Black Lies, Red Blood

Eighteen

Finally, thought Urban Fredlund, the last building!

Soon he would be lying on the couch, with a cup of tea on the coffee table and a double toasted ham, cheese, and pepper sauce sandwich, his specialty every Sunday morning for the past twelve years.

Urban Fredlund did not have many pleasures in life, even less so since the woman he was living with left him ten years ago and Mirjam died a short time later. He was not sure which of the two losses he took the hardest. He had gotten Mirjam from an animal-lover and butcher, a Swede-Finn who spent his days butchering animals on a conveyor belt, and then went home to a menagerie.

That cat was special, just like his Sunday morning specialty.

In the C entry, the last one, he realized that this particular Sunday his specialty would have to wait.

5:45 A.M. A lifeless body in a stairwell in Tunabackar, female, middle-aged. Probably stone dead. Wounds on the face and back of the head. Found by a newspaper carrier. Ambulance and patrol car were on their way.

That was what Sammy Nilsson found out when he got the call. The clock on the night stand showed 5:49. Angelika was turning restlessly by his side. Perhaps she had noticed the phone ringing, but Sammy Nilsson was sure that in a few minutes she would be sound asleep again.

He would have to drag himself out of bed and take off. Along with Beatrice, he was on call over the weekend, which to this point had been surprisingly quiet. Now the calm was over.

Of course he could not know who the woman was, but he could guess. He remembered the address from the board where they had written down Bosse Gränsberg’s acquaintances. But it could also be a neighbor lady or acquaintance of Ingegerd Melander or a visitor to someone else in the building. No point in speculating, he thought, while he took a quick shower. In fifteen minutes he would find out. The dead woman was not going anywhere.

A patrol officer was standing by the entry. He held his nose demonstratively while Sammy Nilsson parked next to an ambulance and got out of the car, but the gesture was not directed at Nilsson or detectives in general.

“The paper carrier puked,” said the uniformed colleague, whose name Sammy recalled just at that moment.

“Hey, Bruno!”

His colleague nodded good-naturedly, noticeably pleased at being addressed by his first name.

Sammy did not hurry, but instead looked around. The building was a typical 1950s construction, yellow plastered, with three entries, four floors, a gravel yard with a number of abused trees and bushes shaped into balls, overflowing bike racks, a misplaced trash room that had been added in later years, and a grilling area where a grouping of chairs had been set out.

Could they have planned it to be any less inviting, wondered Sammy Nilsson.

“She’s stone dead, and clearly has been awhile,” said Bruno.

“Has the doctor arrived?”

That was a pious hope at six o’clock on a Sunday morning.

“We were first on the scene, besides them,” said Bruno, nodding toward the ambulance.

“I guess I’ll go take a look,” Sammy said. “Are you the one who propped open the door?”

“It smelled really awful.”

“And the paper carrier?”

“Sitting with an old lady on the second floor. Says ‘Melkersson’ on the door.”

“Is he shook up?”

“Yeah, you know,” Bruno replied.

Sammy Nilsson knew.

“And your partner?”

“Ortman is guarding the lady.”

Sammy turned his head and studied the directory on the wall in the stairwell. I. Melander lived on the top floor.

At that Beatrice Andersson walked in. Nilsson was expecting his colleague.

“Now maybe we can get a quick identification,” he said to Bruno. “Bea was here a few days ago.”

“Oh, shit.”

“The homeless guy who was killed, you know, he had a connection here.”

Beatrice nodded at Bruno. Sammy stepped to one side and let her in.

“Is it her, do you think?”

They went up the stairs together. The stench of vomit became stronger and stronger.

“The newspaper carrier,” Sammy explained.

“What the hell had he been eating?”

They stepped over the vomit on the third floor.

“An apple and strawberry yogurt,” he said.

“You’re too much!” Beatrice exclaimed.

The woman was on the landing between the third and fourth floors. Someone had placed a kitchen towel over her head. Sammy noted the neatly embroidered monogram. Her right hand tightly clutched a trash bag. At her feet was a newspaper. Sammy read the headline on the front page: Henhouse Burned Down in Alunda.

Ortman was standing halfway up the stairs. The pale, expressionless face testified that he had had more enjoyable assignments.

“Okay?”

Ortman nodded.

Bea leaned over, lifted the blood-stained hand towel, put it back immediately, and straightened up.

“It’s her.”

“That sucks,” said Sammy.

“Any curiosity seekers?”

