The Cruel Stars of the Night

Two

Dorotea Svahn suddenly got to her feet, walked over to the window, and looked out for a second before once again sinking down at the table.

“I thought…,” she said, but did not complete her sentence.

“Yes?”

“I thought I saw someone I know.”

The woman spoke in short sentences, forcing the words out, audibly gasping for breath and it looked like such an effort that Beatrice Anders-son inadvertently leaned forward across the table as if to help when Dorotea got ready for another attempt.

“Petrus and I, we got along. I’m a widow.”

She looked down at her folded hands. Behind her, on the wall, a clock was ticking.

“Have been for many years now,” she added and looked at Beatrice. “Are you married?”

Beatrice nodded.

“That’s good.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“I was born in this house.”

Beatrice could discern a streak of defiance, as if it were a strike against her to have been born in Vilsne village, in Jumkil county, and not ever to have gotten around to leaving.

“This is a beautiful area,” Beatrice said.

“I’m the only one left.” Dorotea sighed.

“Could you tell me a little more about Petrus?”

“He was”-Dorotea Svahn searched for the right word-“strict with himself. He didn’t indulge himself in very much. He kept going as usual. For a while he worked in carpentry, in town as well. He got a lot of work. And that helped. But all that was long ago. The last couple of years he didn’t come over as often. But I could see him sitting in that chair by the corner of the house. He sat there, philosophizing.”

“About what?”

Dorotea smiled for the first time.

“It was mainly small things,” she said, “things like, well, you know… small things. No big thoughts. It could be about that squirrel that disappeared or the firewood he had to get to. He picked mushrooms too. And berries. Could come back with buckets of it. I had to make jam and juice. My legs aren’t so good anymore. For going in the forest, I mean.”

Beatrice nodded. The clock struck a few peals.

“Was he worried about anything?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did he mention anything? Did he have any conflicts? People he didn’t get along with?”

“Then he would have… He didn’t say anything like that.”

“Did he have any children?”

Dorotea shook her head. “No,” she said flatly.

“Did he have many acquaintances?” Beatrice Andersson asked, although she knew the answer.

“No, maybe in the past. He belonged to the road committee and sometimes he might have gone hunting. But not very often.”

Dorotea paused, glanced out the window. The begonias on the windowsill were still in full bloom.

“A long time ago the library bus used to come by,” she continued. “He borrowed a lot. I did, too, for that matter. As long as the Kindblom’s children were still at home it was more lively.”

She made a movement inside her mouth, produced a smacking sound. She must have repositioned her false teeth.

“Do you remember him receiving any visitors out of the ordinary the past while?”

“Like in the ads, you mean, a tanker running aground in his garden?”

Beatrice laughed at the unexpected comment and could sense a younger woman’s mischievous presence in Dorotea’s eyes.

“No, he didn’t get many visitors. The postman sometimes stops by. And then Arne, but that got less often.”

“Who is Arne?”

“Arne Wiikman. He’s an old friend. Their fathers worked at the mill together. One day Arne simply disappeared.”

“Really? When was this?”

“Well that’s a story in itself. He had inherited his father’s temper. A real troublemaker who picked fights with everyone.”

Dorotea smiled at some recollection and seemed to have collected herself somewhat. Her breathing was calmer.

“He was a communist. Everyone knew that, of course. But he was good anyway. A hard worker.”

“Are you talking about Arne’s father?”

“His name was Nils. Petrus’s father’s name was Karl-Erik, but they called him Blackie. They were always together. He was an edger working the saw. Nils was a lumber hauler. Of course, Petrus also worked at the mill when he was young. And so did Arne. Then he disappeared.”

“When was this?”

“I guess it was the midfifties.”

“But he came back?”

“Yes, that was about ten years ago. He bought Lindvall’s old house and renovated it.”

“And Arne and Petrus spent time together?”

“Yes, that’s how it went. But so different. Petrus was calm, Arne fiery.”

“Does he still live here?”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to take Petrus’s life?”

“No, no one. He didn’t harm a fly. He had no trouble with anyone.”

“What was his financial situation?”

“He managed. He had a pension, of course. He lived frugally.”

“Did he have any cash in the house?”

“You mean that someone would have wanted? I don’t think so.”

“Are you afraid now?”

Dorotea Svahn sighed.

“I’m afraid of getting old,” she said. “What will happen if my legs don’t carry me? I’m afraid of the silence. It will be…”

She looked down at the table.

“What a pity for such a fine man, to end like this.”

Dorotea wept silently. Beatrice held out her hand and placed it on top of the older woman’s. She looked up.

“It’s strange that something so terrible is needed to stir things up,” she said.

“Your son, where is he?”

“In town, but he travels a lot. Sometimes internationally.”

“When was he here last?”

“It was a while ago.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“To be quite honest I don’t really know what it is. Something with medical technology. Or that’s what it was before.”

“Is he married?”

“Divorced. Mona-Lisa, his wife, was… well, she got tired of him.”

“Grandchildren?”

Dorotea shook her head.

“She had a child later. Afterward, I mean, long after. I think she is doing well.”

“Do you like her?”

