Black Lies, Red Blood

Twenty-two

Tuesday morning was promising. The sun shone in between the windowsill and blind. Ann Lindell was already awake by five o’clock. I’ve got to make a longer curtain, she thought, something she’d had in mind since spring.

Perhaps she was wakened by the sunlight, or possibly by the dream, traces of which now lingered in her mind. It had been a real mishmash. Fredrik Johansson, Klara Lovisa, and Anders Brant had been there, as were Sammy Nilsson and Ottosson. It was not a good dream. Eroticism, work, and a desperate sense of loss, of getting too late a start in everything she did, made her wake up sweaty and worried.

“I miss you,” she mumbled, pushing off the overly warm covers.

Anders Brant had not been in touch, either by e-mail or SMS. Maybe he was in some kind of trouble and could simply not communicate, but she pushed that unpleasant thought aside.

If it had not been for everything that was hard to explain about Anders’s disappearance, it would have been a thoroughly good morning. She was well on her way to cracking the mystery of Klara Lovisa’s disappearance. Today would be decisive. She had decided to take Fredrik Johansson to the scene in Skärfälten; he was going to show them the hut. A dog handler would go along. She was certain of finding Klara Lovisa somewhere in the surroundings.

A good day, except for Fredrik who would be arrested for homicide, alternatively manslaughter; she was equally sure of that.

Klara Lovisa’s mother had called the day before, just as Lindell was about to leave work to hurry to the preschool. They had not spoken for a while, but Lindell was certain that the rumor that Fredrik Johansson was being questioned had spread among Klara Lovisa’s friends and on to her mother as well.

Lindell had not told her everything and definitely not the truth. Fredrik was being questioned simply because he might have information that was interesting; that was her white lie.

Now when he had been held in jail overnight the rumors would intensify.

Her body wanted to stay in bed. She was far from rested; the turbulence of the past few days had left its mark. A week before she had been unreservedly happy, satisfied, and slightly optimistic. Now the picture was more divided.

But there was also a more prosaic reason that she was dawdling. The dream had made her wet; in the vacillation between dream and waking up she could feel his hands on her body. There was a tingling in her abdomen as she thought back to the Brant of the dream and how he had recently been in her bed.

She drew her hand across her belly, but it felt wrong to touch herself, that would be admitting that Brant was gone for good. Self-stimulation would only mean a return to her former life’s meager substitute for real love, so she let her hand rest.

Instead she got out of bed, pulled on the blind so it flew up with a bang, opened the window, and observed the blossoming mock orange bush in the yard. She hoped that a breeze would carry a trace of its aroma to her.

Even though she had not yet showered she pulled on a recently washed T-shirt, just to take in the citrus-scented fabric softener. In the building opposite there were many retired eyes up early, who would enjoy getting a look at a bare-breasted police officer. Here everyone knew who she was. It had attracted some attention when the very first week she was driven home in a marked police car.

The birds were also experiencing a lovely morning. They were going full tilt, broods of baby birds had to be fed. The building manager had set up lots of birdhouses in the lindens on the grounds and on the little back building. Lindell could sometimes see him studying the sparrows and titmice, and whatever else there might be. She thought the caretaker preferred the feathered tenants in the little houses to those in the bigger building.

She was filled with a great sense of calm from standing by the window and observing the rising sun just peeking over the roof of the neighboring building, the persistent yet leisurely and lazy flight of the small birds back and forth, the abundant blossoms and sweet aroma of the mock orange, which reminded her of something from the past, everything combined to help the unpleasantness of the dream subside.

The move had done her good. She was feeling more and more at home in the area. Admittedly the buildings had a somewhat lower standard, but they were more comfortable, the contact between tenants was better, the little yard with two groupings of chairs and a grill invited neighborly interaction.

Erik had grumbled at first but soon adapted and found two new friends at a comfortable distance, one in the adjacent entryway. In the fall he would start school, and Ann had decided to move well in advance of that.

It was not until she was moved in that she realized how ingrown the old apartment had been, ingrown with old thoughts, too many late evenings with too much wine and, not least, memories of Edvard. The new apartment, besides being roomier, felt like a fresh start, and in that connection Anders Brant fit in very well.

A deep sigh and one last sniff to soak up the mock orange, before she went to shower. In fifteen minutes Erik should get up, and he was not a kid who could leap out of bed, quickly wolf down breakfast, and then run off to preschool. He needed plenty of time, first slowly getting dressed, perhaps some quiet play before it was time for a drawn-out breakfast, which he exploited to satisfy his curiosity in the most wide-ranging areas. Many mornings Ann was completely worn out from fending off all his questions. She had never met such an inquisitive person, either adult or child.

The preschool staff testified to the same thing and joked that Erik would be an excellent policeman. Then I’m a bad police officer, Ann thought, because she was not particularly curious and over the years had become less and less interested in her surroundings. Many times she was completely indifferent to her friends’ talk about this and that, even about issues that concerned current politics and the world situation. She had become aware of that during the weeks with Brant. She had never seen so many news stories in such a short time as the evenings when Brant visited her.

