Black Lies, Red Blood

Fifty-three

“Often all it takes is a single stab for a person to stay lying down for good,” said the surgeon.

The surgeon Bertil Friis told that Anders Brant had been stabbed nineteen times-four on his arms, one in the throat, six on his legs, and eight on his upper body, not counting the cut on his face. He had lost more blood than anyone Friis had heard of. The injuries in his abdomen were the most serious.

Several times during the operation the doctor thought about the foreign minister Anna Lindh, who with similar injuries had been lost on the operating table. Brant’s injuries were even more extensive.

For eight hours the surgical team was at it, a total of four doctors and just as many nurses.

“Is he going to make it?”

“We don’t dare say anything.”

Although the doctor was beyond tired, he did everything to appear fresh, but hinted that it wasn’t going that well. The woman before him also looked hollow-eyed, to say the least.

“Are you related to Anders Brant?”

“I’m a police officer.”

She stared at him as if it were his fault the prognosis was uncertain.

“Police,” said Friis.

Ann Lindell nodded.

“I want you to save that man,” she said, and then turned on her heels and went her way.

Sammy Nilsson caught her just as she came out in the fresh air. It was an unusually lovely day. Right outside the entry stood a group of smokers.

“I wish I smoked,” he said, mostly to have something to say.

Lindell tried to smile. She appreciated his concern. Ever since the bloody showdown in Brant’s apartment, he had followed her closely. It struck her that perhaps this was also for his own sake. He was the one who fired the shot that dropped Johnny Andersson. Johnny’s life was not in danger, and he would not have lasting injuries, but a policeman is normally put on leave after a shooting.

That was also Ottosson’s obvious decision, but nothing could keep Sammy Nilsson from keeping Lindell company. They could say that the visit to the hospital was personal.

“Will he make it?”

“They don’t know.”

“Will you make it?”

“I have to pick up Erik,” said Lindell.

Görel had picked him up at preschool and Lindell knew that Erik was not lacking for anything, but she had a bad conscience anyway.

They stood quietly a moment. Sammy Nilsson let out a big yawn. The group of smokers broke up. A great emptiness came over Ann Lindell, as if she were only a walking shell.

She slipped her arm behind Sammy’s back and leaned her head against his arm.

“He’ll make it,” said Sammy.