Open Grave

Sixteen

“Who has access to skulls?”

Sammy Nilsson’s question was tossed out unexpectedly before the morning gathering had formally been opened. All eyes were aimed at him, the majority very surprised. Yesterday’s incident with Ohler was not the sort of thing they dealt with in Homicide. The newspaper had not revealed what the threats against the professor were, other than that a stone had been thrown at the house.

“Grave diggers,” said Fredriksson.

“Doctors,” Sammy Nilsson answered himself.

“You can’t rule out the associate professor,” said Lindell with a smile.

“The old man is cunning,” said Sammy. “He and that gardener have cooked something up, I’m dead sure of it.”

“And what would that be?” asked Ottosson, who looked amused.

Perhaps he thought it was liberating for a change to make small talk about somewhat less dreadful crimes than murder.

“I don’t know,” said Sammy, “but I think that the gardener threw the stone and the associate professor set out the skull.”

“The criminals are just getting older and older,” said Lindell in a dejected voice.

Sammy smiled and she understood that he had been able to shake off yesterday’s irritation, which had actually been an expression of powerlessness.

“I see,” said Ottosson. “Shall we get started?”

“Is there any alternative?” Fredriksson asked drily.

“Pick mushrooms, maybe,” said Sammy.

Fredriksson’s thoughts shifted immediately to the autumn chanterelles.

Ottosson began the meeting. “Almunge! There is nothing that indicates anything other than murder and then suicide. The deed appears to have been done without premeditation, as it is so nicely called. As Allan already pointed out last evening”-Lindell looked up, had Fredriksson worked overtime?-“the woman was probably hanging up laundry. On the laundry line at the end of the house a number of garments were hanging and in a basket on the ground there were more clothes, damp.”

“Perhaps it was the husband who was hanging laundry?” Pedersén threw out. He was one of the new ones, someone about whom Lindell had not yet formed a clear impression.

“The woman had clothespins stuck in her waistband, but as usual don’t rule anything out,” said Ottosson.

They could rule out most of it, thought Lindell, who was tired of all the clichés, even the ones she made use of.

She felt a kind of nausea creeping up. Perhaps it was the information about the clothespins in the waistband that triggered the reaction? Being murdered in the middle of such an everyday chore, dragged away and tied up to a chopping block, underscored the capriciousness and made it all stand out as even more bestial. “Disloyal” was a word that occurred to her. You don’t murder someone who is hanging up your wash.

Lindell lost herself in thoughts about what Alice Eleonora Sigvardsson was thinking when she was hanging up her blouses, her husband’s underwear and shirts. Did she suspect anything? Had they quarreled that morning?

Otherwise no new serious crimes had been reported; the fact was that the past few weeks had been unusually calm. It had given them some breathing room and several of the ongoing investigations got more attention and in several cases were closed. The hooligans have taken an early and long fall break, Hill, the other newcomer, wisecracked.

As the meeting continued Lindell was very preoccupied as she listened to what was being said; she was not called on a single time either. From Almunge her thoughts flew back to Gräsö. Before yesterday’s visit it had been several weeks. She almost had a bad conscience for not having thought about Edvard for such a long time, and thereby not about Viola either. It had happened before, during periods with relative harmony in her life, that the memories subsided.

When she and Sammy discussed it, he maintained that the bad conscience was due to the fact that she did not allow herself to be happy. To him Edvard was a dead end, always had been. For a while Ann got the idea that Sammy was jealous, but that was unlikely. Sammy always seemed satisfied with his family life.

Now she had Anders. Since the adventure in Brazil he had changed, was no longer so dead certain. Mostly he stayed at her place; they had never talked about moving in together, but more and more of his things, especially books and CDs, were ending up in her apartment. She actually had nothing against it. It was not the things, wherever they physically were, that were decisive. But she was wary, it was like walking on newly formed ice, a cliché that she never liked before but that she thought described the feeling well. They still had to fumble their way forward.

He was still physically fragile after being badly knifed earlier in the year. Sometimes Ann got the idea that he exaggerated his weakness, that he wanted to be frail and pitiful. Or else the recovery from his mental fragility was delayed. He was not in balance, that was obvious, and Ann was moved by his attempts to sometimes seem stronger than he was in reality.

The experiences in Brazil, first as witness to a murder and then battered by a bus, had left their marks. She also realized that the breakup with the woman he met there had dominated his mood. He said nothing specific but she understood by his evasiveness that he was very upset. It did not come out whether it was he or she who had taken the initiative to separate, even if he hinted that she was the one who had been hurt most. But that could just as well be a way for him to safeguard his vanity. Who wants to be abandoned?

Ann decided not to poke her nose into it. When she realized that he was two-timing her, she kept Billie Holiday’s recording of “Don’t Explain” in her mind: Don’t explain, just come back. That was how desperate she was. Then she had been prepared to swallow a lot. And she did, asked no questions, made no accusations. He was the one who got to determine at what pace the story would be revealed. And fragments were still coming out, piece by piece. But the more time passed, the less urgent the story felt to Ann.

