The Cruel Stars of the Night (15 page)

Stig watched Laura park about twenty meters from his home, a “funkis” house at the end of a cul-de-sac. He braked and drove down the street very slowly He was at a loss. Should he drive up, park the car, and go in, pretending he hadn’t seen her car? The risk was great that she would make her presence known, perhaps call out to him, want him to stop and talk.

If he, on the other hand, parked on the street, chances were good that the neighbors would see his car and start to wonder what it was doing there. Even if he crouched over the Dahlströms would catch him, he was convinced of that.

He stopped but let the motor run. Laura’s car was partly concealed behind a hedge but he could see her sitting inside.

The lights were on in the bottom story of his house. Stig could picture Jessica, how she sat in the study and went through the Hausmann document, with concentration but upset, always glancing at the clock in the right-hand corner of the computer screen. Many times he had admired her ability to set aside all worry and soldier on, effective and focused.

If Laura left her car and approached the house what should he do? Try to stop her? How could he do that without attracting attention on the street? She would most likely start to argue in a loud voice. Run her over? That would wake up the whole street.

Stig visualized Laura’s pale body, crushed against the black asphalt. He sneezed once, twice. How would he explain it? That she ran out in front of his car and he hadn’t had a chance to veer away? In Laura’s current condition no one would consider that implausible.

Harder to explain the scratches to Jessica. She would be able to accept that he ran over a confused Laura, but she would never accept infidelity from him.

It started to rain harder. The Nilssons turned out the light downstairs. Gustav Rosén let out the cat. Poor devil, Stig thought, as he pushed the car into first gear and quickly drove up to the driveway, opened the garage door with the remote control, drove in, jumped out of the car, and pulled the door down. All done in the span of a few seconds.

He took out a knife from the toolbox on the workbench, tested its edge on his finger, and then cut the back of his trousers with four quick slices of the knife. There was a sting of pain as the knife went through the fabric and cut his skin, and he yelped. Before he threw the knife back he jabbed his right hand, then opened the door to the driveway, closed it as quickly behind him, and walked into the house.

“That fucking cat,” he yelled as he shut the door to the laundry room and walked into the kitchen.

“What is it?” Jessica shouted from the study.

“Rosén’s damn cat attacked me.”

He poured water on his hand. Jessica came out into the kitchen and stared at him.

“The cat?” she said unusually stupidly.

“Yes, Rosén’s damn tiger. He was sitting in the garage and when I got out of the car he attacked me.”

“What was he doing in the garage?”

“How the hell would I know? It must have snuck in.”

“Is it still there?”

“No, I kicked it out.”

“You pants are ruined.”

“I’ll make that damn tree-hugger pay for it. And the cat should be shot!”

“Calm down. You must have scared it.”

“Are you working?” Stig asked.

“Yes. Where have you been?”

“At Laura’s. She called. She’s dissatisfied with Hausmann. I think she’s going a little nuts.”

“She’s been that for a long time. But why didn’t you call?”

“It just didn’t happen. I’m sorry, but she threatened to call Weber and tell him, well, you know, everything . . .”

“Call Weber!”

Stig was rejoicing inside. He had succeeded in diverting Jessica’s attention and now he stoked the fire. The relief made him improve even further on his story, how he had stood in the rain at Laura’s, anxious to get away, but how she had more or less attached herself to him, even pulling him by the tie, and kept arguing with him.

“She said something about there being sixty thousand euros reserved for extraordinary costs for phase B. Is that correct? It seems ridiculous.”

“No, no, it’s only half that,” Jessica said.

“Can you check it?”

“I know it’s thirty thousand.”

“But could you check it, please? It’s thrown me for a loop. She may even have gone in and changed it.”

Jessica walked back to the study and Stig followed, pausing in front of the hall mirror to check if the marks around his neck were visible. He was red there but that sometimes happened when his shirts were too tight.

“It’s thirty thousand!” Jessica shouted.

“Wonderful,” Stig said with emphasis. “I’ll jump in the shower and then we have to talk about what we’re going to do about Miss Hindersten.”

Laura saw Jessica get up from the computer when Stig went into the kitchen. She couldn’t understand why he had arrived so much later than she had. Had he driven by the office?