She showered off the dream sweat with a feeling of confidence. She convinced herself that everything would work out, including the mystery of Klara Lovisa’s disappearance, a vacation destination, Erik’s starting school, and, not least, her relationship with Anders Brant.

At exactly nine o’clock in the morning four cars rolled onto a small yard, or more precisely a minimally arranged turning area.

Out of the first car stepped Ann Lindell, Allan Fredriksson, and from the backseat a stout uniformed officer named Jarmo Kuusinen, who was keeping track of Fredrik Johansson. In car number two were the technicians Morgansson and Kraag, who had recovered from his illness, with two patrol officers in the backseat. Then came the dog handler Vidar Arleman with his companion Zero. Completing the motorcade was the prosecutor, Sixten Molin, who was leading the preliminary investigation.

It was seven weeks since Klara Lovisa disappeared. Zero let out an unexpected bark and perhaps that expressed everyone’s emotions. As with most visits to the scene of a crime, there was tension in the air. During the drive Allan Fredriksson had not said a word about the surroundings. Kuusinen confirmed the myth of their neighbors to the east as a taciturn, rugged breed. No one doubted that Fredrik, who had given Lindell directions in a few words, was nervous. His previous somewhat arrogant attitude had been replaced by a pale slump. He was already sweating and the weather outlook was for 26 to 30 degrees Celsius in eastern Svealand.

Sixten Molin was as usual somewhat slow, both in movement and in speech. He smiled often, a bit too ingratiating, Lindell thought, but for the most part he was a competent professional.

Vidar Arleman also had reason to feel worried. Zero was not his dog. His had died unexpectedly only a week before, and Zero’s regular handler was in bed with a fever.

One of the two patrol officers immediately started taking spades out of the trunk, but was stopped by his colleague, and now they were waiting around in the shade of a tree.

Morgansson and Kraag were the only ones who looked somewhat relaxed, taking out their bags at a leisurely pace and surveying the terrain. Kraag pointed out something that had drawn his attention, Morgansson looked up and laughed. Lindell looked in the direction in which Kraag had pointed but could see nothing other than some birch trees and stacks of wood.

Between the birches a path led in toward an area with lichen-covered flat rocks and marshy depressions in between. Perhaps that’s where she’s lying, thought Lindell and inspected Fredrik Johansson. He was standing stock-still, with Kuusinen beside him, staring at the hut.

Lindell had a hard time believing this was a hunting cabin. In that case why would it be here? Fredriksson thought it was more likely an old shed for forest workers.

“It’s reminiscent of Gränsberg’s last residence,” he said. “Shall we get going?”

Lindell had deliberately held back so that the young man could calm down a little and get used to the sight of the place, but now she nodded and went up to Fredrik.

“How does it feel?”

“Not good,” said Fredrik, and his entire physiognomy underscored his discomfort.

“So this is where the two of you went? You’ve been here before?”

“With Sis and Mom to pick mushrooms. We parked here and when I got tired of mushrooms I went back to the car. Then I discovered that the hut was unlocked.”

“So you thought it would be suitable for a romantic encounter with Klara Lovisa?”

Fredrik nodded.

“No one would see us. Klovisa was… she didn’t want anyone to find out.”

“I understand,” said Lindell. “So you came here, it was the end of April, admittedly sunny, but wasn’t it a bit chilly in the hut?”

“No, I didn’t think so anyway. Although Klovisa thought it was a little disgusting in there.”

“Was she happy otherwise? I mean, it was her birthday and all.”

“Yes, I think she was happy.”

Fredrik sobbed and Kuusinen watched with contempt as he hid his face in his hands.

“You went in,” said Lindell, starting to walk at the same time. She nodded toward Kuusinen, who took hold of Fredrik’s arm and shoved him forward. In the corner of her eye Lindell saw the prosecutor and Fredriksson trudging along.

They came up to the hut. Lindell took out a plastic glove and carefully opened the door with two fingers. A musty smell struck her.

She stepped up on the flat rock that served as a step, peeked in, and turned toward Fredrik.

“Not exactly a love nest,” she said.

Fredrik stared at her blankly.

“You went into the hut and then what happened?”

“We were there and then…”

“You started making out, in other words,” Kuusinen unexpectedly interrupted in his melodic Finland Swedish.

“And then Klara Lovisa didn’t want to anymore, was that it? You said she changed her mind.”

Fredrik nodded.

“You also said yesterday that you started to quarrel, what does that mean?”

“She said she wanted to, but then it turned out so wrong. She just wanted to go home.”

“But you wanted to?”

He did not answer.

“Did you quarrel? Did you take hold of her, shake her?”

“No, I tried to hug her, but then she hit me.”

“You didn’t hit back, as a reflex, I mean?”

“I got totally sick of it and just left.”

“How long were the two of you here?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes, no more. Then I left. I knew that Klovisa wouldn’t change her mind. She’s always been super stubborn. I promise, that’s what happened!”

“And she stayed here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t feel lousy?”

“Yes, afterward, but then it was too late.”

