The Hand that Trembles (17 page)

Lindell fetched her car from behind the police building and drove out toward Luthagsleden Expressway. After a quarter of an hour she turned onto the street where Elsa Persson lived.

Number 17 did not stand out noticeably from the row of houses that looked like a set of attached boxes. She parked, observed that the newspaper was still sticking out of the mailbox, got out of the car, and walked up the few steps to the front door. Not a sound could be heard on the cul-de-sac.

The doorbell was discreet; a faint buzz sounded. After a second try and a minute’s pause she gave up.

‘Are you looking for Elsa?’

Lindell turned. A woman had appeared in the door of the next house over.

‘Yes, actually. My name is Ann Lindell, from the Uppsala police.’

‘I see,’ the neighbour said doubtfully. ‘Are you investigating the accident? But then you would know …’

‘What accident?’

‘You haven’t heard?’

Lindell walked closer to the low fence that separated the properties. She saw that the woman had been crying.

‘Maybe you could tell me what happened,’ Lindell said.

She was invited into number 19 instead of 17 and got to hear the whole story at the kitchen table.

‘Did you know her husband?’ she asked when she had a clear understanding of the facts.

‘Of course,’ the woman said. ‘We lived right next door. And I know he has been seen in India recently. It must have been a shock for Elsa. Poor woman!’

Lindell saw that the neighbour was close to tears again.

‘I know this is upsetting, but could you tell me a little more about Elsa?’

The woman gave her a quick look.

‘What do we know about other people’s thoughts,’ she said finally.

‘But she must have said something.’

‘You say one thing, but maybe …’

She fell silent.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘Honestly speaking, I think she was just happy that Sven-Arne disappeared. But Elsa is so controlled, so measured when it comes to emotions. She was brought up that way. She is a teacher,’ she added after a short pause, as if this could further explain Elsa Persson’s reserve.

‘But then for some reason her world fell apart?’

The neighbour nodded.

‘Could it be something financial?’

‘I don’t think so. Elsa managed well, and I don’t understand how a dead man’s unexpected return could disrupt her life in terms of money. But there was something that threw her completely off balance. She is not an absentminded person, she would never walk out in front of a car like that.’

‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘She talked about Sven-Arne’s uncle, Ante Persson. I have met him as well. He used to write letters to the editor. A real troublemaker, even in older days. He was against everything. Elsa has never liked him. I think – and now I am speculating – that the uncle said something when Elsa visited him right after she had been informed that Sven-Arne was still alive. He lives in a home – Ramund, I think it is – you know, the assisted living place in Eriksdal.’

‘What could he possibly have told her?’

‘Elsa said she had been betrayed. That uncle and Sven-Arne were close, maybe they had been in cahoots.’

In cahoots, Lindell thought, and visualised two figures gathered around a pot of stew, nursing secrets.

After a couple more minutes of conversation, Ann Lindell felt she had a clear picture of the situation. This restrained woman, Elsa Persson, had been completely thrown for a loop, that much was clear. It was enough to awaken Lindell’s curiosity, but she decided to drop the matter. Now at least there was something to report back to Berglund. Maybe he wouldn’t care, now that he had dusted off his old murder case, but she had done what was expected.

‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about,’ Allan Fredriksson said.

‘I see,’ Lindell said flatly. She had hardly woken up. She looked at the time: a quarter past seven. Why is he calling so inhumanly early, she wondered, and immediately received her answer.

‘I’m going in for a procedure, so I thought I would catch you before you head out to the coast.’

Lindell had not heard anything about a procedure.

‘I was looking at those photographs yesterday,’ Fredriksson continued. ‘Where they found the foot. There was a tree there, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Lindell said doubtfully, ‘there was …’

‘A pine,’ he determined. ‘At first I thought it was snow, but then I didn’t see snow in the other pictures.’

‘There was snow out there,’ Lindell said, completely baffled by what Fredriksson wanted. And what kind of examination was he undergoing?

‘But not at the scene?’

