The Cruel Stars of the Night (2 page)

The technicians Jönsson and Mårtensson had spent almost two hours going through the home. Now it was the detectives’ turn but Lin-dell was finding it hard to remain in Petrus Blomgren’s house. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it but it was something more than the usual oppressiveness she felt in the homes of those who had fallen victim to deadly violence. Perhaps a little fresh air will help, she thought and walked out into the yard again.

The mercury strip had indicated negative five degrees Celsius this morning but now there was milder weather approaching. The period of unusual cold would be followed by a warm front and the end of October would be marked by more normal temperatures.

She turned the corner and came out of the wind. A couple of black currant bushes, with withered leaves and the occasional, dangling dried berry, reminded her of a time gone by. It was always this way when she came out to the countryside. All the little cabins, woodsheds, and woodpiles with bunched-up twigs and grass took her thoughts back to Gräsö Island. This was her punishment, or so she felt. She had to live with it; she knew that. Everyone carried some painful memories. This was hers.

She sighed heavily, plucked a berry that she popped in her mouth, and looked around. There was nothing of note to see: a handful of old apple trees, a bed of wilted flowers, and a rusty ladder hanging on the wall. She took a closer look at it and the mounting hardware. The ladder did not look as if it had been moved in years.

Behind the house there was a pile of rocks that stirred the imagination. Large stone blocks pushed up against each other as if engaged in a wrestling match. From having been enemies once upon a time they had now made their peace and—weighed down with age, covered with moss and lichen—had stiffened, exhausted in their struggle, leaning heavily against each other.

Petrus Blomgren had planted a tree near this rock pile. Lindell rubbed its smooth, striated trunk. A single chair had been left out under its thin crown. Lindell pictured him sitting there in the coolness of the rocks, pondering the decisions he had to make on his own. Wasn’t that what he had written, that he had to make all his decisions alone?

Where was the motive for killing an old man? Lindell stopped, took a deep breath, and drew out her newly acquired notebook. She was a little embarrassed about it. She had read a mystery novel over the summer, the first she had read in a number of years, and in it the protagonist had a notebook where he wrote down everything of interest. At first Lindell had thought it seemed silly, but after she finished reading she kept thinking about that notebook and so when it happened that she passed by a bookstore she had slunk in and bought a pad for thirty-two
kronor.
She always carried it with her now and she thought it had sharpened her thought processes, ennobled her as a police officer. Perhaps she was simply going with her gut here, but then, wasn’t that a part of police work? At any rate, the notebook had not made things go any worse.

She had mentioned her new routine to Ottosson. He had laughed heartily, perhaps mostly because of the expression on her face, but had said something about how if she turned in the receipt for her expenditure he would gladly accept it.

Now she wrote down “motive” and smiled to herself. Thereafter she listed the various financial motives she could think of, skipped jealousy but wrote “conflict with neighbors,” “a failed robbery,” and finally “accident.”

What the latter would be Lindell could not imagine, but she had enough experience to know that many crimes—even if they involved violence—were the result of unplanned circumstances.

She heard a car pull over on the main road and sensed that Allan Fredriksson had just arrived. This investigation is probably to his taste, she thought; he likes the country air. The Violent Crimes Division’s own country boy.

Who was Petrus Blomgren? How did he live? She rounded the next corner of the house. The place suggested peacefulness, but loneliness even more, especially like this in the final days of October. May probably looked different, more optimistic. Now nature was switching off, dropping leaves, closing in around piles of rock and underbrush. She stopped and looked right into the vegetation surrounding the house. Static. The wind had died down. She imagined funeral wreaths. Fir branches. Bells that rang out in a doomsdayish way on a bare autumn day over a cowering congregation that tried to minimize its movements.

Don’t let it get to you, she thought. There’s no time to be depressed.

She had to create an idea of Petrus Blomgren’s life in order to understand how he died. The good-bye letter was a fall greeting from a person who had given up hope. The irony of fate meant he had not been granted the time to take his own life.

Lindell crossed the yard at the same time as Fredriksson walked in through the gate.

