The Hand that Trembles

FORTY-TWO

‘This is a good book,’ Bosse Marksson said, holding up a slender volume.

‘Oh?’ Lindell said, perplexed over this start to the conversation. ‘What is it about?’

She was late. She had pulled up in front of the little police station in Östhammar at exactly a quarter to nine. Angelina was at the reception desk. Lindell had talked to her before, about travel. There was a globe on the counter and when Lindell complained about stress Angelina had spun it and urged Lindell to stop it with her finger. She had landed in South America. In Paraguay.

‘Go there,’ Angelina said. ‘I’m sure it will be relaxing.’

And this morning as she had hurried into the police station, Angelina had simply pointed to the globe and grinned.

‘It’s about a man who takes the train north in order to attend the funeral of an elderly relative.’

‘Sounds fascinating,’ Lindell said.

‘Listen to this,’ Marksson said, and opened the book. ‘“Someone who doesn’t love us is in the process of changing our land”,’ he read in an authoritative voice.

He lowered the text and looked at Lindell, whose gaze was fixed on a framed photograph on the window sill. It showed a woman, whom Lindell assumed was Marksson’s wife.

‘That sounds about right,’ Lindell said, suddenly unsure as to what was expected of her.

Marksson had talked about books before. She had understood that he was a bookworm and perhaps also something of an amateur philosopher. For her part, she did not read much. Perhaps a dozen books a year.

Marksson read the sentence again, now without looking at it.

‘And the bit before it isn’t bad either: “If I am going to participate in bringing change to my country I want to do so because someone I love will later be able to live here.”’

He shut the book.

‘But you aren’t here for a reading. I’m returning this to the library today, that’s why I brought it in. It’s a Stig Claesson, one of my favourites.’

‘I thought it sounded good,’ Lindell said.

‘Someone is changing this land – we see that, don’t we?’

Lindell nodded. She wanted to say something insightful, building on this, but the stressful drive and her thoughts, miserable and ranting, had made her slow.

‘Someone who doesn’t love us.’

‘The National Police Committee,’ Lindell said, and Marksson looked at her with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

‘You seem tired.’

‘I’m wiped out,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s not that bad, but you know how-’

‘Something is wrong,’ Marksson interrupted.

Lindell drew a deep breath and sat up in her chair.

‘I don’t know what it is,’ she picked up, ‘but something in this story doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s the picture of Tobias Frisk. You knew him and probably know better, but for me he doesn’t seem like a murderer. I know it is a silly objection, killers can be a million different ways, but this thought didn’t just come out of nowhere. This uncertainty doesn’t come from my impression of Frisk, whom I know so little about, but it has come from the outside. Do you know what I’m getting at? I mean…’

Lindell leant over the desk and caught the hint of a smile that swiftly came and went in Marksson’s face.

‘There is something out there that I have seen or heard, something that has led me to the conviction that Frisk is not a killer. He is no longer self-evident.’

Marksson nodded.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘A visual impression,’ Lindell said, and told him about her experience on Ringgatan after she had left Café Savoy. How she had a sudden thought and stopped in her tracks.

‘At a café? Frisk was a baker – could that be the connection?’

‘That was what I was thinking, but you are the one who has been to his workplace. I’ve only talked to Ahlén on the phone. I know from previous experience that it is often images that I respond to. I can read for hours and talk to a bunch of people without anything being set off in my mind, but then I catch sight of a single detail – it can look completely insignificant and ordinary from the outside but it makes everything become clear for me.’

They discussed what it could have been at the café. Lindell re-created the picture of the busy eatery, even pulled over a sheet of paper and started to sketch it out to jog her memory.

‘Coffee, children, retirees, Christmas cakes…’ Marksson rattled off. ‘There’s no space and perhaps stale air… there’s the sound of children crying, mothers, pushchairs… a couple of teenagers… a child that doesn’t want to take its coat off… maybe Christmas decorations on the table…’

‘Hold it!’