‘No, that area was in full sun, but where are you going with this? It’s a little hectic around here, Erik is eating breakfast.’

‘An eagle,’ Fredriksson said, his tone suddenly crisp. ‘The streaks on the tree are eagle droppings. It is an eagle tree.’

Now Lindell sensed what he was getting at. She smiled to herself. Fredriksson was the division’s forest and bird fanatic.

‘It’s not a fox, it’s an eagle.’

‘You mean …’

‘Exactly, an eagle was sitting with the foot in the tree when something startled it, it lost its hold of the foot, and flew away. Eagles have favourite trees, a tall pine is excellent, it has a good lookout from there. Maybe it’s even a nesting tree.’

Lindell had no problem imagining the eagle. She had seen many sea eagles at Gräsö Island. One winter’s day when she had been ice fishing with Edvard, five had been circling above the bay below Edvard’s house. She knew that they could get big, with two-and-a-half-metre wingspans, and that they could carry large prey. Viola, Edvard’s landlady, claimed once to have seen an eagle with a pig in its claws.

‘I don’t know if it means anything,’ Fredriksson said modestly, but had trouble concealing his satisfaction.

‘It could mean a great deal,’ Lindell said. ‘It could mean—’

‘—that the foot came from a long way away,’ Fredriksson inserted. Lindell was silent for a few moments. She visualised the bay with Bultudden Point on the other side.

‘What kind of procedure are you having?’

‘Routine examination,’ Fredriksson said.

Lindell was tempted to ask more but ended the conversation by thanking him for the tip.

‘It’s nothing,’ Fredriksson said, and hung up.

Meanwhile Erik had been trying to pour more yogurt into his bowl all by himself, but with mixed results, and had thereafter managed to tip the box of muesli on its side.

‘Good work,’ Lindell said. ‘We don’t need bowls anymore, we can eat straight off the table.’

A couple of hours later she was back at the bay. ‘Bultudden,’ she murmured quietly to herself, and let her gaze sweep over the terrain and come to rest on the tall pine. The crown of the tree looked strange, the branches like fingers outstretched to the sky. It was probably the result of a lightning strike.

Fredriksson’s theory that it could have been a nesting tree was not implausible. There were a number of old sticks in the palm that was created, but not enough for a whole nest. Perhaps the work had been interrupted.

The remains of droppings on the trunk, dirty white streaks, had been left over a long period of time, that much she understood.

The foot had been found next to the tree on a bed of pine needles. She decided to adopt the theory as her own, and dialled Bosse Marksson, who was in Forsmark checking on a series of summer cottage break-ins.

He explained the way to Bultudden Point. There was no direct route from where Lindell was located, so she would have to retrace her steps to the main road, take a right turn north and drive a couple of kilometres, then turn south again.

Lindell did not tell him why she wanted to go out to the point and Marksson did not appear the least curious. He also did not ask her why she wanted the mobile phone number of his friend who had discovered the foot.

* * *

 She parked outside the first house half an hour later. Marksson had told her that there were seven properties on the point, but strangely enough none of them were holiday homes.

Lindell stepped out of the car and looked the two-storeyed house up and down. She estimated it dated from the forties, now in terrible condition. The red siding was faded and flaking and the metal roof was corroded. Some twenty metres to the right there was an older barn and a few other smaller structures.

Lindell thought she glimpsed movement in one of the windows and sensed that she was being observed. The gate was hanging on its post and the gravel path was thick with weeds. Beds planted with perennials lined either side of the path, the withered remains of which breathed neglect.

When she was halfway to the house, the front door swung open and a man appeared. He was dressed in blue work clothes, and was about sixty and almost completely bald. He stared at Lindell for a couple of seconds before he launched into a string of invectives.

‘Go to hell! I said no, got it? The fact that he sent a woman doesn’t change anything.’

Lindell stared back at him with astonishment. The outburst came completely unexpectedly and was so forceful it took her aback. He lifted one arm frenetically in a gesture that indicated she should leave, and his almost distorted facial features intensified with a next salvo.