“Male, around seventy, not in our database, lived alone, killed in the barn, no signs of robbery.” Lindell summed up the situation for her colleague.

“Nice hill,” Fredriksson said. “Have you seen the maple?”

“No, I must have missed that,” Lindell said, and smiled.

“A lot of leaves. When I was a boy we weren’t supposed to jump in the leaf piles because you could get polio.”

Two

Dorotea Svahn suddenly got to her feet, walked over to the window, and looked out for a second before once again sinking down at the table.

“I thought . . . ,” she said, but did not complete her sentence.

“Yes?”

“I thought I saw someone I know.”

The woman spoke in short sentences, forcing the words out, audibly gasping for breath and it looked like such an effort that Beatrice Anders-son inadvertently leaned forward across the table as if to help when Dorotea got ready for another attempt.

“Petrus and I, we got along. I’m a widow.”

She looked down at her folded hands. Behind her, on the wall, a clock was ticking.

“Have been for many years now,” she added and looked at Beatrice. “Are you married?”

Beatrice nodded.

“That’s good.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“I was born in this house.”

Beatrice could discern a streak of defiance, as if it were a strike against her to have been born in Vilsne village, in Jumkil county, and not ever to have gotten around to leaving.

“This is a beautiful area,” Beatrice said.

“I’m the only one left.” Dorotea sighed.

“Could you tell me a little more about Petrus?”

“He was”—Dorotea Svahn searched for the right word—“strict with himself. He didn’t indulge himself in very much. He kept going as usual. For a while he worked in carpentry, in town as well. He got a lot of work. And that helped. But all that was long ago. The last couple of years he didn’t come over as often. But I could see him sitting in that chair by the corner of the house. He sat there, philosophizing.”

“About what?”

Dorotea smiled for the first time.

“It was mainly small things,” she said, “things like, well, you know . . . small things. No big thoughts. It could be about that squirrel that disappeared or the firewood he had to get to. He picked mushrooms too. And berries. Could come back with buckets of it. I had to make jam and juice. My legs aren’t so good anymore. For going in the forest, I mean.”

Beatrice nodded. The clock struck a few peals.

“Was he worried about anything?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did he mention anything? Did he have any conflicts? People he didn’t get along with?”

“Then he would have . . . He didn’t say anything like that.”

“Did he have any children?”

Dorotea shook her head. “No,” she said flatly.

“Did he have many acquaintances?” Beatrice Andersson asked, although she knew the answer.

“No, maybe in the past. He belonged to the road committee and sometimes he might have gone hunting. But not very often.”

Dorotea paused, glanced out the window. The begonias on the windowsill were still in full bloom.

“A long time ago the library bus used to come by,” she continued. “He borrowed a lot. I did, too, for that matter. As long as the Kindblom’s children were still at home it was more lively.”

She made a movement inside her mouth, produced a smacking sound. She must have repositioned her false teeth.

“Do you remember him receiving any visitors out of the ordinary the past while?”

“Like in the ads, you mean, a tanker running aground in his garden?”

Beatrice laughed at the unexpected comment and could sense a younger woman’s mischievous presence in Dorotea’s eyes.

“No, he didn’t get many visitors. The postman sometimes stops by. And then Arne, but that got less often.”

“Who is Arne?”

“Arne Wiikman. He’s an old friend. Their fathers worked at the mill together. One day Arne simply disappeared.”

“Really? When was this?”

“Well that’s a story in itself. He had inherited his father’s temper. A real troublemaker who picked fights with everyone.”

Dorotea smiled at some recollection and seemed to have collected herself somewhat. Her breathing was calmer.

“He was a communist. Everyone knew that, of course. But he was good anyway. A hard worker.”

“Are you talking about Arne’s father?”

“His name was Nils. Petrus’s father’s name was Karl-Erik, but they called him Blackie. They were always together. He was an edger working the saw. Nils was a lumber hauler. Of course, Petrus also worked at the mill when he was young. And so did Arne. Then he disappeared.”

“When was this?”

“I guess it was the midfifties.”

“But he came back?”

“Yes, that was about ten years ago. He bought Lindvall’s old house and renovated it.”

“And Arne and Petrus spent time together?”

