The Cruel Stars of the Night

Ten

The blows were delivered by a person in an uncontrollable rage.”

And what would you know about that, Ola Haver thought.

“At least that’s what I think,” the medical examiner added.

“Were there many blows?”

“Perhaps a half dozen or so. Clearly in excess of the situation. One, at most two would have been sufficient.”

Petrus Blomgren’s pale body lay on the examiner’s table like a shriveled radish. Göran Finn carefully peeled off his gloves. Haver stared at Petrus’s feet. It was obvious that they had been put to good use. They were crooked, with thick callouses and several deformed toenails on the right foot.

“Apart from that the old man was in perfect health,” Göran Finn said. “He could have lived twenty more years.”

Haver looked at the murdered man’s hands. They were of the same caliber as the feet.

“We believe he died almost at once, at about nine o’clock. He was bludgeoned in the back of the head, fell headlong, and as a bonus received several more blows. Traces of brain tissue were found on his neck, on his shirt, and even on his back. Fury, in other words.”

I wonder where he comes from, with that dialect, Haver thought.

“Was the killer…”

“… yes, he was probably right-handed, if that’s what you were wondering. That’s always the first question you ask,” the pathologist said with something that was supposed to pass for a smile.

“Are you from Skåne?”

The doctor did not reply, simply removed his coat, grabbed the tape recorder, and walked away from Haver.

“You’ll be receiving my report,” he said and disappeared out the door.

Haver was left with a corpse on a stainless steel counter. He looked at Petrus Blomgren again. In many ways he reminded Haver of his father, or what his father would have looked like if he had been allowed to live as long as Blomgren.

The investigation into the small-time farmer and carpenter Petrus Blomgren’s life had not yielded a single significant result, not even a detail that could stir up speculation or ideas.

Ola Haver walked once around the dead man. Seventy years of hard work, that’s how one could summarize his life. Raised in Jumkil, with “diligent” parents according to those in the area who remembered them, he had worked on the farm, at the mill, and in his final employed years as a carpenter and a kind of handyman on construction sites. The most recent employment could be traced to a couple of years at the end of the seventies and beginning of the eighties at a company called Nylander’s Construction and Cleaning, a modest operation whose owner had died about six years ago. Sigvard Nylander’s only child, a son about fifty years of age who lived in Uddevalla, couldn’t even remember Petrus Blomgren but in a phone conversation with Berglund he had said that there were usually three or four men hired on with his father’s firm at any one time and that in general they worked on renovations and other smaller projects.

After his years as a carpenter, Blomgren had jumped in as a seasonal worker during planting and harvesting, worked in the forest, thinning and felling trees, mostly on jobs close to home. Here it was even harder to get any details. Some of the forest owners-all farmers-had been vague. Some of them said they had used Blomgren’s help, others had denied it. Berglund thought they were afraid of the Tax Authorities. Blomgren had most likely been paid under the table.

The money he had received from the sale of his farmland, about thirty hectares, hardly an outlandish sum, had been deposited in the bank and been well-used. He had drawn on the capital at a slow but steady rate.

There were no unusual transactions on the account over the last few years, only a withdrawal for sixty thousand in connection with the purchase of a car five years ago.

Blomgren’s will was clearly drawn up without any gray areas, the donation to Doctors Without Borders the only question mark. No one could explain why that organization had been favored, but in itself there was nothing strange about that, nothing to keep a murder investigation going.

The murder victim would only leave an absence in one way. Haver thought about Dorotea Svahn’s words and sorrow. This woman was the one who grieved him, the one who would miss her neighbor and friend.

Blomgren was without contours but Ola Haver knew it was wrong to say that he had been or was insignificant. He had been a man who did not take up a great deal of space, no man to figure in the headlines, Haver thought and smiled to himself, catching himself about to place a hand on the forearm of the dead man in a gesture of respect, perhaps as an excuse for the fact that he in his thoughts had reduced Blomgren’s significance.

He was a normal person and therefore an unusual murder victim. If people like Blomgren died a violent death it was because of an accident, in the forest, with a tractor or on the job, by a falling tree, a malfunctioning PTO shaft, or falling from a scaffold. Men like Petrus were not bludgeoned to death. Well, sometimes, but then the motive was almost always financial. Several youths, searching for alcohol or cash, a car perhaps, who knocked down some old person, very often brutally, but seldom thought out in advance.

The weapon was often something to be found at hand, a frying pan, a tool, or a piece of firewood. This time they had not found anything like that. They had not even isolated a footprint in the soft yard, no car tracks, and absolutely no murder weapon.

What spoke against the theory of a robbery was the fact that the house appeared so undisturbed. The general consensus when they had discussed the case that morning was that the perpetrator or perpetrators had become frightened and left without even entering the house.

Haver circled the gurney He felt some peace in the company of the dead man. They came closer to each other. He was happy that the doctor from Skåne had left. What Haver was looking for was something no pathologist could reveal. It could not be fixed on paper in a report.

Petrus Blomgren had a heavyset, slightly sorrowful face. Perhaps this impression was colored by the tone of his good-bye letter, but Haver had the impression that the dead man had not had an easy time of it during his hardworking life. Perhaps a little joyless, and not even the beautiful nature around his house had been able to compensate for the feeling of sadness that characterized Vilsne village.

Now it was October, it was probably different in May. Then perhaps the optimism of the place was as deafening as birdsong in the springtime. Blomgren could sit in the garden with a cup of coffee, or a little drink even, feeling pleased at the thought of the shed filled to bursting with firewood, at the thought of Dorotea showing up for a chat, that…

Ola Haver built up a nicer existence for the dead man, gave him a different, more comforting life, reshaped the heaviness and the deep furrows in his face to signify wisdom, experience, and security. Under Haver’s gaze, Petrus grew to a man who was unafraid.

