The Hand that Trembles (31 page)

‘So she inherited the old man? Did she get a lot?’

Niklas Öhman stopped his knife.

‘Quite a bit,’ he said, and then halved some carrots with a couple of swift slices. ‘He was richer than you would have thought. He never talked about money or …’

‘So they weren’t close?’

‘Jenny and Dufva? No, not at all, but she felt a duty to step in, with housecleaning and the like.’

‘But she stood to inherit,’ Sven-Arne observed.

Niklas Öhman glanced at him over his shoulder.

‘What do you want, anyway – I thought you wanted to find something out about Dufva?’

‘I don’t really know what I want. Perhaps get some order to the story, or to understand my uncle. The fact is that you are the first person I’ve really talked to since returning to Sweden. Besides Ante, of course.’

Up until this point in the conversation, Niklas Öhman had turned his head from time to time and looked at Sven-Arne over his shoulder, but now he put down the knife, turned, and leant up against the counter.

‘Why was Nils Dufva so important?’

‘He died,’ Sven-Arne Persson said.

‘As we all do at some point. You should ask me, I associate with human remains a great deal.’

‘Are you—’

‘Archeologist,’ Öhman said. ‘And now Dufva is a heap of bones in the earth. And that is nothing that concerns me. He is history. And that’s fine by me.’

‘Would you mind if I took a quick look around the house?’ Sven-Arne asked suddenly.

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I don’t know how to explain it, but it would help me understand my uncle’s argumentations.’

He felt his cheeks heat up. Perhaps the lie was too weakly constructed for Niklas Öhman to swallow.  

‘I definitely don’t want to go nosing around, I don’t want you to think that. But I would like to see the room where Dufva died. I believe—’  

‘What do you know about his murder?’  

‘Nothing,’ Sven-Arne replied. ‘I just know that Dufva and Ante were up to something.’  

Some of his confidence returned and he now launched into a wordy explanation that he deliberately left somewhat unclear. He sensed that if he presented himself as somewhat confused it might help his cause. Öhman might think he may as well authorise a short tour of the house, and then try to convince his visitor to leave.

‘I want you to be gone when Jenny gets back. She has put all that behind her. Most of all she wants to forget about the old man. It was hard enough to find him dead. He was lying in the living room with his head bashed in. She had to have therapy for a couple of years in order to try to forget and move on, and still, I can sometimes see on her face how hard it is for her and sometimes she can’t even walk into the room. She’ll never be free.’

‘Could I possibly have a carrot? I haven’t had much to eat for a while.’

Niklas Öhman stared at Sven-Arne Persson, shook his head, and gave him a peeled carrot.

‘I don’t want Jenny to become upset, that’s all.’

‘It’s okay,’ Sven-Arne said, without thinking of the fact that he was speaking English, and took a bite of his carrot.

‘Just a minute, then maybe Ante’s talk will make more sense to me.’

‘It’s okay,’ Öhman echoed. ‘I’ll show you.’

He left the kitchen and led the way into the hallway before Sven-Arne had time to get to his feet. They walked out into the living room that was directly connected to the entry hall.  

‘Well, this is it. This was where he died,’ Niklas Öhman said. ‘He was lying face down. We have redone everything, painted and hung wallpaper.’  

The furnishings were relatively contemporary and Sven-Arne realised it would have looked completely different in Dufva’s time.  

‘So they met here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sven-Arne said. ‘He rambles on about so many strange things.’

He felt Öhman’s eyes on him.

‘Does Jenny grieve for him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is that why she doesn’t want to go into this room?’

‘I don’t think you understand. She found him, and it was not a pleasant sight.’

Sven-Arne nodded.

‘Thanks for the carrot,’ he said. ‘It tasted good.’

He walked back into the hall, slipped his feet into his sandals, and unhooked his jacket from the peg. Niklas Öhman was watching him from the doorway to the living room.

‘You need new shoes,’ he said.

‘Not where I’m headed,’ Sven-Arne said, and put his hand on the front door handle.

At that moment the door opened and he stood eye-to-eye with a woman. He understood at once it was Jenny Holgersson. She was flushed red and panting. Her cheeks bore vivid acne scars.