Lindell held her hand up in a theatrical gesture but lowered it after a couple of seconds.

‘No,’ she said.

She knew she had been close, but the image that had flickered in front of her was only exposed in pieces, and quickly faded away.

‘That’s okay,’ Marksson said after a brief pause, ‘I’m sure it’ll come back. We’ll have to start somewhere else. If Frisk wasn’t the killer, why would he commit suicide?’

‘Shame,’ Lindell said. ‘He knew that I was on my way and he wasn’t a particularly good liar. He knew he was partially responsible for Patima’s death since he had brought her to Bultudden, and he knew he would not be able to bluff.’

‘Too complicated,’ Marksson said. ‘It’s one thing to import a woman from Asia and quite another to kill her. A lot of men would-’

‘I know, but maybe Frisk agonised over it. He may also have known something about how and why she died.’

Marksson stared at her.

‘Implicated, and yet not,’ he said finally.

‘Shame,’ Lindell repeated.

‘But then all men would be taking their own lives.’

‘He was an unhappy man,’ Lindell said. ‘My investigations in the area brought everything to a head for him.’

‘A skilled baker, a fly fisherman. The Frisk I knew was a pretty considerate man.’

‘The considerate murderer,’ Lindell mused.

‘We won’t get much farther now,’ Marksson said, confirming her own conclusion.

‘Is that your wife?’ Lindell asked, and pointed to the photograph in the window.

‘Yes, that is Inga-Marie. It was taken a couple of years ago. We were at Lofoten.’

‘Was it fun?’

Marksson looked at her and smiled.

‘What you are really asking is this: Are you happy?’

‘Maybe,’ Lindell said, returning his smile. ‘Am I so easy to read?’

‘You are an open book,’ Marksson said. ‘I think these visits to Roslagen have caused a bit of inner turmoil for you, haven’t they?’

‘Maybe,’ Lindell repeated.

The tension between them broke when Marksson stood up from his chair.

‘Should we go for a spin?’

Lindell sensed what he meant by ‘spin.’ Drive around on the gravel roads outside Östhammar, and Marksson would talk about his youth, point out various houses and tell her about the people who lived there. After a while they would end up at Bultudden.

‘Is there anything in particular?’

‘No,’ Marksson said, but she heard something else in his tone. She did not know what was going on in his head but had no intention of asking. She realised he was as much a searcher as she was, but as opposed to her, he did not air his doubts.

Just as the last time things had heated up, when they had been outside Lasse Malm’s shed, he left. He grabbed the car keys on his desk and walked out of the room.

‘Let’s scram,’ she heard him say from the corridor, and when she found her way to the reception area, he was already standing next to his car.

‘Men,’ Angelina said, reading Lindell’s expression.

That’s right, Lindell thought. Wouldn’t be so bad.

Once they were at Bultudden, Marksson stepped out at Torsten Andersson’s house. They had caught a glimpse of him at the kitchen window. Lindell took over the wheel and continued down the Avenue.

Marksson had not asked what Lindell was planning to do on the point, but she thought he had an inkling. They were going to keep in touch by mobile phone.

Lisen Morell’s car was parked up between a clump of bushes and a couple of enormously tall pine trees, just like last time. Lindell could not tell if it had even been moved since then. She looked around.

It was absolutely calm, the sea a polished surface. The low clouds appeared to press down on the bay, a stillness where not a single breeze could be detected, the tall pine tree trunks and between them the dark, oily water as a backdrop, creating a spooky feeling. Not a single movement. A static landscape. There was nothing charming about the scene. This is also the archipelago, she thought. As still as death.

‘Hello,’ Lindell called out, mainly to break the silence.

She took out her mobile phone and punched in Marksson’s number but did not hit the call button.

She walked over to the fishing cottage, listening at the door, but heard nothing. She knocked, then repeated her knock after a couple of seconds. Her hand on the phone was sweaty. Not a sound. A new knock that sounded almost obscene in the intense stillness.

