“So how are things going for you?” asked Ottosson, turning toward Lindell, when the discussion on Gränsberg was taken care of and the prosecutor had hurried off.
To hell, she thought about answering.
“With the disappeared girl, I mean.”
“I realize that,” said Lindell in a curt, slightly fatigued tone. “Well, I’ve found a witness,” she continued, telling about Yngve Sandman’s observations, and that she judged it to be a hot, credible tip.
“Found” did sound good. She did not mention that the tip had been neglected the day after the disappearance.
She had renewed contact with the parents and some of Klara Lovisa’s friends, to try to ferret out whether there was possibly anyone in her circle of acquaintances who might match the young man by the roadside, but had not produced anything new.
“I’ll keep rooting. Maybe there’s an unknown young man around here now with a life on his conscience.”
“You think she’s dead?”
Lindell nodded and Ottosson got that furrow between his eyebrows.
“Klara Lovisa was not a girl who disappears of her own free will,” said Lindell.
Lindell was aware that such a judgment was risky, because what can you know about another person’s thoughts? They had experienced this before, how an apparently well-functioning youth ran away, to resurface again after a while, in another city, in another country. It might take a day or two, but even six months or more. She herself had a case with a young girl who after two years was found in Copenhagen. Maybe that was why Lindell had been assigned Klara Lovisa? If it could happen once, then… perhaps Ottosson had superstitiously reasoned.
After the meeting Lindell returned to her office. She sensed that her colleagues were starting to notice her self-imposed isolation more and more. She withdrew, she no longer took part in coffee breaks, instead she hid out by herself.
From hope to despair; the contrast was almost too much for Ann Lindell. For a few weeks she had lived in a rush, overwhelmed to start with and in a state of surprise at experiencing something like that, so courted and desired, perhaps even loved. Anders Brant had taken her on a journey she had never been on before, or thought she would ever experience.
The love story with Edvard was one thing, it had been amazing in many ways. She had truly loved that man, more than she realized when they were caught up in the relationship.
Then came the night with a strange man she met at the bar, and from having too much to drink, but also to satisfy a vague need for intimacy and mutually explicit lust, they staggered home to her bed. He was a man she would never see again, married besides. She had been his fling, and afterward it just felt wrong and messy. Improbably enough she got pregnant, but kept the father uninformed, and the relationship with Edvard fell apart.
Edvard had been good, but he was too melancholy, sometimes hard to reach and convince that life did not only have to mean hard work. She liked his seriousness but with the years had realized that it was best for both of them to go their separate ways.
With Anders Brant it was different, he was more easygoing. He was relaxed, didn’t make things more complicated than they were. When it came to sex he was exceptional, she had to admit. Never before had she experienced such rapture. He was alternately tender and intense. Perhaps it was a game, but it was a lovely game.
What surprised her was that she knew so little about him. He had mentioned a few things about his work; he preferred to write about social movements, he said, whatever that meant. Perhaps he noticed her uncertainty and for that reason had not expounded on that topic. She understood enough to know that he was not a sensationalist who took his job lightly. He sometimes showed indignation, which made him verbose. Then he talked about justice. A bit vaguely, she thought, and when she jokingly said something to the effect that she too worked in the service of justice he fell silent for a moment. Judging by his expression he was prepared to make an objection, but at the next moment said something in the same easy tone as hers about “the best justice money can buy.” She had heard that phrase before and was not particularly impressed.
“You mean that I just work for the wealthy?”
“No, not at all,” he answered. “It’s just an expression.”
Exactly, she thought, it’s just an expression, but what does it express? But she didn’t say anything.
It was one of the few times they talked about her work. He showed surprisingly little interest. Normally people she came in contact with asked her to talk about it, wanted to hear a few cases described, wondered whether it was a nasty chore to be a police officer, and if she was afraid. More than a few would offer drastic examples of their own and others’ encounters with crime.
On another occasion he asked her what the penalty for blackmail was. I guess it depends on the circumstances, she answered a little vaguely, uncertain what the penalty scale looked like. The fact was that she had never worked with any cases like that. When she asked why he was asking, the answer was that he was just curious in general and then said that he had read a book about the Italian mafia. Then he dropped that subject.
But she was sold. And she started to hope. She started dreaming and looked at Erik and wondered to herself whether he would want a stepfather. Brant had no children of his own and for her it was too late to think about another.
The train had not left for her. “You’re on the track,” as Görel preached to the point of nagging when she tried to get Ann to become more active and involved.
Now she was active and involved, and with a man who had disappeared and left lots of question marks behind him, both professionally and personally.
She must get hold of him, that was the dominant thought in her mind. It was meaningless to try the cell phone again. He had it turned off during the trip, she was sure of that; perhaps he turned it on when he wanted to make a call.
E-mail remained, and she was sure that Brant delivered his articles electronically. She called information, got the number to the Swedish Society for Nature Conservation and asked to be connected.
She asked the switchboard for the editor of their magazine and immediately got to speak with a man with the bizarre name Gunnar Göök, or did he say Höök? She explained who she was and that in an investigation she had to make contact with one of the magazine’s contributors, who was traveling and could only be reached by e-mail.
Göök was hesitant, gave roundabout answers, asked who this concerned, expressed doubt about the correctness of giving out an e-mail address to just anyone, started talking about protecting sources.
“I’m not just anyone, and you are definitely not disclosing any sources,” said Lindell. “I suggest that we hang up and you call the Uppsala police switchboard and ask to speak with Ann Lindell, so you know I’m a police officer.”
“As if that would change anything,” said Göök.
“This is a murder investigation,” Lindell explained. “Does that possibly change the situation? Brant is in no way suspected of a crime but may be in possession of very essential information. Hang up now and call!”
To her surprise Göök obeyed and a few minutes later the phone rang and she got what she wanted without further discussion. She thanked him for the help and hung up.
She stared at the hastily scribbled Telia address. He probably checks his e-mail on the Internet, she thought. If he really is in Spain then that’s no problem.