The Hand that Trembles

TWENTY-FIVE

Bo Marksson appeared after half an hour, the medical examiner only a few minutes later. He was Lindell’s age and they had met in a context that Lindell could not quite recall, though it was clear that he could.

‘Good to see you again,’ was his opening line. ‘That was a nice time, wasn’t it?’

Lindell nodded. She had the impression that he was eager to keep talking about their for the moment unidentified shared experience but she sought Marksson’s gaze and quickly summed up the situation for him. They were still in the garden. A sudden gust came out of the woods to the south of the house and brought with it the scent of sea and pine.

Her colleague from Östhammar looked uncharacteristically unfocused, was pacing around in the gravel, and kept pulling a hand through his hair.

‘Damn,’ he said, for the second time.

‘Did you know Tobias Frisk?’ Lindell asked.

Marksson nodded.

‘We played football together,’ he said, and his trepidation was so strong she could almost smell it. Lindell sensed he wanted to be miles from Bultudden.

‘I know his mother, too.’

So that’s it, she thought. He dreads that inevitable call.

‘Does she live in Östhammar?’

A new nod. Marksson was staring off toward the trees. Lindell followed his gaze. She glimpsed something white at the edge of the forest.

‘What the hell,’ Marksson said. ‘What was that?’

‘It’s Lisen Morell,’ Lindell said, as a figure emerged from the vegetation. She identified her by her unsteady gait. She walked as if she were intoxicated. ‘She lives in a fishing cottage at the end of the point,’ Lindell added. ‘I should have talked to you about her. She needs help.’

‘That’s pretty clear,’ Marksson said. His pained expression lifted somewhat as they walked toward the woman.

‘I… the car didn’t want to go, I mean…’

‘You can’t start the car,’ Marksson said.

Lisen Morell nodded. That was lucky, Lindell thought. Lisen Morell was dressed in black jeans and a white knitted jumper that was at least three sizes too big. She was wearing sandals on her feet.

‘What’s the doctor’s name?’ Lindell whispered.

‘Bergquist,’ Marksson said.

‘First name?’

‘Janne.’

Lindell turned around. The physician was still standing outside.

‘Hey, Janne, over here!’ she yelled, before turning to Morell again. ‘He’s a doctor and can take you home. You need to get warm. I’ll be over later. Okay?’

‘It’ll be a while until the forensic team arrives,’ she said to Marksson, ‘so Bergquist can’t do anything anyway.’

Bergquist steadied Morell by holding her under the arm, and they walked away. Lindell saw him lean toward her and ask something. She pointed toward a small opening between the trees, through which they left.

‘What do you think?’ Lindell asked. ‘Is this where the foot came from?’

‘Unfortunately it looks that way,’ Marksson said.

I’ve got used to his voice, Lindell thought.

‘What was he like when you talked on the phone?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ Lindell said. ‘Maybe a little nervous. He just said that I was welcome to stop in. He called me back on his own.’

‘No ifs and buts?’

‘No, it was a completely normal conversation, it was over in a couple of minutes.’

‘And then he shoots his head off,’ Marksson said. ‘Frisk was a pretty happy guy. I remember him from the football league. He was a midfielder. Pretty quick on his feet. Up here too.’

‘A loner?’

‘You mean, living out here in the wilderness?’

Lindell nodded.

‘He had a girlfriend, I know that. I think she was from Valö Island. They were together for at least five, six years. A very pretty woman. She works a pub in Öregrund now, waitressing. But he wasn’t asocial, quite the opposite. He was always upbeat when we bumped into each other. Bakers – is it even possible for them to be unhappy?’

‘Don’t know one,’ Lindell said. ‘How should we do this? Soon the Forensics will be here. If that foot has been walking around here we’ll find out. Should we find out if there is a saw?’ She pointed to a long storage shed some ten metres behind the house.

The shed was divided into three different sections, each with its own door. None of them was locked; they were closed with a metal clasp. Lindell picked up a stick from the ground and unlatched the clasp on the double doors in the middle of the shed. There was a tractor with a digger mounted on the front.

‘A Grålle,’ Marksson said. ‘He must use it to shovel snow. Maybe transport lumber back from the forest.’

Lindell walked around the tractor and studied the workbench that ran the length of the wall. A bench that was characterised by order – there were small and big jars filled with various nails, screws, and bolts. Several bottles of thinners, an oil can, and a number of small items of the kind that find their way into a work area. The wall was covered in a panel with small holes for holding up hooks from which to hang tools. A monkey wrench was missing in a row of six.

Nothing caught her eye. Marksson stood on the other side of the tractor.

‘A chainsaw,’ he said suddenly.

‘Is it a Stihl or a Jonsered?’ Lindell asked.

‘Listen to you.’

He shot her a look of amusement. Lindell told him what she had in the trunk of her car. She had to step into the digger in order to get over to his side.

‘A Stihl,’ she muttered, and bent over the tool. It was resting on a small pan, most likely filled with oil. There were bits of sawdust on the blade and chain, the teeth of which gleamed with oil. She tried to imagine Tobias Frisk holding the saw against an ankle.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

‘The foot was severed with a chainsaw.’

‘Everyone here owns one,’ he said.

‘I think it was this one,’ she said, and straightened her back.

She walked out into the area in front of the shed, the smell of oil and petrol in her nostrils, took out her mobile phone, and called Tina, the babysitter.

‘I think I’m going to be late,’ she said. ‘Are you surprised?’

She heard Erik’s voice in the background.