She was filled with a great sense of calm from standing by the window and observing the rising sun just peeking over the roof of the neighboring building, the persistent yet leisurely and lazy flight of the small birds back and forth, the abundant blossoms and sweet aroma of the mock orange, which reminded her of something from the past, everything combined to help the unpleasantness of the dream subside.
The move had done her good. She was feeling more and more at home in the area. Admittedly the buildings had a somewhat lower standard, but they were more comfortable, the contact between tenants was better, the little yard with two groupings of chairs and a grill invited neighborly interaction.
Erik had grumbled at first but soon adapted and found two new friends at a comfortable distance, one in the adjacent entryway. In the fall he would start school, and Ann had decided to move well in advance of that.
It was not until she was moved in that she realized how ingrown the old apartment had been, ingrown with old thoughts, too many late evenings with too much wine and, not least, memories of Edvard. The new apartment, besides being roomier, felt like a fresh start, and in that connection Anders Brant fit in very well.
A deep sigh and one last sniff to soak up the mock orange, before she went to shower. In fifteen minutes Erik should get up, and he was not a kid who could leap out of bed, quickly wolf down breakfast, and then run off to preschool. He needed plenty of time, first slowly getting dressed, perhaps some quiet play before it was time for a drawn-out breakfast, which he exploited to satisfy his curiosity in the most wide-ranging areas. Many mornings Ann was completely worn out from fending off all his questions. She had never met such an inquisitive person, either adult or child.
The preschool staff testified to the same thing and joked that Erik would be an excellent policeman. Then I’m a bad police officer, Ann thought, because she was not particularly curious and over the years had become less and less interested in her surroundings. Many times she was completely indifferent to her friends’ talk about this and that, even about issues that concerned current politics and the world situation. She had become aware of that during the weeks with Brant. She had never seen so many news stories in such a short time as the evenings when Brant visited her.
She showered off the dream sweat with a feeling of confidence. She convinced herself that everything would work out, including the mystery of Klara Lovisa’s disappearance, a vacation destination, Erik’s starting school, and, not least, her relationship with Anders Brant.
At exactly nine o’clock in the morning four cars rolled onto a small yard, or more precisely a minimally arranged turning area.
Out of the first car stepped Ann Lindell, Allan Fredriksson, and from the backseat a stout uniformed officer named Jarmo Kuusinen, who was keeping track of Fredrik Johansson. In car number two were the technicians Morgansson and Kraag, who had recovered from his illness, with two patrol officers in the backseat. Then came the dog handler Vidar Arleman with his companion Zero. Completing the motorcade was the prosecutor, Sixten Molin, who was leading the preliminary investigation.
It was seven weeks since Klara Lovisa disappeared. Zero let out an unexpected bark and perhaps that expressed everyone’s emotions. As with most visits to the scene of a crime, there was tension in the air. During the drive Allan Fredriksson had not said a word about the surroundings. Kuusinen confirmed the myth of their neighbors to the east as a taciturn, rugged breed. No one doubted that Fredrik, who had given Lindell directions in a few words, was nervous. His previous somewhat arrogant attitude had been replaced by a pale slump. He was already sweating and the weather outlook was for 26 to 30 degrees Celsius in eastern Svealand.
Sixten Molin was as usual somewhat slow, both in movement and in speech. He smiled often, a bit too ingratiating, Lindell thought, but for the most part he was a competent professional.
Vidar Arleman also had reason to feel worried. Zero was not his dog. His had died unexpectedly only a week before, and Zero’s regular handler was in bed with a fever.
One of the two patrol officers immediately started taking spades out of the trunk, but was stopped by his colleague, and now they were waiting around in the shade of a tree.
Morgansson and Kraag were the only ones who looked somewhat relaxed, taking out their bags at a leisurely pace and surveying the terrain. Kraag pointed out something that had drawn his attention, Morgansson looked up and laughed. Lindell looked in the direction in which Kraag had pointed but could see nothing other than some birch trees and stacks of wood.
Between the birches a path led in toward an area with lichen-covered flat rocks and marshy depressions in between. Perhaps that’s where she’s lying, thought Lindell and inspected Fredrik Johansson. He was standing stock-still, with Kuusinen beside him, staring at the hut.
Lindell had a hard time believing this was a hunting cabin. In that case why would it be here? Fredriksson thought it was more likely an old shed for forest workers.
“It’s reminiscent of Gränsberg’s last residence,” he said. “Shall we get going?”
Lindell had deliberately held back so that the young man could calm down a little and get used to the sight of the place, but now she nodded and went up to Fredrik.
“How does it feel?”
“Not good,” said Fredrik, and his entire physiognomy underscored his discomfort.
“So this is where the two of you went? You’ve been here before?”
“With Sis and Mom to pick mushrooms. We parked here and when I got tired of mushrooms I went back to the car. Then I discovered that the hut was unlocked.”
“So you thought it would be suitable for a romantic encounter with Klara Lovisa?”
Fredrik nodded.
“No one would see us. Klovisa was… she didn’t want anyone to find out.”
“I understand,” said Lindell. “So you came here, it was the end of April, admittedly sunny, but wasn’t it a bit chilly in the hut?”
“No, I didn’t think so anyway. Although Klovisa thought it was a little disgusting in there.”
“Was she happy otherwise? I mean, it was her birthday and all.”
“Yes, I think she was happy.”
Fredrik sobbed and Kuusinen watched with contempt as he hid his face in his hands.
“You went in,” said Lindell, starting to walk at the same time. She nodded toward Kuusinen, who took hold of Fredrik’s arm and shoved him forward. In the corner of her eye Lindell saw the prosecutor and Fredriksson trudging along.
They came up to the hut. Lindell took out a plastic glove and carefully opened the door with two fingers. A musty smell struck her.
She stepped up on the flat rock that served as a step, peeked in, and turned toward Fredrik.
“Not exactly a love nest,” she said.
Fredrik stared at her blankly.
“You went into the hut and then what happened?”
“We were there and then…”
“You started making out, in other words,” Kuusinen unexpectedly interrupted in his melodic Finland Swedish.
“And then Klara Lovisa didn’t want to anymore, was that it? You said she changed her mind.”
Fredrik nodded.
“You also said yesterday that you started to quarrel, what does that mean?”
“She said she wanted to, but then it turned out so wrong. She just wanted to go home.”
“But you wanted to?”
He did not answer.
“Did you quarrel? Did you take hold of her, shake her?”
“No, I tried to hug her, but then she hit me.”
“You didn’t hit back, as a reflex, I mean?”
“I got totally sick of it and just left.”