She had stood outside a single woman’s door once before, knocking. She had not received an answer that time either. The woman they were trying to reach had been strangled to death.

She pushed down on the door handle, which more closely resembled an old-fashioned iron rod than a handle, with her elbow. The door opened with a faintly mournful sound.

‘Hello? Is anyone home?’ she called out, even though it appeared unlikely.

Suddenly the sun broke out and beamed a ray of light into the cottage through the window that faced the sea. Lindell ended up standing on the spot. There was a painting on the left wall. It was a watercolour and she recognised the subject, the outermost point on Bultudden.

She took a couple of steps into the room and thereby gained an overview of the space, including the sleeping alcove to the right. The bed was unmade, the blanket turned to one side so that it formed a triangle, and the pillows were rumpled. Lisen Morell had got out of bed. Lindell exhaled. She had subconsciously feared that Lisen would be lying on the bed, strangled to death.

Lindell left the house, pushed the door shut behind her, and heard the lock click. Then she rounded the corner and walked all the way around the building. Next to the bench that she and Lisen had sat on there was a bottle of wine of a brand that she knew well.

The clouds had drawn their veils again. The surface of the water was ruffled by a faint breeze. An old dock lay pulled up on the shore and a bit higher there was a boat with a green tarp over it. The ends of the rope that held the tarp in place were well knotted around nails fastened into the lumber that functioned as underlay. She resisted the temptation of loosening the knots to peek into the boat.

Lisen was somewhere close by, that much was clear. The car was in its place and the cottage was unlocked. But was she alive or dead?

Suddenly Lindell heard a crack and jumped around, crouching as she did so as if she were expecting a blow. Instinctively she also pressed the button on her mobile phone.

‘What do you want?’

Lisen Morell’s voice was loaded with so much explosive tension that Lindell could not bring herself to reply. She waved vaguely and heard a voice from her phone at the same time. She held it to her ear.

‘No, everything’s fine. I just happened to knock the phone.’

She looked at Lisen, who was standing a couple of metres away. How had she managed to get so close without making any sound?

‘No, no, I’ve just bumped into Lisen. I’ll talk to you later.’

Lindell turned it off. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I startle you?’

‘Seems more like I was the one who startled you. But what are you doing here? Are you the one who was sneaking around here last night?’

Lindell shook her head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There was someone here last night. I’ve been walking around taking a look to see if I could find any clues.’

‘Clues?’

‘Yes, clues. To be perfectly honest, you look trashed.’

‘I was a bit startled,’ Lindell admitted. ‘And I have actually been a little worried. In my line of work that often happens. Can we go inside?’

Lisen nodded and started walking toward the cottage. Then she stopped short and turned around.

‘Do you have any reason to be worried about me? I mean, was that why you came?’

‘No, no,’ Lindell assured her. ‘I just wanted to talk to you a little.’

When they had sat down at the old drop-leaf table with a cup of coffee in front of them she asked Lisen to tell her what she had heard or seen the night before.

‘There was something out there. I was awake, it was about half past twelve. Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep and then I get up. I’ve read that it’s better to do that, that you shouldn’t stay tossing and turning in bed. In bed you should only sleep.’

And make love, Lindell thought.

‘Yes, I do that too,’ she said dishonestly.

‘I pottered around a little. Do you see that watercolour? I framed it last night. Then I heard sounds. It sounded as though someone was sneaking around outside. First there were a couple of steps, then absolute silence, then more steps.’

Lisen Morell picked up her cup but did not drink. Lindell could tell she was reliving the events of the night.

‘I may have imagined it, but it was so strong. It was as if the house was vibrating. It sounds silly and I don’t mean it literally but you know when you feel something so strongly it translates into something physical.’

Lisen put down her cup, still without having drunk anything. Lindell saw her hand shake and recalled Lisen’s words when she had been talking about her mezzotints: the hand that trembles.

‘I know it sounds crazy, but I am extremely physical, or rather, it is one and the same. Mind and body. Both are required to be able to paint. And last night I knew – my whole body knew there was someone outside. Someone who did not wish me well.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘No. I didn’t think I would. A stalker doesn’t leave a note.’