He was with her now, not in Brazil or somewhere else. On the contrary, occasionally he almost got clingy. He offered her warmth and skin. He was considerate, sweet to Erik, who seemingly without difficulty accepted him as his stepfather. They were doing well together. Quarrels were avoided by Anders taking a step back, unimaginable before, as if he wanted to try a new tactic. He was accommodating but maintained his silence as a shield of integrity.

Was she too accommodating? That was something that Görel, her girlfriend, always maintained. Görel wanted to know, she wanted a complete confession, she wanted to see him crawl. When Ann defended herself she was told that she was too submissive. And-this was Görel’s point-this behavior would punish her in the long run. If Anders Brant now stood out as an honest man, there would come a time when his deceitful temperament flared up again, and then Ann would be, if not powerless, then in any event not as well armed. But she could not believe in the image of Anders as a slumbering monster. She herself had acted deceitfully toward Edvard and knew that life could not be lived according to an instruction book with one hundred percent morality and rationality as a guide. Sometimes you got caught. No one else needed to pronounce the punishment, you managed that well enough on your own.

“You have to think about yourself, don’t let yourself be fooled,” Görel said so often that Ann was getting tired of her nagging. Sometimes she got the feeling that her friend preferred an unhappy Ann, a single Ann, an Ann who sought consolation, but that was such a strange conclusion that Ann suppressed it. Why should Görel, who had always supported her over the years, harbor such thoughts?

She had told Anders about Edvard, about her betrayal, and about the long rehabilitation, that was the word she used, to come back, to dare to believe that she would meet another man. She did it without ulterior motives, she didn’t want to make him feel guilty, just give a factual picture of herself and their circumstances.

He had listened patiently, asked a few questions, but after that did not comment on what she said. Even so she sensed he was grateful that she wanted to tell him.

And now Edvard would be on the table again. It was necessary. She had decided to go out to the island and visit Viola before it was too late. If Edvard chose to lie low that was his business, she would steel herself and get through it. There was no other choice. It had been eight years since they were together. It would be silly if she could not see him after such a long time.

It struck her that perhaps he was living with a woman. She felt her cheeks burning. Sammy, who was always attentive, made a gesture with one hand. She did not know how to interpret it, so she just nodded back and tried to look content.

The meeting was over. Everyone exhaled and left as fast as they could. Only Ottosson lingered as usual, as did Lindell. It was a habit they’d had for a long time, a kind of post-meeting, filled with familiarity. Sometimes it was only about work, other times about private things and then mostly about Ann’s life, but most often it was a mixture.

The others on the squad had accepted these brief conferences, realized that the bond between the chief and Lindell was somewhat special. What made her colleagues feel well-disposed or indulgent to Ann was that she never used her status as favorite to appropriate benefits for herself.

It was just this relationship, their slightly peculiar relationship, that Ann now brought up.

“Who am I going to make small talk with after the end of the year?”

Ottosson smiled, but said nothing. He picked up his papers. They both knew that there was no answer. Instead he picked up another thread.

“I was thinking about this business with the professor. Could it be someone who was wrongly treated once upon a time? He worked at University Hospital, right? Someone who wants to get revenge, who has fumed about it a long time and now when the old man has gotten some notoriety wants to mess with him a little.”

“I think he worked as a researcher. He probably didn’t have much to do with the general public. Seeing patients, performing operations and that. He’s a virologist. Viruses.”

Ottosson nodded.

“And that was probably a good thing,” Lindell added.

“I see, he’s one of those.”

Now it was her turn to nod.

“Have you talked with Ola at all?”

“Not for a couple of weeks,” said Lindell. “When he was in Stockholm visiting someone.”

“A lady?”

“Hard to believe.”

At one time, Lindell had felt attracted to Ola Haver. It was not long after the separation from Edvard. Now, in retrospect, she had a hard time understanding why.

“Is he coming back?” asked Ottosson.

“Don’t think so.”

“He doesn’t want to talk with me. The last time he hung up. So he’s probably coming back when I’m gone.”

Ottosson sounded sincerely worried. He was not self-pitying, instead sad that perhaps he had said or done something that upset Haver.

“No,” said Lindell. “He’s angry, not at you personally but at the department in general and you’ll have to take the blame since you’re the boss. He’s angry at life, at Rebecka, at everything and everyone.”

Ottosson observed her.

“There are many who are angry these days,” he said a bit cryptically.

“Complaints?”

“No,” said Ottosson. “Sometimes you wish that more people complained.”

“Go visit our Nobel Prize winner,” Lindell encouraged him. “He complains about most everything.”

After a few minutes Lindell left. She felt a certain impatience and she knew why. She wanted to call Gräsö.