The Hand that Trembles

TWENTY

‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about,’ Allan Fredriksson said.

‘I see,’ Lindell said flatly. She had hardly woken up. She looked at the time: a quarter past seven. Why is he calling so inhumanly early, she wondered, and immediately received her answer.

‘I’m going in for a procedure, so I thought I would catch you before you head out to the coast.’

Lindell had not heard anything about a procedure.

‘I was looking at those photographs yesterday,’ Fredriksson continued. ‘Where they found the foot. There was a tree there, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Lindell said doubtfully, ‘there was…’

‘A pine,’ he determined. ‘At first I thought it was snow, but then I didn’t see snow in the other pictures.’

‘There was snow out there,’ Lindell said, completely baffled by what Fredriksson wanted. And what kind of examination was he undergoing?

‘But not at the scene?’

‘No, that area was in full sun, but where are you going with this? It’s a little hectic around here, Erik is eating breakfast.’

‘An eagle,’ Fredriksson said, his tone suddenly crisp. ‘The streaks on the tree are eagle droppings. It is an eagle tree.’

Now Lindell sensed what he was getting at. She smiled to herself. Fredriksson was the division’s forest and bird fanatic.

‘It’s not a fox, it’s an eagle.’

‘You mean…’

‘Exactly, an eagle was sitting with the foot in the tree when something startled it, it lost its hold of the foot, and flew away. Eagles have favourite trees, a tall pine is excellent, it has a good lookout from there. Maybe it’s even a nesting tree.’

Lindell had no problem imagining the eagle. She had seen many sea eagles at Gräsö Island. One winter’s day when she had been ice fishing with Edvard, five had been circling above the bay below Edvard’s house. She knew that they could get big, with two-and-a-half-metre wingspans, and that they could carry large prey. Viola, Edvard’s landlady, claimed once to have seen an eagle with a pig in its claws.

‘I don’t know if it means anything,’ Fredriksson said modestly, but had trouble concealing his satisfaction.

‘It could mean a great deal,’ Lindell said. ‘It could mean-’

‘-that the foot came from a long way away,’ Fredriksson inserted. Lindell was silent for a few moments. She visualised the bay with Bultudden Point on the other side.

‘What kind of procedure are you having?’

‘Routine examination,’ Fredriksson said.

Lindell was tempted to ask more but ended the conversation by thanking him for the tip.

‘It’s nothing,’ Fredriksson said, and hung up.

Meanwhile Erik had been trying to pour more yogurt into his bowl all by himself, but with mixed results, and had thereafter managed to tip the box of muesli on its side.

‘Good work,’ Lindell said. ‘We don’t need bowls anymore, we can eat straight off the table.’

A couple of hours later she was back at the bay. ‘Bultudden,’ she murmured quietly to herself, and let her gaze sweep over the terrain and come to rest on the tall pine. The crown of the tree looked strange, the branches like fingers outstretched to the sky. It was probably the result of a lightning strike.

Fredriksson’s theory that it could have been a nesting tree was not implausible. There were a number of old sticks in the palm that was created, but not enough for a whole nest. Perhaps the work had been interrupted.

The remains of droppings on the trunk, dirty white streaks, had been left over a long period of time, that much she understood.

The foot had been found next to the tree on a bed of pine needles. She decided to adopt the theory as her own, and dialled Bosse Marksson, who was in Forsmark checking on a series of summer cottage break-ins.

He explained the way to Bultudden Point. There was no direct route from where Lindell was located, so she would have to retrace her steps to the main road, take a right turn north and drive a couple of kilometres, then turn south again.

Lindell did not tell him why she wanted to go out to the point and Marksson did not appear the least curious. He also did not ask her why she wanted the mobile phone number of his friend who had discovered the foot.

She parked outside the first house half an hour later. Marksson had told her that there were seven properties on the point, but strangely enough none of them were holiday homes.

Lindell stepped out of the car and looked the two-storeyed house up and down. She estimated it dated from the forties, now in terrible condition. The red siding was faded and flaking and the metal roof was corroded. Some twenty metres to the right there was an older barn and a few other smaller structures.

Lindell thought she glimpsed movement in one of the windows and sensed that she was being observed. The gate was hanging on its post and the gravel path was thick with weeds. Beds planted with perennials lined either side of the path, the withered remains of which breathed neglect.

When she was halfway to the house, the front door swung open and a man appeared. He was dressed in blue work clothes, and was about sixty and almost completely bald. He stared at Lindell for a couple of seconds before he launched into a string of invectives.

‘Go to hell! I said no, got it? The fact that he sent a woman doesn’t change anything.’

Lindell stared back at him with astonishment. The outburst came completely unexpectedly and was so forceful it took her aback. He lifted one arm frenetically in a gesture that indicated she should leave, and his almost distorted facial features intensified with a next salvo.

‘Can’t you hear me? Go to hell!’

He slammed the door hard. A flowerpot on the porch railing fell down and broke in two.

Lindell walked over to the window where she had thought she had caught a glimpse of the man, took out her police identification, and held it up against the windowpane.

After half a minute the door swung open again.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’

‘Are you always this hospitable?’ Lindell said with a smile.