‘Any idea who it might have been?’

Lisen didn’t answer.

‘Can’t you go to your flat in town?’

‘I’m going to spend Christmas here. I can’t stand being in town – all the people who run around and think they are partaking in Christmas spirit because they have shopped until they dropped.’

‘Have you ever noticed anyone trespassing here before?’

‘Maybe,’ Lisen sighed. ‘This is a strange area, full of lonely souls. We are so far away from everything, exposed in some way, and when I say that I’m not referring to the weather. We should stick together, but everyone stays holed up in their own little cottage. Take Torsten Andersson, for example, the one I rent this place from. You’ve met him, haven’t you? So lonely, so isolated, he practically screams out his despair but does nothing about it, just talks about the past and blames everything that is new. It is as if being on the periphery has hurt him, twisted everything good and made him into someone else. He is a good person, but that is hidden under all the bluster.’

‘Was Tobias Frisk the same?’

Lisen shook her head and finally took a sip of coffee. Lindell was strangely disturbed by the fact that she had drained her cup while Lisen’s was basically untouched.

‘No, he was different. More hesitant, searching. He didn’t rant and rave in the same way, he seemed more to be apologising for his existence. And yet he could not conceal his longing.’

‘His smell gave him away.’

Lisen flashed a brief smile.

‘What was he looking for?’

‘What all of us look for. Someone to love, a connection, to feel part of something. I am an artist, and that is the loneliest work in the world. No colleagues, no one to fill in, no coffee breaks on the job. Everything depends on me. You do your thing and hope it means something to someone else.’

Lindell glanced at the painting that stood leant up against the wall.

‘Is that one for sale?’

‘What does it mean to you?’

‘The sea,’ Lindell said. ‘The shore.’

She didn’t want to add anything else, afraid of becoming too personal and vulnerable. Lisen was someone who had earlier seen through her, caught the scent not only of Dove and jasmine but of loneliness. If Lisen was so perceptive, she probably picked up on other things too.

‘You can have it,’ Lisen said.

Lindell protested but Lisen maintained that the watercolour painting was a gift. She did not want to sell it. If Lindell wanted it, she would have to accept it as a Christmas gift.

‘Thank you,’ Lindell said. ‘It is the most beautiful-’

Lisen silenced her with her hand. Their eyes met. Lindell knew she had a budding friend in Lisen, if only she could nurture the relationship. She lowered her gaze, checked her watch, and knew she ought to call Marksson and pick him up.

‘The other ones, Sunesson and Malm. How are they?’

‘Lasse Malm has been by a couple of times. He wanted to impress me a little, puff himself up. And he is undeniably powerful. Thomas likes to brag but is basically a nice guy. A little prim. I think he would have trouble letting anyone get too close.’

Lindell recalled Sunesson’s neat and tidy home, verging on pedantry.

‘They’re going to end up like Torsten, so the future of Bultudden is secure,’ Lisen said with a smile.

‘What will you do if your mysterious visitor comes back?’

‘Take out my pepper spray,’ Lisen answered.

‘I think you should call.’

‘Who?’

‘Me, or better yet Bosse Marksson. Or 911.’

‘You believe me? That I heard someone, I mean.’

‘Why wouldn’t I believe you?’

‘But who would it be? If Tobias wasn’t dead I would guess it was him. He was interested in me.’

Lisen stood up.

‘I’ll wrap up the painting,’ she said.

‘Do you mind if I take a walk around in the meantime?’

‘Of course, you’re probably a better police dog than I am.’

The sea was still glossy. A few solitary, fluttering snowflakes strengthened the feeling of isolation that reigned. Lindell walked along the water, convinced that any nightly visitor would have kept to the shoreline. It was not completely selfevident, but walking through the dark and thorny forest appeared more difficult.