Laura imagined them talking, how Stig told her everything, that he loved Laura and that his and Jessica’s relationship had no future.

After several minutes Jessica returned to the computer. She looked calm. Her hair shone in the light of the desk lamp. Stig was nowhere to be seen.

Laura stepped out of the car.

She realized there had been no confrontation. He was too cowardly, afraid of that witch. Laura had been too, before, but all fear had disappeared when she realized how life should be lived. It was as if a voice had spoken to her: It’s time to settle accounts with your old life, Laura!

She remembered how strong this voice had been and reminded herself that it was necessary because of how many difficulties she had had to overcome. Shattered, she sat at the kitchen table asking herself how she was going to carry on while the radio reported the results of the referendum on the European Monetary Union. Then, somewhere beyond the fear that twisted her innards, there came the sound of victorious music and a voice that rattled off confident proclamations: No room for doubt! Strike back!

Sometimes this voice was interrupted by a collage of Italian voices but it always returned even stronger, filtering out the static in her head. She laughed with relief, pushed away the knife, whose edge she had tested on some fruit, and walked out into the library, finally clear on how the whole thing was going to be done.

Laura walked closer to the house, bent some branches down, and stared at her rival. She had an impulse to step into the square of light thrown onto the dark lawn by the light through the window, which would illuminate her like a spotlight on an otherwise dark stage.

She stared at the hateful woman who seemed so self-sufficient in her blond beauty and her purposeful, measured movements in front of the computer.

Only one thing held Laura back. It was not yet time to strike back. It was something Ulrik had taught her, strangely enough: patience.

Nineteen

There was a gentle knock at the door. Mr. Sund, Ann thought immediately, but remembered that he was at a lecture at the Gottsunda Library. He had mentioned that the day before.

She walked over to the door and listened. Who knocked at half past eight in the evening? Perhaps the lecture was over and Sund wanted to tell her something exciting.

“Who is it?”

“The police,” said a voice on the other side.

Ann put on the security chain and gingerly cracked the door.

“Hi, hope I’m not disturbing you. I didn’t want to ring the doorbell in case your boy was sleeping.”

Charles Morgansson took up the entire landing, or so it seemed to Ann. How big he is, she thought, and unhooked the chain.

“Come in. No, you’re not disturbing anything. Erik has been asleep a long time. I’m just looking over some papers. You shouldn’t take your work home but sometimes I think better at home. It was nice of you to knock. I thought it was my neighbor, he usually knocks. Do you want anything?”

Morgansson smiled.

“That was a lot of info at once,” he said. “And one question. No, thank you.”

Ann felt herself blushing.

“Please feel free to hang up your coat,” she said, staring into her apartment.

A pair of pants and a blouse were thrown over a chair and Erik had put together his wooden train tracks in the middle of the hall floor.

“I’ll pick up a little. Erik makes these messes. He has a little cold.”

She walked rapidly around the living room, picked up the wineglass and looked around uncertainly then put it down behind a curtain. The bottle, she thought, but at the same time she remembered she had tossed it into the trash.

“You have a nice place,” Morgansson said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ann said and straightened the cushions on the couch. “When you live by yourself . . . well, you know. Do you feel like having anything?”

“No, thanks. I’ve just come from my cousin who lives nearby, just two buildings down actually. Svante Henriksson is his name.”

“No, no one I know,” Ann said.

“He was actually the one who lured me down here, to Uppsala I mean. He talked so warmly about the city so when . . . We played basketball together earlier.”

Ann nodded. Why did he come here, she wondered, while she kicked some toys under an armchair.

“How are things at work?”

“You know that as well as I do,” he said and laughed.

“Yes, I guess,” she said sheepishly.

They sat down across from each other.

“Maybe you’d like a glass of wine? Or a beer?”

He shook his head. Make this easier for me, she thought, and got a little exasperated with her smiling colleague.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he said as if he had read her mind. “Why do you kill yourself? Blomgren wanted to, though he didn’t have the opportunity Do you think he would have gone through with it?”

“I do. He was the type of person who followed through on his plans.”