‘Are you from the police?’

She nodded. The man backed up into the hall and gestured something that Lindell interpreted as an invitation.

Torsten Andersson – Lindell had noticed the name on the mailbox – pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Lindell sat down. She saw that he was still agitated but there was also curiosity in his eyes.

‘Are you putting on a pot of coffee? It’s been a while since I had a cup.’

He looked at her for a moment, shook his head, then turned, opened a kitchen cabinet, and took out a jar. His hands shook.

‘New coffee maker?’

‘The old one went bad,’ he said, his back turned.

As he supplied the machine with water and coffee and set out two cups on the counter, he snuck glances at the table, but never met her gaze.

He is not used to company, Lindell thought. His movements were awkward and he executed everything very slowly, as if he had to think about each step.

The cups came to the table, as did a sugar bowl and a creamer filled with milk.

‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here.’

‘Is it about the hens?’

‘No, it’s about a foot.’

She explained why she had come to Bultudden, but said nothing of the eagle theory.

‘A severed foot,’ he said with disbelief. ‘Who cuts off a foot?’

‘Is it you?’

He twisted around, a plate in his hand.

‘Just joking,’ Lindell added hurriedly.

He muttered something, took a couple of cinnamon buns that he had thawed in the microwave and slid them onto the plate, then planted himself to wait in front of the coffee maker.

Everything in this kitchen seemed to take time. Lindell looked around. The forties atmosphere was reinforced by the cabinets.

‘You don’t have the wood stove going.’

‘Only morning and night,’ he answered gruffly, pouring out the coffee and sitting down across from her.

They drank in silence. The man made a gesture with his hand as if to say ‘help yourself’ and she picked up a cinnamon bun. It was still warm. She smiled and chewed, the man peered out the window, but she noted that he was furtively observing all of her moves.

‘And I do have a wood-burning furnace in the basement,’ he said.

Lindell nodded.

‘Wonderful cinnamon bun.’

‘They’re from Margit.’

‘Does she also live out here?’

‘Next place over,’ he replied, and nodded his head to indicate a southerly direction.

She took out the map that Marksson had given her, and laid it on the table. Torsten Andersson leant over it inquisitively, almost eagerly, as if he had never before seen a map of the area. Suddenly his hand shot out.

‘This is where we are,’ he said, ‘Margit and Kalle live over there.’

The nail on his index finger was cracked.

‘This is where we found the foot,’ Lindell said, and pointed.

He lifted his head and looked at her, but said nothing.

‘Tell me a little about the point,’ she said, as she helped herself to another cinnamon bun.

‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said.

Lindell sensed that indeed there was a great deal to tell, and was pleased that Torsten Andersson was the first she had encountered. There was a secure feeling in his kitchen, despite his initial show of anger. She let her gaze wander once more around the room, discovering details, noticing the antique toaster tucked in behind an almost equally old radio, a wall decoration with an embroidered text where ‘though we may roam’ was rhymed with ‘humble home,’ the socks that were hung to dry next to the stove hook, and an old cupboard that was topped by a one-litre Höganäs ceramic jar on a moth-eaten doily.

‘You’ve made it look nice in here,’ she said, and caught a swift glint of amusement in his eyes.

‘I do all right,’ he said.

‘Can’t you light a fire in the stove, even though it’s neither morning or night? I like the sound of it crackling.’

He got to his feet, pulled out the wood bin with practised movements, opened the door to the wood stove, popped in a little bark shavings, some kindling and thin pieces of wood, put a match to it, shut the door almost all the way, remained crouched in front of it and watched the fire light before he closed it completely. Then he sat back down at the table and started to tell her about Bultudden.

Margit who had baked the cinnamon buns turned out to be his cousin.

‘One of twenty-six,’ he said with a crooked smile.

She was born in Bultudden and had been married to Kalle for over forty years. They were retired now. They had three children, all grown.

‘Kalle doesn’t saw anything other than wood, but he’s good at that. We thin the woods together.’

Torsten Andersson stood up again and added more fuel to the fire.

‘It’s pine,’ he said. ‘So that should be to your liking.’

Lindell nodded. The heat rose in the kitchen and she removed her jumper and straightened her T-shirt. Torsten Andersson glanced at her breasts but when their gazes met he immediately looked embarrassed.

‘I never married,’ he said. ‘Want some more coffee? But I have been lucky to have Margit,’ he added, after Lindell declined a third cup. ‘She’s very considerate.’

He looked out the window. A couple of raindrops spattered against the glass.

‘She sewed the curtains,’ he said, and waved his hand.

Unexpectedly, Lindell felt a wave of tenderness toward the man on the other side of the table.

‘When I arrived, you became quite angry. Why is that?’

‘I thought you were a real estate bitch. They’re always running around out here, wanting to buy.’

‘You own a lot of land?’

‘Margit and I own most of the point, but we are equally stubborn,’ he said with a smile.

When he smiled, his whole face pulled together in an intricate pattern of wrinkles.

‘We inherited it, and so that’s how it should be. Margit and Kalle’s boys will take over. I’m leaving it to them as well, and the boys are made of the same stuff as us.’