She saw nothing out of the ordinary, no trace of any human except for an aluminum can bobbing in a clump of reeds. Had Lisen scared herself for nothing? The fact that she could hear footsteps through the logs of the cottage walls meant she either had unusually good hearing or a lively imagination. Lisen’s talk of mind and body had not impressed Lindell.

After a couple of minutes she turned and walked back to the house. Lisen stood in the doorway watching her. Lindell shook her head.

‘Here you go, a present from Bultudden,’ Lisen said, and held out the wrapped painting.

‘Thank you!’

They stood there for a second without speaking.

‘Call me if you notice anything out of the ordinary,’ Lindell said finally.

‘In that case I’ll be calling every day,’ Lisen said, and fired off the smile that made her entire face light up. Lindell understood that the neighbouring men were interested in being warmed by such a smile, if not her art.

‘See you later,’ Lindell said, but was not convinced by her own words.

Bosse Marksson was waiting by the mailboxes outside Torsten Andersson’s house. Lindell pulled over and her colleague jumped in. He didn’t say anything about the fact that Lindell’s visit with Lisen had taken a long time.

‘So what did our friend Torsten have to say?’

‘Not much. Mostly we just chitchatted about old times. He knows everyone.’

‘But is friends with no one,’ Lindell said.

Marksson looked at her. ‘Is that Lisen’s analysis?’

Lindell nodded.

‘She may be right,’ Marksson conceded. ‘What else did she say?’

Lindell described Lisen’s night-time experience.

‘And it wasn’t all in her mind?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure, but it feels right somehow. There is some kind of force field over this area, can’t you feel it? From Andersson’s house to Lisen’s cottage: a slab of land jutting out into the sea with four – now three – bachelors, three old couples, and a lonely artist.’

‘Force field?’

‘I don’t know how else to explain it. Maybe it’s just my own mind-ghosts but I feel a kind of bubbling energy under the surface. But it is a form of anger that will never be released, at least not constructively. It is a rage that turns inward.’

‘I see,’ Marksson said.

‘I’m trying to understand,’ Lindell said, ‘and I know I’m going on and on. It’s a lot of feeling and not so much knowing. It also feels tragic. If this sliver of Sweden can’t be happy then who can? Do you understand? Everything becomes so clear out here. In the city we’re concealed by all the people, we hide and are hidden. Here there is no place to hide.’

‘What points to them being unhappy?’

Lindell glanced at Marksson.

‘I know you think I’m talking nonsense, but, as I said, I think the whole area feels sad and repressed.’

‘It is another life, but the people out here are supposedly unhappier than-’

‘That’s not what I mean! Lisen said something about Christmas, about the stress and crazed shopping. She is going to celebrate it out here. It can seem lonely but the loneliness in town is just as great. Only out here it appears more clearly. Visualise this: A lone woman lights the fourth candle of advent, then eats herring and ham all by herself. That sounds so pathetic. But how many forlorn characters aren’t there in Uppsala?’

‘You would know more about that,’ Marksson said.

‘Okay, we’ll drop my mind-ghosts. We have an investigation that leaves more questions than answers. What do we do about that?’

‘I was thinking about the seal-shooting rifle, the one that Frisk put to his head. Where did it come from? Torsten mumbled something but I never did get it straightened out.’

‘What did he say?’ Lindell asked.

‘That he had seen a lot of those rifles in the past.’

‘But not that one? You’ve shown it to him, haven’t you?’

‘I think he recognised it, but didn’t want to say anything.’

‘Maybe he just wanted to confuse us.’

‘That would be typical of him, I admit. But all the same I got the feeling he’s sitting on something.’

‘That would mean the rifle belonged to someone else. Because if it had been Frisk’s weapon, Torsten should have been able to say so. Don’t you think? Even if he likes toying with the police.’

‘Torsten muttered something about everyone knowing that Frisk had never owned a weapon, never had one. He said something about “what business would a person who doesn’t hunt have with a gun?”’

‘Inheritance. The gun is old.’

‘I asked my dad. He’s sure that Frisk’s father didn’t hunt either.’