“Yes, that’s how it went. But so different. Petrus was calm, Arne fiery.”

“Does he still live here?”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to take Petrus’s life?”

“No, no one. He didn’t harm a fly. He had no trouble with anyone.”

“What was his financial situation?”

“He managed. He had a pension, of course. He lived frugally.”

“Did he have any cash in the house?”

“You mean that someone would have wanted? I don’t think so.”

“Are you afraid now?”

Dorotea Svahn sighed.

“I’m afraid of getting old,” she said. “What will happen if my legs don’t carry me? I’m afraid of the silence. It will be . . .”

She looked down at the table.

“What a pity for such a fine man, to end like this.”

Dorotea wept silently. Beatrice held out her hand and placed it on top of the older woman’s. She looked up.

“It’s strange that something so terrible is needed to stir things up,” she said.

“Your son, where is he?”

“In town, but he travels a lot. Sometimes internationally.”

“When was he here last?”

“It was a while ago.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“To be quite honest I don’t really know what it is. Something with medical technology. Or that’s what it was before.”

“Is he married?”

“Divorced. Mona-Lisa, his wife, was . . . well, she got tired of him.”

“Grandchildren?”

Dorotea shook her head.

“She had a child later. Afterward, I mean, long after. I think she is doing well.”

“Do you like her?”

“I have nothing against Mona-Lisa,” Dorotea said.

“If we might return to Petrus. When did he usually go to bed?”

“After the nine o’clock news, sometimes he sat up later if there was a good movie on. He liked movies.”

“Did you see him yesterday?”

“We didn’t chat or anything, but I saw him as usual. He usually brought in wood in the evenings. Before, when he had a cat then . . . well,you know. He really loved the cat. A little black one with white paws. She disappeared.”

“So you saw him fetch firewood last night?”

“No, I don’t think so. I must have sat here,” Dorotea said thoughtfully, “with the crossword puzzle. And then I wrote the grocery list. Petrus was going to look in on me today. He did some shopping for me. There’s always something you need.”

Beatrice nodded and scrutinized Dorotea.

“You are the first Dorotea I’ve met.”

“Is that so? Beautiful it’s not, but you get used to it. The worst was when they called me Dorran, but that was a long time ago.”

“Did you think it was strange when you didn’t see Petrus last night?”

“No, not really. I saw that his lights were on. Then when I got up this morning I saw that the lights were still on, and that the gate was open. I mean the big gate. At first I thought an ambulance must have been here. Petrus always kept it closed. And then the door to the old barn was open.”

“You were up early.”

“It’s my bladder,” Dorotea said.

“You didn’t see a car here last night?”

“No, I would have noticed something like that,” she said firmly.

Beatrice looked down at her notes, a couple of lines, a few names, not much more. Just as she was about to end the conversation her cell phone rang. She saw that it was Ann and answered immediately.

She listened and then turned off the phone without having said a word. Dorotea looked at her with curiosity.

“I’ve just been informed that Petrus wrote a good-bye letter.”

“A good-bye letter, what do you mean?”

“He was planning to take his own life,” Beatrice said.

Dorotea stared at her.

“That’s impossible,” she said finally. “Petrus would never do anything like that.”

“My colleagues believe he wrote the letter,” Beatrice said. “I’m sorry.”

“So you mean to say—”

“—that Petrus had made up his mind to commit suicide. Yes, that’s how it appears.”

“The poor man. If only I had known.”

“It was nothing that you thought might happen?” “Never! He was a little down sometimes but not in that way.” “I’m very sorry,” Beatrice repeated and Dorotea looked at her as if she took her words to heart.

After a few additional minutes of conversation Beatrice Andersson left the house. At the gate she turned and waved. She couldn’t see her but assumed Dorotea was standing at the window.

It’s strange, she thought, that in Dorotea’s eyes it would have been better if her neighbor had been killed without the complicating factor that he had already decided to commit suicide. On top of the tragic news that Petrus Blomgren was dead she now had to bear this extra burden, the knowledge that he was tired of life and perhaps above all that on his final evening he had not sought her support.