It seemed as if there had not been a woman in his life, at least not for many years. That bothered Haver. There should have been someone, nearby. Then he would never have written such a letter.

Revenge, he thought, was that why Petrus Blomgren was murdered? The revenge theory felt too cumbersome even if the logic of violent crimes was not always that easy to comprehend.

General statistics gave most credence to a botched robbery, where the killer had become frightened and fled, but he could still not let go of the idea that the murder had been planned.

The phone rang. It was Sammy Nilsson. Haver told him the results of the autopsy.

Nilsson grunted. Haver had the impression that his colleague was displeased, that he had been hoping for some sensational find that could lead to simply having to go pick up the perpetrator.

“I think we have to look more closely into Blomgren’s life,” Haver continued. “The motive could be located far back in time.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Nilsson said.

Haver smiled. Sammy was being true to form. He almost always dismissed Haver’s theories and suggestions. Often they were like cat and dog. Sometimes it was simply tiring but often their bickering brought their investigations a step further.

“And what do you think, then?”

“Robbery-homicide,” Nilsson said curtly. “You know what, maybe there was something in the house that we missed, or to put it another way, that we aren’t missing on account of the fact that we didn’t know it was supposed to be there.”

“Like what, for example?”

“A wad of cash, gold watch, stamp collection, a painting Blomgren bought in the forties and that’s now worth a bundle.”

“How likely is that? The farmer as art collector?”

“Maybe the guy didn’t even know the painting was worth its weight in gold,” Nilsson continued.

Haver didn’t say anything.

“We should maybe talk to the neighbor and that childhood friend- who should take that on?”

“Ann,” Haver said.

“Okay,” Nilsson said. “Are you coming in?”

“No, I’m going out to Jumkil.”

“I see, take Allan with you. He needs some fresh air.”

They hung up. Haver knew Sammy Nilsson was immediately going to call Lindell and present his theory about an art theft.

A man in front of her was laughing. He was dressed in a green waist-length coat. His pants were frayed at the ends. He walked quickly, deliberately, and efficiently turned the corner by the Vålamagasinet building. Ann Lindell caught up with him.

There was a white sofa in the shop window. He stepped closely up to the window, put his head to one side, and Lindell realized he was trying to read the tiny price tag that had been pinned to one end of the sofa. Then she recognized him. It was Rosander, who for a short while had been a suspect in a murder case, but who had been cleared.

“It’s too expensive,” she said.

Rosander twirled around.

“Well, look who we have here,” he said. “The fuzz.”

Lindell disliked the expression, but nodded and smiled.

“How’s tricks?” Rosander asked.

Lindell’s smile disappeared. She looked at him. He was the same as always. Tousled, you could say to sum him up, but still with a mocking expression on his somewhat puffy face. She nodded, tried to think of something to say, but only put her hand on his shoulder and then left. Rosander stayed behind, staring foolishly.

Ann Lindell broke into a half-run. To bump into Rosander was to confront memories that cut like a knife. She had met Rosander in the same time period that she had first met Edvard. They came from the same village. Edvard, the man she had loved and let slip away.

Maybe Rosander was still in touch with Edvard. What else would they talk about except people they knew in common? Lindell didn’t want to know anything, to hear news about Edvard.

She turned around for a look. Rosander was still there. Lindell slowed down. It started to rain and after a while she became aware of the damp seeping in. The October haze that plunged Sala Street into a gray hell, an enduring dark that found its grip and held on.

She bumped into Ola Haver in the entrance to the police station.

“Have you talked to the neighbor?”

“I haven’t had any time,” Lindell snarled.

Haver stared at her. She wanted to tell him to go to hell. “I’m on my way over there now. How about you?”

“I’m just back from the autopsy,” Haver said shortly.

“And?”

He shrugged. “Nothing much. A blow to the head, but we knew that.”

Lindell stepped into the elevator.

“Are you coming along?”

Haver shook his head, but just before the elevator doors closed Haver put out one leg so the doors slid open again.

“Is there anything in particular?”

“No, I met an old acquaintance. You remember Rosander, from the Enrico investigation? He had won some money in the lottery and was going to buy a new bed.”

“He buys lottery tickets? You mean the insect researcher?”

“Two million,” Lindell said. “He was going to buy a bed for fifty thousand. He felt fine. He sends his greetings and I guess that means you too.”

“I’ll be damned,” Haver said.

“I know.”

Haver backed away and Lindell went up, studying herself in the mirror. That was fine she thought and smiled in a grimace. That should shut him up. Ola Haver hated the lottery. He thought it was deeply unjust for some people to win money by chance. And anyway, Ola was the one who knew her the best and he probably sensed how much Edvard still meant to her. She begrudged him the pleasure of knowing that the meeting with Rosander had knocked the wind out of her. Unfair and ridiculous, yes, and above all deeply fictitious-an invented lottery win-but the lie made her feel better.

When she walked into her office it was with a sense of calm and confidence that was light years from the agitation she had felt on the street. She threw herself into the investigation and pulled her notepad toward her.

At that moment the phone rang. It was Fälth. Ann knew that meant trouble. As soon as she heard his voice she turned to a fresh page and reached for a pen.

“We have something new,” he said in his drawling, slightly laconic way, “as if this weren’t enough. It’s always like this-”

“I know,” Lindell interrupted him. His preambles always had a tendency of becoming long-winded.

“Another farmer,” Fälth said.