Lindell digested this information. It was clear that Marksson had put a lot of thought into it.

‘You could play a little fast and loose,’ she said after a couple of kilometres. ‘Go to Sunesson and tell him we have information indicating it is his rifle. Then do the same with Malm. Just to see how they react. Stir the pot.’

‘Risky,’ Marksson said, but did not elaborate.

‘Does it matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lindell answered.

The snowfall was getting heavier, and shortly before they reached Östhammar they encountered a snowplough.

‘A white Christmas,’ Lindell said.

‘A merry Christmas,’ Marksson said, and smiled his widest smile.

They parted outside the police station. Marksson was going to walk to the library and drop off some books before having lunch. Lindell declined to accompany him. She felt a need to be alone for a while and had also arranged to meet with Ottosson in the early afternoon.

On top of this, she was dieting, but this was not something she admitted even to herself. I’m not hungry, she told herself. I can stop on the way and buy some fruit.

She felt that they were walking around in circles. The reason for it was dissatisfaction over how the case was developing, or rather because it had ground to a complete halt. They had a confirmation from Sorsele that Tobias Frisk had been seen with a Thai woman and that she had accompanied him when he checked out of the campsite. Their colleague in the area had promised to try to check with the agents who imported the foreign labour to see if they had further information on record regarding their berry-picking recruits.

Stolt in Thailand had collected a saliva sample from the sister in Krabi and sent it to Sweden. In a week or two they would see if there was a match with the dead woman’s DNA. Every person’s DNA is unique but between close relatives there were always similarities to support an identification.

Everything was falling into place, and yet not. Lindell wanted a motive. She wanted a body. She wanted to understand why Frisk had shot his brains out, and she wanted to know more about where the seal-shooting rifle had come from. Many wants, but the chances of satisfying them were marginal. The question about the suicide weapon was the only one where they could hope for a reasonable explanation.

She had lunch – a banana, an apple and a bottle of water – in the car at a petrol station in Gimo while she thought about the person who had been sneaking around outside Lisen Morell’s cottage. Lindell believed her, wanted to believe her, despite Lisen’s talk of feelings and spirit that was at times more than a little wacky. If she was correct in her assertion of a prowler, who could it have been? It could of course be someone from Lisen’s earlier life, perhaps a rejected suitor returning to spy on her, but it was more probable that it was one of Bultudden’s inhabitants creeping around in the dark. And if that was the case, why? Was there a tangible threat to Lisen? Was there some connection to Patima and Tobias Frisk’s suicide, and in that case what did it consist of? Did Lisen have some significance that she may not have been aware of herself?

Lindell went through the candidates in the area and three names emerged as the most likely: Torsten Andersson, Thomas B. Sunesson, and Lasse Malm. In that trio there was also – Lindell was convinced of it – a concealed knowledge about Frisk’s life during the past year that could help explain what had happened.

She stepped out of the car, walked over to a rubbish bin, and threw out the remains of her lunch. The tabloid headlines outside the petrol station screamed out news of a soap opera star who had had an affair with a married man, who in turn apparently had alcohol problems and a pregnant wife. The headlines of Upsala Nya were more discreet but dramatic nonetheless, with the sensational news of the county commissioner’s return.

‘Bultudden,’ she said aloud, trying to imagine a reality show about the inhabitants of the Avenue.

Who is sleeping with whom? Who hates whom? Who is cheating his neighbour? Who is bluffing me and Marksson?

A crow came hopping over the concrete. It had a piece of paper in its beak. A mail crow, Lindell thought. Have you got a letter? She imagined the eagle, a little heavy and clumsy but also majestic, far above Bultudden. In its claws it held a foot. It was dripping blood over the waters of the bay.

A berry picker, she thought, and an image of the chainsaws on Såma’s shop wall welled up. She shivered and felt pain radiating out from her midsection. The crow hopped closer, flapped its wings, then lifted off, careening in the wind and finally disappearing behind a car wash.