A new smile.

‘The chickens. What was that all about?’

The smile disappeared.

‘I had some before, but then there were new rules. They’ve been after me. I wrung all their necks in the spring.’

Lindell thought about Viola on Gräsö Island. Had the authorities been after her too?

‘Did you have many?’

‘About three hundred. An infernal cackling.’

Lindell was certain Torsten had taken good care of his hens.

‘Tell me more about Bultudden,’ she asked, well aware that she should not allow herself to be seduced by his quiet talking.

She had a task at hand. Marksson wanted a report, and not one on wood and chickens. She took out her notebook, writing a one and then ‘Torsten Andersson.’

‘Two,’ he said, and Lindell wrote a two and then ‘Margit and Kalle.’

He watched her, straightened his back, and pushed his coffee cup away.

‘Five hundred metres past Margit and Kalle there’s Thomas B. Sunesson. The B is important. He was a repair technician at Vattenfall – an electrician, in other words – and he has lived here for at least fifteen years. Unmarried, but not exactly a hermit. He often goes out dancing, mostly at Norrskedika.’

A list of names followed, residents from north to south on Bultudden. Number four and five were married couples, six and seven unmarried males.

‘And then there is Lisen, but maybe she doesn’t count. She lives all the way down toward the bay. A strange woman, seems to have problems. Sometimes she drops by. She doesn’t live here permanently, she rents an old fishing cottage from me. Comes and goes, a restless spirit. She’s here this week. Otherwise she is in Uppsala.’

After concluding this review of residents – which included brief elaborations and biographical details – Lindell thanked him for his help. She had a final question for him when they stood in the hall.

‘I saw a large bird on my way over. Could it have been a sea eagle?’

‘Sure. We have a couple that hang around here.’

Torsten Andersson looked almost proud.

‘Any that nest on the point?’

‘Absolutely. Two sets of mating couples, actually.’

She was hungry but decided to skip lunch in order to get in a few more houses. Cousin Margit was probably home, and maybe some of the married couples.

She realised that the single men would be difficult to question during the day as all three worked: Sunesson at Vattenfall, Lasse Malm at Forsmark, and the third bachelor, Tobias Frisk, at a bakery in Östhammar.

It was most likely among the latter that she would find something of interest. She had trouble imagining that the three couples would be intent on butchering bodies. But could she rule out Torsten Andersson?

Why did Bultudden strike her as the most interesting area to work through? One reason was of course that Marksson and his colleagues had diligently visited all of the homes on the other side of the bay and carefully scrutinised its inhabitants. But she was actually enticed by the eagle theory, sending Fredriksson a thought of gratitude. It would be sensational if it turned out to be true. She wished it was – an eagle rising, a murderer who saw part of the body he had butchered disappear into the sky, the eagle that soared above the pine trees, beating its wings with powerful if not elegant strokes, and disappeared.

The likelihood that an eagle could be involved also appeared more plausible after the conversation with Örjan Bäck. He had in fact observed an eagle flying away only a couple of seconds before he caught sight of the foot. It had been flapping low to the water in the direction of Bultudden.

Or am I wasting my time, Lindell asked herself as she slowly, almost reluctantly walked back to the car, Andersson’s gaze on her back and the smoke of sap-rich pine in her nostrils.

Dreamy before this landscape, barren and yet so rich, that had been the backdrop against which she had loved and been loved, lost in a dialect that had seemed at first laughably childlike, but that she after her time with Edvard on Gräsö Island soaked up as greedily as a thirsty person reaches for a sponge filled with water, seduced by the sea.

She understood very well that by exposing herself to Roslagen she was tempting herself, toying with herself. A pathetic show dressed up as an investigation with only one actor and only herself as the audience. For with whom could she share this ridiculous passion, this grief, and this truncated love?

But – there was always a but in this play – she could transform her attachment to the landscape and people to a painstaking and exhaustive investigation. She came from the outside, with respect and a keen ear, not bound by old ties. She would transform her weakness to strength.

Back in the car, bouncing down the road, she stumbled upon yet another reason she liked this assignment so much. She could be alone. No co-worker to take into consideration and measure herself against. Normally it should have been two, but Ottosson was wise enough to pick up on her unspoken preference, and luckily it coincided with their current staffing situation. No co-worker was available, and for his part Marksson was too harried to tag along.

Her need to be alone was growing stronger. She did not know if it improved the quality of her work but that didn’t matter. It was a compulsion.

‘Misanthrope,’ Sammy Nilsson had called her one time. Unsure what it meant she had not commented on it, and looked it up later, finding the synonyms ‘hater of the world’ and ‘hater of mankind.’

She smiled to herself. She was what she was. Sammy Nilsson and the others had contributed. She was a woman without imagination, her emotional landscape a morass, like most a good-enough mother, but she was a good – sometimes very good – cop. She liked the word ‘cop,’ it sounded ballsy, and testified to courage and effectiveness.

The road took a strong turn along a stone wall. A house could be seen about fifty metres away.

‘Bultudden,’ she murmured, and slowed down.

This she liked: the sight of a house, a gate to open, and new faces to acquaint herself with.