It depicted a bandy team, fifteen or so young men in club uniform, a couple of coaches, a type of picture Sammy Nilsson had seen often. He himself had a number of such photographs, stored away in some drawer. Maybe that was why he hadn’t paid attention to it the last time.
He should have known better. In the everyday objects that fill a person’s home is where the story is found.
He took down the photo, studied the faces more closely. He was as good as certain that the third man from the left in the back row was Bo Gränsberg. Diagonally below him, crouching on one knee, must be Anders Brant. It was taken perhaps twenty or twenty-five years ago. The team members radiated a kind of moving innocence, their open, exhilarated faces testified to success, perhaps unexpected. Sammy had both experienced that and seen the rush when the improbable happened on the field, the feeling that did not really take hold, but simply burst forth in an exhilaration reminiscent of the unfathomable euphoria of love.
The two coaches looked guardedly happy, more aware that they were part of a picture that would show up on the sports pages of the local newspaper and decorate the clubhouse and many homes.
Sammy Nilsson knew what happened after the photo session. The players would hug each other, and once again go over the decisive moments in the match just ended. Temporary misses that created irritation and anger would be transformed into jokes and friendly banter. Everyone was a winner today.
He studied the one he believed was Bosse Gränsberg a little more carefully. He had pulled off the mouth guard from one bracket and a scar on his chin shone white.
He picked up the cell phone, dialed information, and asked to be connected to Gunilla Lange.
She answered cautiously, saying her surname. Sammy Nilsson introduced himself.
Yes, Bosse had played bandy for Sirius in his youth, Gunilla recalled, and he got the scar on his chin as a junior. An ice-skate blade that hit his chin.
Who could he talk with, did she recall any coaches or players? Gunilla Lange suggested that he contact Lasse Svensson, the restaurateur, who had been a player and was still active in the club. Gunilla Lange thought maybe he could give him the information he needed. She remembered that Bosse and Lasse said hi when they ran into each other. A few times she and Bosse had also visited one of Svensson’s restaurants and exchanged a few words with him there.
Before they ended the call she asked why he was interested in Bosse’s bandy friends.
“We’re just trying to chart out Bosse’s life,” Sammy Nilsson answered, thinking that sounded a little peculiar even to him.
“But it’s almost twenty years since he stopped playing sports. That can’t have anything to do with the murder, can it?”
“Probably not,” said Sammy.
He stuck the photo inside the waistband of his pants, pulled his T-shirt over it, and left the apartment. The building manager was standing in the yard, outside the entry.
“Unfortunately, the glasses weren’t there,” said Sammy. “But they were the cheap kind. I lose a bunch of them every year.”
The manager did not look convinced.
“Does this have anything to do with that donna?” he asked. “I mean, that you’re running around here all the time.”
“What donna?”
The superintendent smiled, judging by appearances very satisfied in having caught the policeman’s interest.
“I don’t like to pry into people’s personal lives,” he continued.
Of course you do, thought Sammy, that’s why you’re a building manager.
“Well, there’s no donna involved,” he said in an indifferent tone, making an effort to leave. “We just want to exchange a few words with Brant.”
The building manager took a step to the side as if to block Sammy’s way.
“Is she one of those concealed refugees?”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” said Sammy.
“She stayed here,” said the manager quietly, and now he put on a conspiratorial expression. “A nice-looking lady, there’s no doubt about it, curvy and dark, but extremely mysterious.”
“I see, and when was this?”
“A month ago. The association would really like to know who-”
“Mysterious, you said.”
“Yes, she hardly ever went out.”
Sammy sensed that the package of condoms and the pubic hair in Brant’s bed now had an explanation.
“I guess they had other things to do,” he said.
“Yes, I believe that,” said the manager, now noticeably amused by the direction the conversation had taken. “Now I call him the journal-lust.”
“You have no idea what her name is, this dark beauty?”
“Not the faintest.”
“When did she disappear?”
“May seventeenth was the last time I saw her. That’s Norway’s national day. They went off in Brant’s car, and when he came back a few hours later he was alone. Since then I haven’t seen a trace of the gal.”
The old man is unbelievable, damn it, thought Sammy Nilsson, but with mixed emotions. Mr. Nilsson was certainly a real plague in the condominium association through his uninhibited curiosity, but also a reliable source of information.
“Thanks for now,” he said, going around the manager and heading toward the car.
“She was really black and curly haired!” Nilsson shouted after him.
Sammy stopped short and turned around. The manager had an expectant, almost greedy expression on his narrow mouth. Sammy went back and stood quite close to him.
“And that bothers you quite a bit, huh? That she was dark and curly haired? Are only Aryans allowed in your little Nazi association?”
It was like always on sunny days, full of people at the Åkanten Restaurant, which had one of Uppsala’s best locations, in the middle of town, right by the Fyris River and the milldam. In the background rose the spires of the cathedral and the roof of Skytteanum could be seen on the other side of St. Erik’s square.
Sammy recognized several of the lunch customers, and he stopped to exchange a few words here and there.
“Here on business, or is it hunger that drives you out into town?” asked an old friend from the indoor bandy gang.
“Nah, I’m just going to have a little talk with Lasse Svensson. Have you seen him around?”
“Yeah, he glided by just a minute ago, in a turquoise shirt and silver vest.”
“Nice outfit,” said Sammy.
Just then he caught sight of the old bandy player, who had been a Swedish champion in the sixties, and now owned a number of restaurants in town. He stood leaning against the iron railing toward the river and was having a discussion with a man Sammy vaguely recognized, a trumpet-playing municipal official whose name he could not recall. Sammy immediately went up to the two, aware as he was that Svensson was considerably more mobile than he ever was on the ice.
“What do you know, hey there, out patrolling?” said Svensson, extending his hand. “Yes, you must know Boris,” he continued. “He talks even more than I do.”
Sammy Nilsson smiled and nodded at Boris.
“That’s not possible,” he said. “Excuse me for disturbing-”
“No problem,” said Svensson. “Are you here to eat?”
Sammy shook his head.
“There’s something I think you can help me with,” he said. “Maybe we can step aside a moment, if you have time?”
Svensson led him one flight up, where Hyllan and Guldkanten were, and they sat down on a couple of armchairs.
Sammy took out the picture of the bandy team.
“Sirius,” he said, and Svensson immediately reached out and took the photo from his hand.
“I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. “A relic from the past. Where did you find it?”
“Do you recognize anyone?”
“What a question! I’ve played with most of them, even if they’re a few years younger. This is the B team, but several of them made the jump up to the A team. Some continued in Oldboys.”