“Okay,” said Lindell, looking at the prosecutor, who shook his head. “Now you can ride back to the police station, and we’re going to do an investigation of the hut. But I think it’s good that we’ve gotten this far. You’ve been helpful.”

Kuusinen made a face that clearly showed what he thought of Fredrik Johansson, took him by the shoulder, and more or less turned him on the spot.

Lindell watched how Kuusinen, Fredrik, and Fredriksson got into the car. Fredriksson made some elaborate maneuvers to wriggle the car out of the yard and it then jolted me out of sight.

Lindell had made an agreement with Sixten Molin to ride with him back to Uppsala.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It doesn’t look promising for our dear Fredrik,” said Molin.

“Now we’ll let the dogs loose,” said Lindell.

“The dogs?”

“Zero, Morgansson, and Kraag,” said Lindell.

Vidar Arleman did not need to worry. Zero, who was first allowed to sniff a few of the garments the police had obtained from Klara Lovisa’s parents, immediately marked by the door to the hut, even if the dog handler did not believe that Klara Lovisa’s scent was still lingering after two months. Zero was not allowed to go into the hut. The technicians wanted to do their work first.

Arleman then led the dog in wider and wider circles around the shed, searched the ground, and then the edge of the forest that surrounded it. In the gap between the birches, where the path disappeared, Zero whimpered and marked toward the path. Arleman knew then that it would go that way. He released the dog, who eagerly bounded away with his nose a centimeter or two over the ground.

Arleman walked slowly after, while the others waited at the start of the path. Thirty meters into the forest Zero stopped suddenly. There the vegetation opened into a glade.

Lindell, who got a flashback to another forest and glade in Rasbo a few years earlier, followed after Arleman. Halfway she turned her head and saw the prosecutor nodding and smiling.

We smile when we find bodies, thought Lindell, because she was sure now that they would find Klara Lovisa.

Zero disappeared behind a thicket, and then the confirmation came with a few short, sharp barks.

At 12:20 P.M. on a numbingly beautiful day in June, Klara Lovisa Bolinder’s body was dug up. It was covered by a meter-thick layer of dirt, branches, and moss.

She had been buried lying on her back with her arms along her side. The body was half decomposed. Lindell could not avoid seeing the worms crawling.

But there was no doubt that it was Klara Lovisa, enough of the face was preserved to make identification possible. In addition the clothes tallied with what she had been wearing.

“She was going to buy a spring jacket,” said Lindell, who could not hold back the tears.

Arleman had returned with Zero to the car as soon as they started digging, while the others stood gathered around the pit, as if they were at a funeral.

The prosecutor Molin was obviously moved, Kuusinen swore softly, long strings of words that further reinforced his image, while his two colleagues rested with both hands on the spades looking distressed, as if they regretted having contributed to the whole thing. Morgansson slipped up behind Lindell and for a few seconds placed his arm around her shoulders.

Kraag was the only one who was working. With video camera and still camera he documented what had come to be Klara Lovisa’s resting place for a few months.

Lindell already realized that something did not add up but was unable to really think about it. Her thoughts were occupied by the gruesome task of telling Klara Lovisa’s parents that their daughter had been murdered on her sixteenth birthday and buried in the forest, perhaps after being raped.

She took a final look at the remains of Klara Lovisa, the blonde hair, now soiled by dirt, the thin hands and tongue that poked out and had rotted in many places, giving her face a clown-like expression, as if in death she was sticking her tongue out at them. She had never before experienced anything worse than this. She had an impulse to climb down into the opened grave, pull away the clump of moss that disfigured Klara Lovisa’s forehead, arrange, straighten, and wake her to life.

Hatred against the person, or persons, who had done this made her sob, before she collected herself and raised her head. Kuusinen stood on the other side of the pit, framed by multiple stems of a sallow bush. Their eyes met. He had stopped swearing and now looked almost lost.

From the deep forest birdsong was heard. The wind was filtered between the tree trunks, made the branches of the sallow bounce, pleasantly turned a few leaves, brought with it aromas of summer.

I promise you, Klara Lovisa, thought Ann Lindell, that I will… Then the words stuck, she became uncertain what she should promise, what she could promise, and what such a promise was worth.

She turned around, aimed for the path, and tried to move intentionally forward toward the car, without sidelong glances and thoughts. She heard the prosecutor following in her tracks.

From her back pocket a peep was heard from her cell phone. Lindell took it out and checked the display, New message received. It read: Little shook up right now. Witness to a murder. May be problems. I’ll be in touch. Hugs. Anders.

Lindell stared at the display.

“Yes, it feels too awful,” said Sixten Molin, the prosecutor, who misunderstood her surprise.

“This is so fucking unbelievable!” Lindell exclaimed.

She struck the roof of the car with her hand, had an impulse to toss the cell phone to the ground, stamp on it, eradicate Brant, but instinctively turned around so that Molin would not pick up on the extent of her consternation, which she realized was written all over her face.

The prosecutor was ready to get into the car, but stopped in midmotion and looked at her with surprise.

“How are you? Is something else going on?”

Lindell shook her head with her eyes directed into the forest.