Before the Frost (40 page)

Holmberg turned the ledger around so that Lindman could see. He dialed the number on his cell phone, listened, then turned it off again.

“That was a florist in Bjärred,” he said. “I think we can safely assume that Mr. Lukas doesn't have anything to do with them. What happened after that?”

Holmberg flipped forward a few pages.

“He came to fetch the keys on the twenty-fifth of June. That was all.”

“How did he pay?”

“Cash.”

“Did you write out a receipt for him?”

“No. I rely on my bookkeeping. I take great pains to pay my share of taxes, even though this kind of situation is ideal for tax evasion.”

“How would you describe him?”

“Tall, light hair, maybe losing a little of it in front. Courteous, polite. When he first came in he was dressed in a suit, same when he picked up the keys, though it was a different suit that time.”

“How did he get here?”

“I can't see the road from the workshop, but I assume he drove a car.”

Linda saw Lindman gather himself for the next question, intuitively sensing what it must be.

“Can you describe the way he spoke?”

“He had an accent.”

“What kind of accent?”

“Something Scandinavian. Not Finnish, nor Icelandic. That would leave Danish or Norwegian.”

“Do you have anything else to say about him?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did he say that these keys were for church doors?”

“He said they were keys for some kind of storage facility—in an old manor house, come to think of it.”

“Which manor?”

Holmberg knocked some ash out of his pipe and wrinkled his forehead.

“He told me the name, but I've forgotten.”

They waited. Holmberg shook his head.

“Could it have been Rannesholm?” Linda asked.

The question simply jumped out of her, like last time.

“Right,” Holmberg said. “That was it. Rannesholm. An old brewery at Rannesholm.”

Lindman got up, as if he was suddenly in a hurry. He finished the rest of his coffee.

“Thank you,” he said. “This has been valuable.”

“Working with keys is always meaningful,” Holmberg said and smiled. “Locking and opening is, in a sense, man's very purpose on this earth. Key rings rattle throughout history. Each key, each lock has its tale. And now I have yet another to tell.”

He followed them out.

“Who was Virgil?” Linda asked.

“Dante's guide,” he answered. “And a great poet.”

He lifted the old straw hat that was starting to come apart and went back inside. They got in the car.

“So often you meet fearful, angry, shaken people,” Lindman said. “But sometimes there are moments of light. Like this man. I'm filing him away in my archive of interesting people I'll remember when I'm old.”

They left Sjöbo. Linda saw a sign for a hotel and giggled. He looked at her but didn't ask anything. The cell phone rang. He answered, listened, hung up, and sped up.

“Your dad has finished talking to Anita Tademan,” he said. “Apparently something important has come to light.”

“Better not tell him that I was with you today,” she said. “He had something different in mind for me.”

“What?”

“Talking to Anna,” she said.

“Maybe you'll have time for both.”

 

Lindman dropped her off in the center of town. When she made it to Anna's apartment and was greeted by her at the door she immediately realized that something was wrong. Anna had tears in her eyes.

“Zeba is gone,” she said. “Her boy was screaming so loud that the neighbors were worried. He was home alone. And Zeba was gone.”

Linda held her breath. Fear overwhelmed her like a sudden pain. Now she knew she was close to a terrible truth that she should already have grasped.

She looked into Anna's eyes and saw only her own fear.

42

The situation was at once both crystal clear and confusing. Linda knew Zeba would never have abandoned her son of her own free will, or forgotten about him. What had happened? It was something she felt she should know, something that was almost within her grasp and yet eluded her. The big picture. Her father always talked about looking for the way events came together. But she saw nothing.

Since Anna seemed even more confused than she did, Linda forced her to sit down in the kitchen and talk. Anna spoke in unconnected fragments, but it didn't take Linda more than a few minutes to piece together what had happened.

Zeba's neighbor, a woman who often watched the boy for her, had heard him crying through the thin walls. Since he cried for an unusually long time without Zeba seeming to intervene, she went over and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, she let herself in with the key Zeba had given her and found the boy alone. He stopped crying when he saw her.

This neighbor, whose name was Aina Rosberg, had not seen anything strange in the apartment. It was messy as usual, but there were no signs of commotion. That was the phrase she had used: “no signs of commotion.” Aina Rosberg had called one of Zeba's cousins, Titchka, who wasn't home, and then Anna. That's what Zeba had instructed her to do if anything ever happened: first call Titchka, then Anna.

“How long ago did this happen?” Linda asked.

“Two hours ago.”

“Has Aina Rosberg called again?”

“I called her back. But Zeba still hadn't returned.”

Linda thought for a moment. Most of all she wanted to talk to her dad, but she also knew what he would say. Two hours was not a long time. There was probably a natural explanation for Zeba's absence. But what could it possibly be?

“Let's go over to her apartment,” Linda said. “I want to take a look at it.”

Anna made no objections. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Rosberg let them in.

“Where can she be?” she said. “This isn't like her. Nobody would leave such a young child alone, least of all her. What would have happened if I hadn't heard him cry?”

“I'm sure she'll be back soon,” Linda said. “But it would be best if the boy could stay with you until then.”

“Of course he can,” Mrs. Rosberg said, and left to go back to her apartment.

When Linda walked into Zeba's apartment, she picked up a strange smell. Her heart grew cold with fear; she knew something serious had happened. Zeba had not left of her own free will.

“Can you smell that?” she asked.

Anna shook her head.

“That sharp smell. Like vinegar.”

