The Hand that Trembles

FORTY-SEVEN

It was twenty to ten when Ann Lindell thought of it. She had spent the evening putting away toys and clothes, filled two grocery bags with newspapers that had been lying around all over the flat, then put them by the front door. She had vacuumed, and dusted window sills, and done several loads of laundry. She had been thinking about Ante Persson all night, his desperate helplessness and anguish as he was escorted to the police station, brought two flights up in the lift, and placed in an interrogation room. She had leant over the frail body in the wheelchair and put an arm around his shoulders. Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson had waited in the background, ready to start the interrogation but aware of the fact that the old man had to be reassured first.

There was no joy in this. Solving the murder of Nils Dufva had spread a kind of gloom that was only strengthened when he was brought in.

Ante Persson had mumbled something about ‘everything goes around.’ What had surprised her was the fear in his eyes. They had all assumed he would be bewildered and perhaps tired, but they had been unprepared for the apparent terror he experienced.

Lindell had left the station before the interrogation began and knew nothing of how it had gone. Had Ante been allowed to stay or had he been sent back to Ramund? The latter was more likely. At least that was Ottosson’s opinion, who maintained that the old man had no possibility of fleeing, especially since they could easily post a guard outside his door.

It was when she was finishing the laundry that the penny dropped for her, when the feeling of unease that had grown so strong outside Café Savoy received its explanation. She had just emptied the dryer and sorted the clothes into two neat piles – one for Erik and one for herself – when the thought of how appealing it would be with a third pile flew through her head. At that moment the memory came back to her with a start and it felt as though she had received a strong electric shock.

She dropped her task at hand and went to the kitchen to check the time.

‘It’s not too late,’ she muttered.

The familiar agitation caused her to – anxiously and without any motivation – walk up to the window and study the thermometer, as if the temperature could explain or determine how she should act.

Then came doubt, and while the clock kept ticking indefatigably she grew more and more irresolute. At last, shortly after ten o’clock, she walked up to the telephone.

He picked up immediately and with an alert voice, which reassured her. He may have gone to bed, but had not fallen asleep.

‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I’ve realised what it was that was bothering me. I’m sorry I’m calling so late but I have to talk to someone.’

‘That’s fine, we’re night owls,’ Bosse Marksson said.

‘Do you remember when we visited Lasse Malm? I was going to return the chainsaw and we put it back in the shed behind the house.’

‘Yes?’

‘There were a couple of rubbish sacks there. One had fallen over. Remember?’

Marksson made a noise of assent.

‘A discarded piece of clothing had fallen out and just as we were going to go, I tossed it back into the bag.’

Lindell paused and unconsciously moved her free hand in a gesture similar to the one she had performed in the shed.

‘Now I know what it was,’ she resumed. ‘Or I think I do. When I was at the Savoy there was a one-year-old sitting on the floor, wearing a pink undershirt. She had spilt something on her chest and it looked pretty soiled.’

‘I see, a pink undershirt,’ Marksson said, to prod Lindell’s memory.

‘The same colour I saw in the rubbish sack. The clothing rag I tossed back had the same colour.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you get it?’

‘No, to be honest, I don’t.’

‘It was a pink tank top that fell out of the bag.’

Marksson digested this information.

‘Do you mean…’

‘What was Malm doing with a pink tank top? He’s as large as a house. You said he hadn’t had a girlfriend in ages.’

‘It was several years ago,’ Marksson confirmed. ‘Do you think it was the Thai girl’s tank top? But there is no connection between the two of them.’

‘No, not as far as we know.’

‘It’s a bit far-fetched,’ Marksson said, after having thought about it for a while.

‘I know, but who would have thought that your pal would find a foot on the beach?’

‘That’s not a flawless comparison,’ Marksson said, and she heard from his voice that he was smiling.

‘Can you go out there tomorrow and check it out?’

Marksson had known Lasse Malm since childhood and she knew he was hesitating.

‘I’ll go myself,’ she said when he didn’t answer. ‘I can probably find some reason to poke around in his shed – tell him I’ve received information that Frisk may have hidden things at his place.’

‘Hold your horses, I’m thinking.’

‘I’ll head out there tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

They finished the call. It was already twenty to eleven. Lindell broke one of her rules about not drinking wine during the week by going out into the kitchen, opening a bottle of Portuguese wine, and pouring herself a glass.

But before she tasted it she undressed, took a quick shower, wrapped herself in her robe, and sat down on the couch in the living room.

‘Cheers,’ she said, raising the glass at the television, and taking a sip.