‘Hi, Jenny,’ he said.

Niklas forced his way past, put a hand on Sven-Arne’s shoulder, and pushed him out so that he almost tripped in front of Jenny.

‘Go!’ he rasped in Sven-Arne’s ear.

Jenny Holgersson managed to slink in between the doorpost and Sven-Arne, but he had time to catch sight of the fear in her eyes.

‘What’s going on?’

‘He invited himself in,’ Niklas Öhman said.

‘Not at all,’ Sven-Arne said. ‘We’ve had a nice conversation. And I got a carrot.’

He felt strangely elated. He was glad that he at least got a look at Jenny Holgersson, even though he was not likely ever to get to talk to her, but to get a face meant he had an easier time imagining Dufva’s life and death.

‘Go away!’

Niklas Öhman slammed the door shut with a strong bang.

‘I want to talk to a homicide detective,’ Sven-Arne Persson said, and at the same time presented his number slip. He was customer number sixty-eight.

The receptionist took the slip and inspected it before she tossed it into a basket on the counter.

‘What does this concern?’

Sven-Arne shivered and felt his face grow warm and probably flush a flaming red.

‘That’s not important,’ he said.

The woman studied him and he realised he must present a remarkable and foreign sight: bearded, with hands marked with labour, his skin weathered by wind and sun, and clothes as out of place as when he stepped off the plane at Arlanda. In addition he probably smelt strange, of curry most likely.

‘Are you reporting a crime?’

Sven-Arne nodded. She thinks I am an alcoholic, he thought. But the idea of how he was judged did not affect him at all.

‘A crime,’ he said. ‘A serious crime. My name is Sven-Arne Persson,’ he added after a couple of seconds, as if that would explain something.

Suddenly there came the sound of shouting from the entrance and he turned around. There was a man there dressed in a gigantic ankle-length overcoat, and a fur hat of the kind that older men wore in the sixties. He was gesticulating wildly.

A younger man, probably a relative, Sven-Arne determined by their resemblance, was trying to calm the older one.

The woman behind the counter sighed. Sven-Arne smiled at her.

‘Nice to have a little life around here,’ he said, but realised as soon as the words came out that it was the wrong thing to say.

‘You want to meet with a homicide detective and report a serious crime? It can take a while for—’

Sven-Arne nodded again and could not repress a second smile when he had the impulse to pull a couple of notes out of his pocket to hurry along the process.

‘One moment,’ the receptionist said, and picked up the receiver.

Sven-Arne turned and watched the quarrelling pair. It was like a scene out of a play. Now it was the younger one who seemed most upset.

‘Please have a seat,’ he heard the woman say, and without looking at her he walked off toward an armchair, sat down, and prepared for a long wait. But he had only just settled in comfortably when a police officer in civilian clothes appeared by his side.

‘That’s quicker than in Bangalore,’ he said, and rose, not without some difficulty. It struck him that he had not eaten much more than a carrot all day.

‘What was that?’

‘Fast work, I mean.’

‘Sammy Nilsson,’ the police officer said, introducing himself and stretching out his hand.

Sven-Arne answered his gesture, but hesitantly, as if he was suddenly uncertain he had made the right decision. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

The policeman seemed to wait him out, as if he sensed his unease and wanted to give him a moment to pull himself together.

‘Are you ready?’

‘I’m not entirely sure of that,’ Sven-Arne replied truthfully. He knew that if he now followed the inspector into the interior of the building he would change his life more drastically in one blow than even his flight from India had done.

‘But I think we need to talk,’ he said. ‘I don’t see another way.’

Sammy Nilsson nodded and could not conceal his satisfaction. Sven-Arne realised the police officer’s curiosity had been aroused and all at once he felt well disposed toward him. He did not want to disappoint Nilsson, and he decided to make his story a good one.

It was thirty-two degrees Celsius in the shade. How hot it was in the sun, Sune Stolt did not dare to guess. He walked as close to the building wall as possible in order to maximise his shade. Business was in full swing, the shops had been open for a couple of hours. From time to time he heard people speaking Swedish.

