The Hand that Trembles

TWENTY-TWO

Bultudden Point lay by the sea like its own nation, connected to the mainland by only a narrow strip of land, an electric cable, and a telephone line. Beyond the point there was an archipelago with windswept skerries and rocks and thereafter the Sea of Åland.

Ann Lindell stood at the outermost tip of the point, facing south, and summed up what she had gleaned from her two days. Not that it was much.

The wind was bearing down from the east and whipped the water into waves that crashed against the cliffs. There was snow in the air. She scanned the horizon, eager to perhaps catch sight of an eagle, a sign of life in the wilderness. It would serve as a confirmation that she was not here for nothing. But there was nothing in the sky. Not even a seagull.

She had spoken with Torsten Andersson’s cousin and her husband. Margit Paulsson was short and scrawny, Kalle some thirty centimetres taller and broad chested. She was born on the point, he came from the mainland from a village that ‘I have forgotten the name of.’ She was a talkative woman, full of ideas and activities, did not stay in one place for more than a couple seconds, while Kalle sat securely moored at the kitchen table – a place that he had likely staked out forty-five years ago – smiling quietly, sometimes chiming in with a soft hum, sometimes shaking his head at his wife’s harangues.

They were the same age to the day, both born on the morning of Christmas Eve sixty-seven years ago, a fact that they held up as a strong point.

He had worked in agriculture, in the forest, and as a carpenter. Like Edvard, Lindell had thought, and examined the giant at the table a little more closely. Margit had ‘stayed home.’ They had three sons. Kalle had nodded and a benign expression had come over him as Margit told her about Rustan, Kurt, and Torbjörn.

‘Who severs a foot?’ Margit had asked, and thereby echoed her cousin.

Lindell had come no closer to the answer other than eliminating Margit and Kalle as suspects. She had also eliminated the two other couples on the point: Ulla and Magnus Olsson in house number four, and Doris Utman and her husband Oskar – who had suffered a stroke and was bedridden – in house number five.

All four were in the same age bracket as Margit and Kalle and no likely candidates as axe murderers.

And then there was Lisen Morell, of course, who Lindell did not believe could lift as much as a screwdriver, even less a saw. She literally swayed on her feet, trying to regain order in her life.

At first Lindell had thought she was intoxicated but found that she was merely befuddled – perhaps from prescription medicine – and had trouble with her balance, to the point of finding it hard to stay upright. She had difficulties with everything. She slurred her speech and substantial portions of her speech were incoherent. Her mouth appeared to have dried out.

‘I have no appetite anymore,’ she complained, and displayed her bony arms.

She was also cold. Light a fire or put on a jumper, Lindell thought uncharitably, disturbed by the sight of this woman who was her own age.

She offered to light the fire for her and make her some food. The woman stared at her, terrified.

Lindell left, convinced that Lisen Morell would soon die if she did not receive treatment.

The first specks of snow blew in from the sea, diabolically hard and almost painful as they struck her face.

Three houses remained. Three bachelors. Lindell had picked up some information from their neighbours but of course she had to meet them in person. It was as if Bultudden had to be gone through thoroughly in order for her to be able to rest. Maybe it was the absence of other ideas and tasks that she lingered on, maybe there were other reasons. She both did and didn’t want the riddle of the foot to find its solution on the point.

All three of the men were employed and could not be questioned during the day. She had no desire or really any realistic intention of calling them down to the police station in Östhammar. They would have to take time off work, and since they were only to be questioned for possible information in connection with the case it seemed beyond the call of duty.

She had instead left notes in their mailboxes urging them to contact her. Malm and Frisk had already called her mobile phone and they had agreed she would stop by to see them on Saturday. She had already arranged a babysitter for Erik. It was Thursday today. That suited her fine. She would get one day in Uppsala.

It was getting dark and the snowfall grew heavier, but she was finding it hard to leave her spot on the point. At last, when her feet were frozen solid and her jacket was completely wet, she walked through the woods to the turnaround where her car was parked.

‘Sweden, Sweden, my motherland,’ she said softly.

She faced four months of winter. Before her there would be at least four serious violent crimes, perhaps murders, before spring decided to return. She did not complain, not anymore; there was no point. She simply accepted it as fact. That was a victory.

She drove north on the by-now familiar route, waving to the Olssons, Utmans, and Paulssons, convinced they were watching her pass by. She got out at Torsten Andersson’s gate and before she had reached the house he had opened the door. He had a little bag in his hand. He had promised her a bit of fish.

‘Caught any criminals yet?’

He smiled and Lindell smiled back, shaking her head. She peeked into the bag. There were about a dozen small perch inside.

‘We should have the death penalty,’ Torsten Andersson said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I have a dog that’s mean and bites people then I should get rid of it, shouldn’t I?’

Lindell nodded, distressed at hearing this familiar rant, and especially because it came from a man she had taken an immediate liking to.

‘But a murderer just ends up in prison or hospital.’

‘You think we should lead murderers out into the woods and shoot them?’

Her voice curdled in the frigid easterly wind. The snow whirled in front of the cottage. He must be freezing, she thought. Torsten Andersson was in short sleeves.

He didn’t reply, simply shaking his head.

‘Something is wrong,’ he said after a pause.

‘Thanks for the fish,’ Lindell said, turning and walking back to the car.

‘It’s bullshit!’ he yelled after her.

As she drove through Hökhuvud and saw the houses along the road it struck her that she – if she had had the talent – would have been able to write the story of Sweden. Most of the people she encountered in her work were actually innocent, and even the guilty ones, the murderers and rapists, the manslaughterers, the thieves and dealers, were all a part of the story.

The sniper’s story is no worse than the hunting master’s.

In Gimo she pulled over at a petrol station, took the bag of fish out of the trunk and stuffed it into a litter bin, then went inside to buy the evening paper.