“But why? Sick of life? I don’t think so. There was something that weighed on him. Had he hurt somebody?”

“Who would that be?” Ann asked.

Morgansson laughed suddenly.

“It’s silly to sit here and talk about work. You must think I’m totally crazy.”

He stopped and looked at her.

“Should we do it again? The movies, I mean.”

Ann nodded. Morgansson got up abruptly.

“It’s time for me to go,” he said and Ann barely had time to react before he was at the door, putting on his coat.

Then he left as quickly as he had arrived. Ann Lindell had the feeling that he was out on an inspection round to check out her place.

When she fetched her wineglass from behind the curtain she looked out the window and saw him walk swiftly across the courtyard. The unpredictable manner, the rapid changes, the short lines, and the flash of his smile that changed as quickly into serious reflection, confused her.

Morgansson reminded her of a thief, Malte Sebastian Kroon, whom Ann had come into contact with many years ago. “The Jewel” as he was called, was quick both in his thinking and with his hands. He stole with a restless energy, driven by a fire greater than that of most in his field. At a house search in Kroon’s home on Svartbäcksgatan they recovered over seven hundred items that could be classified as stolen, among these over eighty pairs of shoes. In the interrogation sessions he denied everything, but with such humor and quick wit that his replies were still repeated among the officers at the station.

Charles Morgansson did not appear as humorous, but the quickness and the disarming smile were things he had in common with Kroon.

Ann remained standing in the window long after he was out of sight and looked out at a rain-hazy Uppsala. She held her breath and tried to perceive the faint whistling sounds from Erik’s room and her own inner voice.

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

The following days nothing happened to help further the murder investigations. Of course, Ottosson claimed that they drew closer to solving the cases with each detail that they added to the case files, even if none of them could see it themselves. It was a worn cliché that afforded them little comfort.

Sammy Nilsson’s mapping of Jan-Elis Andersson’s life constructed the picture of a stingy, if not greedy, man. His own pedantic documentation bore witness to this. The oldest item was a receipt for a toaster bought in 1957.

A disagreeable man, Nilsson said in conclusion, who himself put all his important documents in a box, pushed into the bookcase with all the photos he was someday going to put into an album that he had not yet managed to buy.

It took him two working days to go through the folders but he had not found anything eye-catching, nothing that awakened interest or gave any clue to why the man had been clubbed to death in his own kitchen.

When Andersson’s financial assets were added up the final sum was around one million
kronor.
On top of this was the value of his property and all the inventory. Strangely enough there was no will and his niece was most likely the one who would inherit it all.

Lindell decided that Sammy Nilsson should go to Umeå and question the beneficiary, Lovisa Sundberg, and her husband, the architect who was confined to a wheelchair.

Nilsson took the morning flight to northern Sweden, returned the same day, and then reported back on his excursion in a meeting late that afternoon.

“They live in an area called Pig Hill,” he told them and sounded as if he thought it fit them perfectly.

“Were they pig-like?” Lindell asked.

“Stuck-up, if you like. If I had just been made a millionaire so painlessly I wouldn’t be so damn sour.”

“Painlessly,” Lindell objected. “We’re talking about a murder.”

“They weren’t grieving a whole lot, that much was clear. I got the impression that they only kept in touch with the old man because of the inheritance that was coming their way.”

“Were they sure of it then?”

“Hard to say They asked if there was a will.”

“Did they know Petrus Blomgren?” Ottosson asked.

Sammy Nilsson shook his head. He told them that Lovisa Sundberg had lived in Uppsala for a short time in order to study. She was a teacher and had studied French at the university in order to expand her competency. During that time she had lived in a small cottage on her uncle’s farm.

For a while she had thought about staying on in Uppsala but then she had met the architect, who was not disabled at that time, and he had a well-paying job in Umeå. So when she was done with her studies she moved up there.

Jan-Elis Andersson was both angry and disappointed. He would have liked to have seen his niece stay on, probably with the thought that he would get help with the horses he was taking care of on the farm.

“Cheap labor,” Ola Haver said.

“She was allowed to live there for free in exchange for helping out in the stables,” Sammy Nilsson said. “From what I can understand that was a lot of work.”

