draw conclusions. But she did so nevertheless. The man who had been arrested and charged was certainly not Chinese. She went back to her study and replaced the diaries in the plastic bag. There was no longer any need for her to study these unpleasantly racist and misanthropic jottings from more than a hundred years ago.
In the evening she and Staffan had a late dinner. They only referred in passing to what had happened. The evening papers he had brought home from the train had nothing to add to what she already knew. In one of the photographs from the press conference she noticed Lars Emanuelsson with his hand raised, wanting to ask a question. She shuddered at the thought of their meetings. She mentioned that she would be going to visit Karin Wiman the following day and would probably stay overnight. Staffan knew Karin and had known her late husband.
‘Go,’hesaid. ‘It’lldoyou good. When doyou haveto see the doctor again?’
‘In a few days. He’s bound to say I’m ready to go back to work.’
The next morning the telephone rang shortly after Staffan had left for the railway station, when she was packing her suitcase. It was Lars Emanuelsson.
‘What do you want? How did you get this number? It’s unlisted.’
Emanuelsson snorted. ‘A journalist who doesn’t know how to dig up a telephone number, no matter how secret it is, should take up another profession.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A comment. Big earth-shattering events are taking place in Hudiksvall. A prosecutor who doesn’t seem all that self-confident nevertheless looks us straight in the eye. What do you say to that?’
‘Nothing.’
Lars Emanuelsson’s friendly tone, artificial or not, disappeared. His voice became sharper, more impatient.
‘Let’s cut the crap. Answer my questions. Otherwise I’ll start writing about you.’
‘I have absolutely no information at all about what that prosecutor has announced. I’m just as surprised as the rest of the nation.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Use whatever word you like. Surprised, relieved, indifferent, take your pick.’
‘Now I’m going to ask you some simple questions.’
‘I’m going to hang up.’
‘If you do I’ll write that a judge in Helsingborg who recently left Hudiksvall in a hurry refuses to answer any questions. Have you ever had your house besieged by paparazzi? It’s very easy to make that happen. In the old days in this country a few carefully placed rumours would soon lead to the gathering of lynch mobs. A flock of excited journalists is very reminiscent of a mob like that.’