Black Lies, Red Blood

Forty-eight

“Was it better before?”

Ann Lindell’s question got no answer. She did not expect one either, since she was alone in her office.

For fifteen years she had been employed with the Uppsala police, or was it longer than that? She couldn’t bear to even count. It was not an especially long time, one of her colleagues had forty years in the building, but long enough that she should be able to answer the question.

She decided that it was better before. In any event at Violent Crimes, in any event for her, in any event according to her own hasty, subjective analysis.

Had she been better before, that is, was she worse now? She grinned. Okay, she was older, a little heavier, more wrinkled, perhaps more cynical, not as curious, but no worse as a police investigator. She did not want to believe that, not even consider it. Had her associates gotten worse? Where some of them were concerned, she answered yes without hesitation. Riis definitely, maybe Allan too, mostly because he showed such a depressing resignation, more clearly than the others. Ottosson? Haver mostly went around seething. Beatrice? Well, she had definitely gotten heavier anyway, thought Ann with a hint of a smile. Sammy?

The majority had no doubt undergone a development similar to hers-more wrinkled, heavier, more experienced, individually perhaps more skilled, but on the whole worse.

There was something at Violent Crimes that didn’t add up. Ann had a hard time putting her finger on it. The percentage of cases solved was roughly the same over the years, despite an increased workload, not compensated for by more personnel. Productivity had increased, in other words, but something else was missing.

The joy was gone, she decided. Less and less often was there a gleam in her associates’ eyes. It was as if they all had a virus that produced out-of-sorts, downhearted police officers. There was grumbling, she decided. She was no exception, on the contrary, her own grumbling had increased dramatically in recent years, as if she was never really satisfied, either with her own efforts or her colleagues’. Or rather, there was grousing about an uncomprehending environment-the politicians, the National Police Board, the county police commissioner, the union, the media, the general public, young people, immigrants, social workers, the correctional system, prosecutors, the healthcare system, they all got their share. Seldom expressed and factually formulated, instead it usually went no farther than muttering from the corner of your mouth.

The whole morning she had thought about Sammy Nilsson’s words that the true story would destroy all the empty words, tear away the politicians’ veils of meaningless talk and promises. In a previous discussion, one of the now rare outbursts of meaningful debate at coffee break, he maintained that they all knew what was wrong, that there were simple, reasonable solutions to the majority of problems. Eskil Ryde protested and maintained that Sammy only wanted to spend the taxpayers’ money for no purpose. The technician thought that people’s most fundamental motivation was egoism, a characteristic that was genetically determined besides. In other words, not much could be done other than try to correct, mend, and repair, and lock up the worst idiots. Humans were incomplete, so why dream about a paradise? It only made you tired.

“Klara Lovisa,” she mumbled.

The name had become like an incantation. Why, she did not understand, but knew that the true story about the girl who was raped and then strangled could never be told. Or rather, there were several stories, tangent to each other, layered over each other.

Ann was convinced of Håkan Malmberg’s guilt. There was something very helpless about his massive form. During the latest interview she had seen something in his eyes. Perhaps he wanted to tell what had happened?

The information of whether the thread from the shed matched Malmberg’s bandanna would take time. It was a complicated analysis, and Prosecutor Molin explained that to file an indictment there could be no doubt whatsoever about the thread.

To break her passivity, Ann Lindell decided to visit the jail and say hello to Malmberg. Perhaps that environment, which he was now forced to see as “his,” would make it easier to get to know him better.

As she passed Ottosson’s office he called her in. He was sitting behind the desk, leaning back with his hands behind his neck. A button in his shirt had come loose, and in the gap that formed white skin was visible. He looked strikingly content.

“The national forensics lab is prioritizing the thread,” he reported. “You still think this is the right guy?”

Lindell nodded.

“Fredriksson found a spade,” said Ottosson. “Malmberg has one of those collapsible kinds, camping type, that can be stored in a packing case on his motorcycle. Ryde will take a closer look at it.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

Ottosson let his arms fall down on the desk and observed her.

“Sammy picked up that journalist today.”

Maybe he’s in the building, Ann thought.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine,” said Lindell curtly. “I’m going to see Malmberg now.”

In the elevator she took a deep breath and exhaled. Brant, yes! May he rot in hell!