Lindell, Nilsson, Haver, and Andersson were standing in the yard. Lindell took the fact that she could hear the technicians talking as a sign that they were wrapping up their work in the barn. In her experience the forensics team often worked in silence.

“It’s strange,” she said, “how a place changes after something like this happens.”

Perhaps this did not strike anyone as a particularly sensational or original observation and Haver was the only one who took the trouble to grunt in response. The rest were looking around. Beatrice looked back at Dorotea’s house. She was probably bustling around the kitchen or sitting at the kitchen table. Beatrice wished she had been able to spend a little more time with the old woman.

“Yes,” Sammy Nilsson said with unexpected engagement, “now it is the scene of a murder. People will talk about this house as the one where Blomgren was murdered for a long time. They’ll walk past, slow down, maybe stop and point.”

“Not a lot of people walk past,” Beatrice said.

Allan Fredriksson joined the group.

“What a wonderful place,” he said. “Have you noticed what a complex biological habitat the place is? It has everything: spruce forest, deciduous groves, open meadows and fields, dry hills, and even a little wetlands.”

Lindell smiled to herself.

Fredriksson pointed to the other side of the road where a large ditch ran down to a marsh. The green moss glowed in the morning sun. Tufts of sedge grass looked like small rounded buns and a clump of reedy marsh grass swayed in the wind.

“I wonder if Petrus was interested in birds?”

“Petrus didn’t have many friends,” Beatrice said, “and he does not appear to have been a rich man who hoarded cash or valuables.”

“The only thing I found was a letter from the Föreningsspar Bank,” Fredriksson said. “There was not a single account book or any withdrawal slips, but perhaps he kept the papers hidden. We’ll have to go over the place with a fine-toothed comb.”

Neither the forensics team nor the criminal investigators had found the least trace of burglary or disturbance. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the house in Vilsne except for the fact that its owner lay murdered in the barn.

“Will you check the bank, Allan?” Lindell asked.

Lindell looked at their new forensics team member, how he carefully packed away his equipment. Anita’s comment came to mind.

“Nice buns,” she said.

“What?”

“Morgansson’s,” Lindell said and nodded in the direction of the barn.

Haver turned his head. It looked like he was about to say something, but he held back. Everyone was watching the technician.

A door opened and a light reflection from the glass in Dorotea Svahn’s front door swept over the hill where the police officers were assembled, then disappeared into the thicket of alder and willow. The old woman looked out at her neighbor’s house, took a slow step onto her porch, and gently closed the door behind her.

She stood there with a cane in one hand and the other on the wrought-iron railing. She walked down the stairs with an effort and moved toward the police. One of her legs didn’t seem to want to come along.

She was wearing a gray coat and a dark hat. Beatrice had the impression that it was not Dorotea’s everyday outfit.

“Is she on her way over here? Maybe she needs help,” Haver said and took a step toward the gate.

She was not fast but she did seem to have developed a technique to compensate for her bad leg. A car approached. At first there was only a faint rumble behind the forest that surrounded Blomgren’s property. Dorotea must not have noticed the engine sound that increased in volume and when she was halfway across the road the van from the Medical Examiner’s Office rounded the corner. Fridh was driving. Dorotea stopped and lifted the cane over her head as a signal.

Ola Haver took yet another step forward but stopped himself. In his mind he saw the Greek shepherd he and Rebecka had once encountered, on a curvy mountain road in the north. The shepherd was moving his flock across the road. Like a wooly string of pearls they slowly streamed from one side to the other. Still, they brayed nervously, the lambs following the ewes and the flock keeping tightly together.

The shepherd had raised his staff like a weapon, or more likely a sign. He spoke deliberately, even though no one could hear him, with his gaze lifted to a point somewhere above the waiting cars. The stream of sheep seemed never to end, someone in the cue beeped, and the shepherd raised his staff a few centimeters higher. He spoke without ceasing. Haver stepped out of the car—he was at the front of the line—and he observed the timeless scene.

The same feeling now gripped him as he watched the old woman raise her cane at Fridh’s van. Wasn’t she also saying something? He thought he saw her lips forming words that no one could hear.