Ortman shook his head. Can he talk, Sammy wondered, and tested him with a question that reasonably required a somewhat more advanced reply.

“The newspaper carrier? Where is he?”

Ortman managed it by making a motion with his head and pointing one floor down.

Sammy started to laugh.

“This job really sucks!”

Beatrice stared at him. Sammy fell silent, but burst into laughter again when he saw Ortman’s dismayed expression and bewilderment.

“You can go ahead and switch with Bruno for a while, so you get a little fresh air,” Sammy said to Ortman. The patrol officer disappeared down the stairs.

“And you! Do you know if Forensics is on their way?” Sammy called after him.

“Think so,” was the answer.

“He can talk,” said Sammy.

“Shape up,” said Beatrice. “I’ll go up, you take the paper carrier,” she decided on the division of work. “We’ll save time that way.”

Urban Fredlund had apparently recovered somewhat. In front of him on the table was an empty glass.

“Would you like some too?” Maja Melkersson asked. “There’s nothing like a glass of cold milk in the morning,” she continued, taking Sammy Nilsson’s reply as a given, as she immediately set out a glass, got a jug from the refrigerator, and poured in milk.

“Yes, that was good,” said the carrier.

“It’s the least I can do,” said the woman. “You run here every morning and make sure I find out who’s died.”

Sammy Nilsson guessed that she was referring to the obituaries in the local newspaper, but this particular morning her comment sounded macabre, to say the least.

“Can you tell me a little,” said Sammy Nilsson, as he sipped the milk and nodded appreciatively at Maja Melkersson, who was observing him.

“I noticed the smell first,” Urban Fredlund began.

“What smell? Was there already vomit when you arrived?”

“No, that’s my fault,” he said, giving Sammy Nilsson a quick look. “I’m sorry about making a mess.”

Sammy Nilsson made a deprecating gesture.

“It smelled like garbage,” the carrier continued. “Old cheese, mainly. Then when I came up to the third floor I saw… I saw the legs first.”

“You went up and looked?”

“Of course, I had to check whether or not she was injured.”

“But you knew right away that she was dead.”

Urban nodded.

“Then I ran halfway down the stairs. I thought I would make it outside, but I didn’t.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Sammy Nilsson. “Did you recognize her?”

“No, but there aren’t too many you recognize on your route. Most of them are still asleep when I’m working.”

“You didn’t see anything strange, anything that was different, in the yard or in the neighborhood?”

“No, it was a typical Sunday morning. Quiet and peaceful. Until now.”

Sammy Nilsson wrote down his name and contact information.

“One thing,” said Urban Fredlund. “Could you deliver the last newspaper to Wilson, at the very top? It’s probably on the stairway.”

Sammy Nilsson nodded, said thanks for the milk, and left them.

In the meantime the forensics technicians had arrived, the inexhaustible Morgansson and the considerably less energetic Johannesson.

“We don’t really have time,” said Morgansson. “We were just getting in the car to drive up to Dalarna.”

“Dalarna?”

“Yeah, a young kid in Hedemora was cut down with an ice pick last night,” said Johannesson. “Half of Dalarna is down with the flu, our associates in Falun anyway, so we have to intervene.”

“But there must be more than the two of you in Forensics?”

Morgansson smiled apologetically.

“They’ve got it too. Haven’t you noticed that half the building is coughing and sniffling? Jakobsson is the only one who’s healthy, but typically he’s on vacation. That’s the situation.”

“How’s it look?” Johannesson asked. “Can the apartment wait until tomorrow? I mean, it looks like an accident.”

“Okay,” said Sammy. “But wrap up the trash bag, then I’ll take it along and put it in your fridge.”

Sammy continued up the stairs and stuffed the newspaper into Wilson’s mail slot. The door to Ingegerd Melander’s apartment was open, but only slightly. He took hold high up on the door frame and pushed it open.

Beatrice was in the kitchen. She had put on protective socks and gloves. There was a smell of smoke and old, dried-up beer.

“He’s lying on the couch sleeping, evidently dead drunk,” she said. “I thought I would look around a little before we wake him, if that’s even possible.”

“Who is he?”

“Johnny Andersson, her new boyfriend. Ola and I met him here the last time.”

“No one else?”

“No.”

“Is this a crime scene?”

“Doubtful,” said Beatrice. “It looks like she started tidying up, went to take out the garbage, and fell down.”

“Anything exciting?”

“Not so far. There’s been a party, that much is clear.”