‘Can’t you hear me? Go to hell!’

He slammed the door hard. A flowerpot on the porch railing fell down and broke in two.

Lindell walked over to the window where she had thought she had caught a glimpse of the man, took out her police identification, and held it up against the windowpane.

After half a minute the door swung open again.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’

‘Are you always this hospitable?’ Lindell said with a smile.

‘Are you from the police?’

She nodded. The man backed up into the hall and gestured something that Lindell interpreted as an invitation.

Torsten Andersson – Lindell had noticed the name on the mailbox – pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Lindell sat down. She saw that he was still agitated but there was also curiosity in his eyes.

‘Are you putting on a pot of coffee? It’s been a while since I had a cup.’

He looked at her for a moment, shook his head, then turned, opened a kitchen cabinet, and took out a jar. His hands shook.

‘New coffee maker?’

‘The old one went bad,’ he said, his back turned.

As he supplied the machine with water and coffee and set out two cups on the counter, he snuck glances at the table, but never met her gaze.  

He is not used to company, Lindell thought. His movements were awkward and he executed everything very slowly, as if he had to think about each step.  

The cups came to the table, as did a sugar bowl and a creamer filled with milk.  

‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here.’  

‘Is it about the hens?’  

‘No, it’s about a foot.’  

She explained why she had come to Bultudden, but said nothing of the eagle theory.

‘A severed foot,’ he said with disbelief. ‘Who cuts off a foot?’

‘Is it you?’

He twisted around, a plate in his hand.

‘Just joking,’ Lindell added hurriedly.

He muttered something, took a couple of cinnamon buns that he had thawed in the microwave and slid them onto the plate, then planted himself to wait in front of the coffee maker.

Everything in this kitchen seemed to take time. Lindell looked around. The forties atmosphere was reinforced by the cabinets.

‘You don’t have the wood stove going.’

‘Only morning and night,’ he answered gruffly, pouring out the coffee and sitting down across from her.

They drank in silence. The man made a gesture with his hand as if to say ‘help yourself’ and she picked up a cinnamon bun. It was still warm. She smiled and chewed, the man peered out the window, but she noted that he was furtively observing all of her moves.

‘And I do have a wood-burning furnace in the basement,’ he said.

Lindell nodded.

‘Wonderful cinnamon bun.’

‘They’re from Margit.’

‘Does she also live out here?’

‘Next place over,’ he replied, and nodded his head to indicate a southerly direction.

She took out the map that Marksson had given her, and laid it on the table. Torsten Andersson leant over it inquisitively, almost eagerly, as if he had never before seen a map of the area. Suddenly his hand shot out.

‘This is where we are,’ he said, ‘Margit and Kalle live over there.’

The nail on his index finger was cracked.

‘This is where we found the foot,’ Lindell said, and pointed.

He lifted his head and looked at her, but said nothing.

‘Tell me a little about the point,’ she said, as she helped herself to another cinnamon bun.

‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said.

Lindell sensed that indeed there was a great deal to tell, and was pleased that Torsten Andersson was the first she had encountered. There was a secure feeling in his kitchen, despite his initial show of anger. She let her gaze wander once more around the room, discovering details, noticing the antique toaster tucked in behind an almost equally old radio, a wall decoration with an embroidered text where ‘though we may roam’ was rhymed with ‘humble home,’ the socks that were hung to dry next to the stove hook, and an old cupboard that was topped by a one-litre Höganäs ceramic jar on a moth-eaten doily.

‘You’ve made it look nice in here,’ she said, and caught a swift glint of amusement in his eyes.

‘I do all right,’ he said.

‘Can’t you light a fire in the stove, even though it’s neither morning or night? I like the sound of it crackling.’

He got to his feet, pulled out the wood bin with practised movements, opened the door to the wood stove, popped in a little bark shavings, some kindling and thin pieces of wood, put a match to it, shut the door almost all the way, remained crouched in front of it and watched the fire light before he closed it completely. Then he sat back down at the table and started to tell her about Bultudden.