“I have nothing against Mona-Lisa,” Dorotea said.

“If we might return to Petrus. When did he usually go to bed?”

“After the nine o’clock news, sometimes he sat up later if there was a good movie on. He liked movies.”

“Did you see him yesterday?”

“We didn’t chat or anything, but I saw him as usual. He usually brought in wood in the evenings. Before, when he had a cat then… well,you know. He really loved the cat. A little black one with white paws. She disappeared.”

“So you saw him fetch firewood last night?”

“No, I don’t think so. I must have sat here,” Dorotea said thoughtfully, “with the crossword puzzle. And then I wrote the grocery list. Petrus was going to look in on me today. He did some shopping for me. There’s always something you need.”

Beatrice nodded and scrutinized Dorotea.

“You are the first Dorotea I’ve met.”

“Is that so? Beautiful it’s not, but you get used to it. The worst was when they called me Dorran, but that was a long time ago.”

“Did you think it was strange when you didn’t see Petrus last night?”

“No, not really. I saw that his lights were on. Then when I got up this morning I saw that the lights were still on, and that the gate was open. I mean the big gate. At first I thought an ambulance must have been here. Petrus always kept it closed. And then the door to the old barn was open.”

“You were up early.”

“It’s my bladder,” Dorotea said.

“You didn’t see a car here last night?”

“No, I would have noticed something like that,” she said firmly.

Beatrice looked down at her notes, a couple of lines, a few names, not much more. Just as she was about to end the conversation her cell phone rang. She saw that it was Ann and answered immediately.

She listened and then turned off the phone without having said a word. Dorotea looked at her with curiosity.

“I’ve just been informed that Petrus wrote a good-bye letter.”

“A good-bye letter, what do you mean?”

“He was planning to take his own life,” Beatrice said.

Dorotea stared at her.

“That’s impossible,” she said finally. “Petrus would never do anything like that.”

“My colleagues believe he wrote the letter,” Beatrice said. “I’m sorry.”

“So you mean to say-”

“-that Petrus had made up his mind to commit suicide. Yes, that’s how it appears.”

“The poor man. If only I had known.”

“It was nothing that you thought might happen?” “Never! He was a little down sometimes but not in that way.” “I’m very sorry,” Beatrice repeated and Dorotea looked at her as if she took her words to heart.

After a few additional minutes of conversation Beatrice Andersson left the house. At the gate she turned and waved. She couldn’t see her but assumed Dorotea was standing at the window.

It’s strange, she thought, that in Dorotea’s eyes it would have been better if her neighbor had been killed without the complicating factor that he had already decided to commit suicide. On top of the tragic news that Petrus Blomgren was dead she now had to bear this extra burden, the knowledge that he was tired of life and perhaps above all that on his final evening he had not sought her support.

Lindell, Nilsson, Haver, and Andersson were standing in the yard. Lindell took the fact that she could hear the technicians talking as a sign that they were wrapping up their work in the barn. In her experience the forensics team often worked in silence.

“It’s strange,” she said, “how a place changes after something like this happens.”

Perhaps this did not strike anyone as a particularly sensational or original observation and Haver was the only one who took the trouble to grunt in response. The rest were looking around. Beatrice looked back at Dorotea’s house. She was probably bustling around the kitchen or sitting at the kitchen table. Beatrice wished she had been able to spend a little more time with the old woman.

“Yes,” Sammy Nilsson said with unexpected engagement, “now it is the scene of a murder. People will talk about this house as the one where Blomgren was murdered for a long time. They’ll walk past, slow down, maybe stop and point.”

“Not a lot of people walk past,” Beatrice said.

Allan Fredriksson joined the group.

“What a wonderful place,” he said. “Have you noticed what a complex biological habitat the place is? It has everything: spruce forest, deciduous groves, open meadows and fields, dry hills, and even a little wetlands.”

Lindell smiled to herself.

Fredriksson pointed to the other side of the road where a large ditch ran down to a marsh. The green moss glowed in the morning sun. Tufts of sedge grass looked like small rounded buns and a clump of reedy marsh grass swayed in the wind.

“I wonder if Petrus was interested in birds?”

“Petrus didn’t have many friends,” Beatrice said, “and he does not appear to have been a rich man who hoarded cash or valuables.”

“The only thing I found was a letter from the Föreningsspar Bank,” Fredriksson said. “There was not a single account book or any withdrawal slips, but perhaps he kept the papers hidden. We’ll have to go over the place with a fine-toothed comb.”

Neither the forensics team nor the criminal investigators had found the least trace of burglary or disturbance. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the house in Vilsne except for the fact that its owner lay murdered in the barn.

“Will you check the bank, Allan?” Lindell asked.

Lindell looked at their new forensics team member, how he carefully packed away his equipment. Anita’s comment came to mind.

“Nice buns,” she said.

“What?”

“Morgansson’s,” Lindell said and nodded in the direction of the barn.

Haver turned his head. It looked like he was about to say something, but he held back. Everyone was watching the technician.