The kitchen counters, which on her first visit had been almost clinically clean, were now overflowing with plates, glasses, and food scraps. Sammy counted three whole bottles of liquor, all empty, plus a fair number of beer cans.

“There were several of them,” he determined.

He counted six large serving plates and just as many table settings. On the stove was an ovenproof dish that presumably contained potato casserole. Three jars of different kinds of herring were on the kitchen counter, all empty.

He lifted the lid of a saucepan, in which there were three new potatoes left. In a frying pan was half a sausage, which someone had bitten off in the middle, perhaps a final nighttime bite.

Sammy sighed and put the lid back on. It reminded him that he had not had any breakfast.

“Shall we wake up Mr. Andersson?”

“I’d like to look around a little in peace and quiet first,” said Beatrice.

“You’ve had breakfast, I’m guessing.”

Beatrice ignored his comment.

“Let’s take the bedroom first, that’s where women hide their secrets,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we let Morgansson-”

“There’s nothing that indicates a crime,” said Beatrice.

“But if she was going out with the garbage, why just take one trash bag? It’s full of shit here, enough to fill a container.”

“She took the worst of it, what smelled bad,” said Beatrice.

“I think we should wake up Johnny anyway to get his version,” Sammy insisted.

His feeling of discomfort had increased. He didn’t like Beatrice’s somewhat lecturing tone either.

“If I wake up our snoozing friend, you can look around a little. Then we’ll save a little time too.”

Beatrice shrugged and went into the bedroom.

The only thing Johnny Andersson had on was a pair of fairly clean underwear. He was lying with one leg stretched out on the couch and the other foot resting on the floor. His hands were clasped on his hairy chest. He was snoring lightly.

Sammy Nilsson observed him a few seconds before he took him by the shoulder and shook.

“Time to wake up!”

Johnny moved restlessly, hiccoughed, but did not wake up.

“Johnny!”

Another shake. No reaction. Sammy bent down over the sleeping man, whose breath defied all description.

“What did you eat yesterday?” Sammy mumbled, and shook the lifeless body again, this time considerably more brusquely.

Johnny Andersson opened his eyes and looked confusedly at the policeman.

“What the hell!”

“Sammy Nilsson, police.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Sit up, we have to talk a little.”

It took several minutes to get a more or less clear picture of what had happened the night before. Johnny was hungover but still capable of giving an account of what had gone on. About a dozen “acquaintances” had celebrated. Ingegerd had won a little money on the lottery, Johnny explained. At midnight most of them disappeared. He himself passed out.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked suddenly.

“There’s been an accident,” said Sammy. “Ingegerd fell on the stairs.”

“What do you mean, stairs?”

“She went out with the garbage.”

“Typical,” said Johnny. “Everything has to be so fucking tidy.”

“She fell badly.”

“Was it the neighbor lady who complained?”

“Listen up now! Ingegerd fell and struck her head. It was really bad, she’s dead.”

Johnny stared at the policeman, shook his head, and fumbled for a bottle on the table, but knocked it over.

“Dead?”

Sammy Nilsson nodded.

Johnny stared at the vodka running over the edge of the table and dripping down onto the carpet. He took a glass and captured a few drops, which he knocked back at once. He was ready to repeat the maneuver, but Sammy Nilsson took the glass out of his hand.

“This is not the time to drink,” he said gently. “We have to talk a little.”

“What the hell, she’s dead? Are you sure? What the hell is this?”

He got up suddenly, took a few steps, and stopped in the middle of the room.

“But what do you mean, she’s in the bedroom!”

“No, that’s my associate Beatrice, whom you met the other day.”

“Where’s Ingegerd?”

“Sit down, Johnny. There’s nothing we can do now. You have to tell me who was here last night and what happened.”

“Happened? Nothing happened! I said we were partying. Is that illegal, maybe?”

“Sit down.”

Johnny obeyed unexpectedly and sank down in an armchair. He reached out and righted the bottle.

“So where should I go now? Tell me that.”

Beatrice came into the living room and observed Johnny Andersson, who raised the empty glass and brought it to his lips, set it down with a surprised expression, as if the very thought that there was no more vodka was incredible.

“Okay, I think it’s best if you come along with us, then you can tell us what happened yesterday and who was there. You can’t stay here anyway.”

“What do you mean, I said we were partying.”

“But we have to get that down on paper, as a formality,” said Sammy.

“So where will I crash?”

“We have comfortable single rooms,” said Beatrice before she disappeared out into the stairwell.

“We’ll leave in a few minutes,” said Sammy.