He liked Krabi in spite of the tourists, because the city had not been as ruined as many of the others. Here there was still a somewhat intact Thai atmosphere. He hated Phuket. Phuket City might be all right but the beaches to the north were dreadful. Perhaps it was because Stolt mostly got to see the dark side of the tourist business: prostitution and drugs.

He was on his way to the police station in the centre of town. He had been there several times before and then always met with Mr No, as he was called. Stolt had forgotten his real name. Everyone knew who Mr No was – a legend in the corps – unusually tall for a Thai and known for his hard hands. Perhaps he was corrupt – there were rumours that he was involved in real estate transactions on the islands south of Krabi and that his methods were not always above board – but he had always been friendly to Stolt.

Mr No had called in the morning. Stolt could not help but smile as he thought of how pleased he had sounded as he told him that the missing-person report had gone out in Krabi the same day and that a woman had come to the station the following morning. She had brought her brother. That was all Stolt knew. Now he would find out more.

He had just completed a visit to Bangkok and was standing at the airport preparing to fly to Phuket, where he was stationed, when Mr No called. Stolt had managed to rebook his ticket, and a couple of hours later he had landed in Krabi.

It could be nothing more than a false alarm, but something in Mr No’s voice told him it was a bull’s eye. Mr No liked appearing capable and here was an opportunity to display his Thai efficiency.

Stolt was relieved to enter the station’s air-conditioned and almost arctic climate. Mr No was waiting for him in front of the reception desk. They greeted each other as warmly as usual. Sune Stolt asked him how his wife and children were doing. Mr No was clearly flattered by the fact that Stolt remembered the names of his twins. Stolt had checked the names in his notebook just before walking in.

After a couple of minutes of conversation, Mr No took him by the arm – a gesture he only bestowed upon Westerners – and showed him into a corridor, stopping at a door and opening it.

The room was bare and empty, with the exception of a wooden table and a couple of chairs. A man and a woman were sitting at the table. They immediately rose to their feet. The first thing Stolt noticed was the fear in their eyes. Thereafter he felt astonishment. The woman before him was identical to the woman in the photograph.

Mr No introduced him. Stolt nodded, smiled, and greeted the woman. She immediately began speaking in an intense torrent of words, and Mr No waited for her to finish. When she was done she stared at Sune Stolt as Mr No translated.

The photograph was of herself. It had been taken two years ago outside the restaurant where she still worked. The person who had snapped the picture was her sister, who shortly thereafter travelled to Sweden.

‘Why did she go to Sweden?’

Mr No shot him a look that expressed as much irritation as sorrow. The woman answered with another long explanation. Again Mr No waited patiently for her to finish.

‘She was going to pick berries in the big forests,’ he summarised. ‘She was going to make a lot of money. You have big forests, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Stolt said. ‘What is her sister’s name?’

He used the present tense as the woman did not know her sister’s fate.

‘Pranee Kaew Patima,’ said Mr No.

It was an hour later, when Sune Stolt had checked in to the hotel, that the grief washed over him. As long as he was at the police station he could retain his composure, but outstretched on the bed in his room, prey to the vertigo no physician could find a reason for, he gave way to the bottomless black void that had recently grown deeper and wider. He felt ashamed, both as a Swede and as a man. Bosse Marksson had given him enough information so that he gathered how it had gone. The same old story, this time with a deadly outcome.

Thailand let its young women go to humiliation and death. Sune Stolt hated the Scandinavians, British, and Germans, the old men, the gangs of rowdy twenty-year-old men, the pudgy pale middle-aged men, and the well-established ones with gold clubs in their luggage. All came for the sake of flesh.

Most of them were content to screw their way around massage parlours and in dim rooms behind bars, others moved down for a few winter months in order to live like kings, and still others imported the reed-thin girls to a cold and loveless life in Europe. Of course there were exceptions, of course there were instances of real love and concern, but most of the time it was purely a matter of commerce with bodies.

Now yet another name could be laid alongside the earlier ones, Pranee Kaew Patima.

How long would he be able to stand looking up close at this misery? He knew this hatred threatened to make him a poor policeman. He glanced at the clock. He knew he ought to get up from the bed, turn on the computer, and email Marksson what he had discovered.