A door opened and a light reflection from the glass in Dorotea Svahn’s front door swept over the hill where the police officers were assembled, then disappeared into the thicket of alder and willow. The old woman looked out at her neighbor’s house, took a slow step onto her porch, and gently closed the door behind her.

She stood there with a cane in one hand and the other on the wrought-iron railing. She walked down the stairs with an effort and moved toward the police. One of her legs didn’t seem to want to come along.

She was wearing a gray coat and a dark hat. Beatrice had the impression that it was not Dorotea’s everyday outfit.

“Is she on her way over here? Maybe she needs help,” Haver said and took a step toward the gate.

She was not fast but she did seem to have developed a technique to compensate for her bad leg. A car approached. At first there was only a faint rumble behind the forest that surrounded Blomgren’s property. Dorotea must not have noticed the engine sound that increased in volume and when she was halfway across the road the van from the Medical Examiner’s Office rounded the corner. Fridh was driving. Dorotea stopped and lifted the cane over her head as a signal.

Ola Haver took yet another step forward but stopped himself. In his mind he saw the Greek shepherd he and Rebecka had once encountered, on a curvy mountain road in the north. The shepherd was moving his flock across the road. Like a wooly string of pearls they slowly streamed from one side to the other. Still, they brayed nervously, the lambs following the ewes and the flock keeping tightly together.

The shepherd had raised his staff like a weapon, or more likely a sign. He spoke deliberately, even though no one could hear him, with his gaze lifted to a point somewhere above the waiting cars. The stream of sheep seemed never to end, someone in the cue beeped, and the shepherd raised his staff a few centimeters higher. He spoke without ceasing. Haver stepped out of the car-he was at the front of the line-and he observed the timeless scene.

The same feeling now gripped him as he watched the old woman raise her cane at Fridh’s van. Wasn’t she also saying something? He thought he saw her lips forming words that no one could hear.

Fridh had stopped. Dorotea continued over to Blomgren’s large gate, hesitated a moment as if she was unsure of where she was going, then turned into the yard. Beatrice walked over to her.

Dorotea Svahn was out of breath. She covered her mouth with one hand, perhaps wiping some saliva from the corner of her mouth.

“I want to see Petrus,” she said in a strained voice.

Fridh had pulled up and Beatrice took the woman’s arm and guided her to the side so that the van could drive in.

“He’s badly beaten,” Beatrice said.

“I realize that,” Dorotea said.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to see him later, I mean when they’ve had a chance to clean him up.”

“I want to say good-bye. Here.”

There was a faint smell of mothballs around her.

“Of course you can say good-bye. I’ll come with you,” Beatrice said.

Fredriksson turned away. Haver kicked the leaves at his feet. Lindell and Sammy Nilsson looked at each other. Lindell shook her head, turned, and walked up to the house.

Beatrice accompanied the woman up to the door of the barn. Charles Morgansson had finished putting away his equipment and he made way for them. He nodded to Beatrice who took it as a green light for them to go in.

“I think the very first blow made him unconscious,” Beatrice said.

She felt Dorotea’s thin body tense up. She freed herself from Beatrice, took the cane as support, and sank down next to Petrus Blomgren, mumbled something, and put her hand on his shoulder. Bea was glad that Dorotea had not walked over alone in the dawn and found Petrus, but that she had just called the police and forced them to come out and take a look.

“He was my best friend,” Dorotea said.

Beatrice crouched down so she could hear better.

“My only friend. We pottered around here like ancient memorials, me and him. Petrus said many times that it wasn’t right, ‘They had no right,’ was how he put it.”

Beatrice didn’t really understand what she meant.

Dorotea’s hand caressed the wool sweater. She appeared oblivious of the blackened blood in the wound on the back of the head.

“Little Petrus, you went first. I could almost…”

Her voice was overcome with emotion. The bony hand went still, took hold of the sweater as if she wanted to pull the dead man to his feet.

“He came over with lingonberries this fall. More than usual. ‘Now you have more than enough,’ he said, as if he knew.”

She braced herself on the cane and slowly straightened to standing.

“When you are as old as I am you see things, how it is all connected. Petrus would always say it would be better to turn life around, be old first and then become younger, leave the frailty behind but keep the wisdom.”

“That would be good,” Beatrice said.

The old woman sighed heavily.

“They had ten cows in here, maybe twelve. He sold the land later on.”

“For a good price?”

“It was good enough. He didn’t lack for anything, Petrus.”

“It looks like he lived frugally,” Beatrice said, taking the old woman’s arm and helping her back out into the fresh air.

“That’s how we were raised,” Dorotea said.

“Do you know if Petrus had a special place for his valuable documents?”

Dorotea shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

The four police officers were still waiting in the yard. Beatrice had the feeling that she and Dorotea were leaving a church, as if after a funeral.

Fridh was sitting in the van and would remain there until after the old woman had left.

“Will you pray with me?” Dorotea asked. “Just a few words. Petrus was not a believer but I don’t think he’ll mind.”

Beatrice interlaced her fingers and Dorotea quietly said a few words, remained motionless for a few seconds before opening her eyes.

“He was a magnificent man,” she said. “With a good heart. May he rest in peace.”

Far off in the distance, a horse neighed.