“I don't smell anything.”

 

Linda sat in the kitchen, Anna in the living room. Linda could see her through the open door. Anna was nervously pinching herself on the arm. Linda tried to think clearly. She walked over to the window and looked out. She tried to imagine Zeba walking out onto the street. Which way had she gone? To the left or to the right? Had she been alone? Linda looked at the little smoke shop that was across the street. A tall, heavily built man was standing in the doorway, smoking. When a customer came by he walked in, then resumed his station at the doorway. Linda thought he was worth a try.

Anna still sat on the couch, lost in thought. Linda patted her on the arm.

“I'm sure she'll turn up,” she said. “Probably nothing has
happened. I'm going down to the smoke shop for a few minutes. I'll be back soon.”

 

There was a sign welcoming customers to “Yassar's Shop.” Linda bought some gum.

“Do you know Zeba?” she asked. “She lives across the street.”

“Zeba? Sure. I give her little one candy when they come in.”

“Have you seen her today?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“A few hours ago, around ten o'clock. I was putting up one of the flags that had come down outside. I don't understand how a flag can fall down when there is no wind. ...”

“Was anyone with her?” Linda interrupted.

“She was with a man.”

Linda's heart beat faster.

“Have you seen him before?”

Yassar looked worried. Instead of answering her question, he started asking his own.

“Why do you want to know? Who are you?”

“You must have seen me before. I'm a friend of Zeba's.”

“Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I need to know.”

“Has anything happened?”

“No. Have you ever seen the man before?”

“No. He had a small gray car, he was tall, and later I thought about how strange it was that Zeba was leaning on him.”

“How do you mean ‘leaning on him'?”

“Just that. She was leaning, clinging. As if she needed support.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“He was tall. That's about it. He had a hat on, a long coat.”

“A hat?”

“A gray hat. Or blue. A long gray coat. Or blue. Everything about him was either blue or gray.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.”

“What about the make of the car?”

“I don't know. Why are you asking all these questions? You
come into my shop and make me as worried as if you were a cop.”

“I am a cop,” Linda said, and she left.

When she came back to the apartment, Anna was sitting where she had left her. Linda had the same feeling that there was something she should be seeing, realizing, seeing through, although she didn't know what it was. She sat down next to Anna.

“You have to go back to your place, in case Zeba calls. I'm going down to the police station to talk to my dad. You can drop me off there.”

Anna grabbed Linda's arm so roughly that Linda jumped. Then, just as abruptly, she let go. It was a strange reaction. Perhaps not the action itself, but the intensity of it.

 

When Linda walked into the reception area, someone called out to her that her dad was at the D.A.'s office, on the other side. She went over. The outer door was locked, but an assistant who recognized her let her in.

“Are you looking for your father? He's in the small conference room.”

She pointed down a corridor. A red light was on outside one of the rooms. Linda sat down outside and waited.

After ten minutes Ann-Britt Höglund came out, saw her, and looked surprised. Then she turned back to the room.

“You have an important visitor,” she said and kept going.

Wallander came out with a very young attorney. He introduced Linda and the attorney left. Linda pulled him down in a chair and told him everything that had happened, not even trying to be systematic about the order in which things came out. Wallander was quiet for a long time after she finished. Then he asked a few questions, primarily about Yassar's observations. He returned several times to the issue of Zeba “leaning” on the man.

“Is Zeba the touchy-feely kind?”

“No, I'd say the opposite, actually. It's normally the man who is all over her. She's tough and avoids showing any weakness, although she has several.”

“If she was being taken away against her will, why didn't she cry out?”

Linda shook her head. Wallander answered his own question, as he stood up.

“Maybe she wasn't able to.”

“And that she had to lean on the man? That she was drugged and would have fallen down if he hadn't held her? That ‘leaning on him' could be rephrased as ‘propped up by him'?”

“That's exactly what I'm thinking.”

He walked quickly to his office. Linda had trouble keeping up. On the way, Wallander knocked on Lindman's door and pushed it open. It was empty. Martinsson walked by carrying a large teddy bear.

“What the hell is that?” Wallander asked irritably.

“It was made in Taiwan. There's a large package of amphetamines inside.”

“Get someone else to take care of it.”

“I was about to hand it over to Svartman,” Martinsson said, not hiding the fact that he too was irritated.

“Try to round everyone up. I want a meeting in half an hour.”

Martinsson left.

Wallander sat down behind his desk, then leaned over toward Linda.

“You didn't ask Yassar if he heard the man say anything.”

“I forgot.”

Wallander handed her the phone.

“Call him.”

“I don't know what his number is.”

Wallander dialed information for her. Linda asked to be transferred. Yassar answered. He didn't remember the man saying anything.

“I'm starting to worry,” Yassar said. “What has happened?”

“Nothing,” Linda said. “Thanks for your help.”

She put the phone down.

“He didn't hear anything.”

Her dad rocked back and forth on his chair and looked at his hands. She heard voices come and go outside in the corridor.

“I don't like it,” he said finally. “Her neighbor is right. No one leaves such a young child alone.”

“I keep having the feeling that I'm overlooking something,”
Linda said. “Something I should see, something that's staring me in the face. There's a connection, the kind you're always talking about. But I can't think of it.”

He looked attentively at her.

“As if part of you already knows what's happened? And why?”

She shook her head.

“It's more as if I've kind of been waiting for this to happen. And as if Zeba isn't the one who's disappeared, but Anna. A second time.”