However they twisted and turned the case of the niece and her husband they couldn’t find anything that made it likely that the Umeå couple had any connection to the crime. Both of them had excellent alibis and it was at the very least improbable that they would have hired a killer.

Ann Lindell was finding it hard to concentrate. She was completely convinced of a connection between the two murders and the niece appeared less interesting. She let her thoughts run away and internally summed up the advances of the past few days, or rather, the lack of advances.

Checking the passenger lists to Mallorca had turned out to be impossible to do. The records simply didn’t exist any longer. Lindell considered whether or not it was worth the effort to try to gather information on the hotels in Mallorca. Perhaps they could find Blomgren’s name in some register, but it was likely that even these had been destroyed or were unavailable after twenty years.

Contact with a dozen or so members of the Federation of Farmers who could possibly give information about both of the men’s activities within the farmers’ co-op turned out to be a waste of time. There was nothing that spoke for the fact that Andersson and Blomgren had ever met in the context of the organization.

No witnesses had stepped forward to say anything about a suspicious car or any unknown persons who had moved in the murder victims’ circles, either in Alsike or Jumkil.

The cases were slowly going cold. Lindell didn’t like it. Or rather, she hated it. Two unexplained murders were simply too much. She could also see it in Ottosson. He was becoming increasingly tense as the days went by. His former cheeriness had been replaced by an irritable impatience.

Even the newspapers had stopped writing about the murders. The first few days’ fat headlines bore witness to the journalists’ excitement. The “Country Butcher” became an accepted concept. Now everything was quiet. Lise-Lotte Rask, who was responsible for press information, said that a few isolated reporters diligently called to see if there had been any breakthroughs. She thought she could almost discern a sneer to their pointed questions.

Lindell caught herself thinking about Charles Morgansson. Since his brief visit they had bumped into each other, said hello, and exchanged a few words but nothing had been said about another movie date.

She decided to give him a call. Maybe they should go out Friday?

“What are you smiling about?” Sammy Nilsson interrupted her thoughts.

Lindell glanced at Ola Haver, the one in the assembled group whom she thought best knew her thoughts, before she answered.

“Pantyhose.” She smiled sweetly at Sammy. For once he was rendered speechless.

Back in her office she discovered that trainee Asplund had been in again. There were two reports on her desk. One was a report on who had lived in Vilsne village the last two decades. Lindell had asked the trainee to assemble this information. It involved about fifty people altogether. Ann looked through the list without really knowing what she was after.

The second report was a compilation of all the people who had gone missing in the district over the past year. She was surprised at the number, ten people, but knew that most of them would turn up again of their own accord. Most of the ones who disappeared without a trace did it of their own free will and were really no case for the police if they didn’t involve underage individuals.

Two names on the list interested Ann more than the others and only because they were older men: Helmer Olsson, eighty-two years old, a former rubber worker from Rasbokil who disappeared in August. His wife thought he must have gotten lost but search parties that had been undertaken in the deep mushroom-filled forests north of his village had not yielded any results. Helmer Olsson’s mushroom basket had been recovered at the edge of a swampy area. Perhaps he had gone down in the bottomless quagmire that was locally referred to by the name of “Oxdeath.”

The other name was Ulrik Hindersten, a seventy-year-old professor, reported missing at the end of September. The person who reported him was the daughter, Laura Hindersten, with the same address as her father.

The results of the investigations added up to zero.

Ann checked who had taken down the information, looked at the time, and lifted the telephone receiver in the hopes that her colleague was still at work. Åsa Lantz-Andersson answered immediately and told her what she knew about Laura Hindersten, a woman she remembered very well.

After the conversation it was time to pick up Erik. Lindell went into Ottosson’s office and told him that she had to bring Erik in for a medical checkup the next day, and that after that she was going to go see a woman whose father had disappeared.

“You think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know, but we have to dig into everything.”

Ann Lindell left the police station feeling unusually happy. Maybe it was because the sun was shining for the first time in several days. Admittedly the sun was only able to break through a small gap in the cloud cover but she took it as a good sign.

When she got home she was going to call Morgansson.