The Hand that Trembles

TEN

‘Maybe it’s a Blackfoot Indian,’ Bosse Marksson said.

‘What are you talking about? Is it a black foot?’

‘Well, I don’t know about black, but it’s a bit charred.’

Ann Lindell tried to picture her colleague from the Östhammar police who was on the other end of the line. She had a vague recollection of having met him, his name sounded so familiar. But she could not conjure up a face to match the gravely voice.

‘Do you have a cold?’

‘No, I always sound like this. It’s hereditary.’

‘Okay, and you found this foot in a boot that was bobbing around in the sea.’

‘Three mistakes in one sentence; you need someone from Crimes for that. First, we weren’t the ones who found it, that was Örjan Bäck; second, it was a sandal; third, it was washed up on the beach.’

‘Who is Örjan Bäck?’

‘An old friend from school who lives out there. Right now he’s home on furlough.’

‘A sailor?’

‘Right you are, this time.’

‘Was he out taking a walk on the beach, or-’

‘Örjan doesn’t walk, he rushes. Yes, he was on his way to check on his dad’s boat. The old man is starting to fail. And he has a prosthesis.’

‘I get it. And then he called you?’

‘Yes, we’re old friends, as I said. He has my mobile phone number.’

Bosse Marksson snuffled. I’ll bet he’s got a cold after all, Lindell thought.

‘And what then?’

She was getting tired, mining her co-worker for information. Bosse Marksson was not one to rush anything, that much was clear.

‘I went out there.’

‘Of course you did. But can’t you just tell me what has been done so far, if you have secured any-’

‘Hold your horses, partner. Why don’t you come out here so we can chat. I’ve heard that you’re crazy about murders and island life. I’ll send some info by email.’

Lindell was taken aback. Was ‘island life’ a reference to her relationship with Edvard on Gräsö Island? Did all of Roslagen know about this?

‘I’ll be there at ten a.m. tomorrow,’ Lindell said, in a much meeker voice than she had intended. ‘Will that work?’

‘Bring your boots,’ Bosse Marksson said, ending the conversation.

Lindell turned on her computer, but did not log on. She thought about the foot by the sea. Had forgotten to ask if it had belonged to a man or a woman. She guessed the latter. Who wore sandals in November? Perhaps it was a slipper.

Her visit with Berglund and his melancholy had slowed her down, as if he had transferred some of his sadness to her.

She opened the telephone book and immediately found Elsa Persson. She dialled the number but no one answered, and she hung up with a tired gesture. Perhaps Elsa was at the school. Berglund had said she was a teacher.

A faint knock on the door made her jump. Ottosson poked his head in.

‘I’m driving out to the coast tomorrow,’ Lindell said as a way of anticipating his question. ‘And I’m supposed to tell you Berglund says hello. He is a bit tired and I don’t think he wants people to come visit, but he does want to get the files from an old case from the nineties. The county commissioner who disappeared, Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson, has surfaced in India.’

Ottosson stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and sat down.

‘I know,’ Ottosson said, ‘but Berglund has changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at that case anymore. He called and told me he didn’t want it.’

‘He wanted another case?’

Ottosson nodded.

‘An old homicide where Berglund was the investigative lead. It was at least ten years ago. He didn’t manage to crack it. It was an old guy who was killed at Kungsgärdet. You know, in one of those little houses, the sugar cubes, as people called them when I was growing up. Despite prints and a couple of witnesses we drew a blank.’

‘He’s never talked about it.’

‘I think he might feel some shame,’ Ottosson said. ‘Maybe not shame exactly, but you know…’

‘Yes,’ Lindell said. ‘I’ll go check out the foot tomorrow. We’ll see.’

‘That Marksson they have out there is a good sort, but his voice takes some getting used to. His dad sounded just like him. He was also a police officer. He was an extra in BathingDevils, if you remember that film. I’m an Ernst Günther fan.’

Lindell had a little smile on her face long after Ottosson had shut the door behind him. He knew how to handle her.

She logged in and discovered to her surprise that the ‘good sort’ had already sent her a report on the foot. She printed the document and started to read.

‘A foot, female,’ she muttered.