He himself was the elegant one, small and dainty-“a virtuoso on blades,” as one journalist had written-who could take advantage of Gränsberg’s exquisitely hit, liberating passes, often halfway across the court, rock-hard along the ice or low throws, right on the blade of the club.
They had talked bandy a few minutes, commented on Sirius’s wobbly existence. In contrast to Gränsberg he never went to a match at the Students’ athletic field. Then, after a brief silence, as Kumlin realized that Gränsberg had a hard time bringing up his business, it slipped out of Gränsberg that he needed money for a “substantial investment.”
He had read about his former teammate in the newspaper, how successful he was, and got the idea that Jeremias could make him a loan, at a proper interest rate of course, he was quick to point out.
There was no accounting for Gränsberg, he didn’t present his case in a smooth way, not even in an intelligent way. He blabbed too much, got off on side tracks. Jeremias let him carry on for a while before he declined. From experience he knew the danger of engaging in a discussion, asking questions, and giving advice. No, he turned him down right away, not patronizingly, but firmly.
Gränsberg had taken the response unexpectedly calmly, thanked him for the visit, and went his way. A week later he was standing there again. This time Henrietta was home, Jeremias could hear the sewing machine upstairs, and now he was irritated. No meant no. There was nothing to add. His tone became a little sharper, he wanted to get rid of Gränsberg, did not want Henrietta to hear that they had a visitor, come down, perhaps offer coffee, she was like that, always opening her arms, uncritical.
He asked Gränsberg to wait and went up to his study to get a little cash. It took no more than a few seconds. But when he came back the hall was empty. Gränsberg had disappeared and left the outside door open behind him. Jeremias remained standing with two 500 kronor bills in his hand.
It was not until that evening that he realized what had happened. After a couple of days he e-mailed Oleg and told him. Since then his sleep at night had been ruined, every morning he woke with terror as his first visitor.
And now Bosse was dead.
Twenty-four
“The old man’s back!” Sammy Nilsson called out as he passed Lindell’s office.
“The old man” could be none other than Eskil Ryde, she figured. She sneered. The situation in the tech squad was troublesome to say the least, with half the force on sick leave, Jakobsson on vacation, and three extensive investigations going on: the murder of Gränsberg, Ingegerd Melander’s fall on the stairs, and then Klara Lovisa.
So maybe it was necessary to call in Ryde. Lindell could picture him, muttering, but still flattered. Even more so as Jakobsson, the new boss, was away.
Sammy Nilsson sailed past in the corridor again, this time in the opposite direction.
“Hey, Sammy!” Lindell shouted after him.
She heard him stop, sigh, back up a few steps, and plant himself in the doorway. In one hand he was holding a bundle of papers, while the other was drumming on the doorframe.
“Listen, Sammy, you’re such a know-it-all, how long does it take to dig out a meter of earth, let’s say one hundred eighty by sixty centimeters?”
“That depends on what it’s like, if it’s hard packed or not.”
Sammy Nilsson had a talent for at least appearing knowledgeable about the most widely divergent subjects. Whether he had any experience of excavation work was highly uncertain, but he liked calculating and showing off, and sure enough he left the doorway, pulled up her visitor’s chair, and sat down.
“It was, you know, stones, sticks, and dirt.”
“Oh, hell,” said Sammy Nilsson. “Allan should have heard that precise description.”
“Sure, but it didn’t look hard as cement anyway.”
“Forty-five minutes, an hour,” Sammy said. “If you have a decent spade.”
“That was the other thing, we haven’t found any tools either.”
“Either?”
“The grave was clean of everything, besides a silver neck chain. No wallet or cell phone, the pockets were emptied. No fingerprints, which perhaps was not to be expected, but no other traces either. It was neatly done, if I may say so,” Lindell said.
It was as if she wanted to churn through everything one more time, now with Sammy as a sounding board.
“In any case he really exerted herself. Most just shovel a little moss on top and hope for the best. If you bury a body one meter down, the chances are very good that it will rest in peace.”
Lindell nodded.
“It’s the way he went about it that makes me wonder,” she said. “Think about it! Fredrik Johansson has just strangled a young girl, a girl he wanted to have sex with or perhaps even raped. Perhaps to shut her up he strikes her, tries to cover her mouth, she struggles, he takes a chokehold, pushes her down against the floor. She becomes quiet. He discovers that she’s dead. He finds a shovel and-”
“Maybe it’s in the shed,” Sammy interjected.
“Maybe, but otherwise it’s almost spic and span in there, a chair and an old wooden box were the only things, so why would a spade be standing there, waiting to be used? But okay, he takes the spade that’s there, or, as I think, he brings along a spade, digs a gigantic hole fifty meters away, carries the body there, and covers it over.”
“Well, that’s probably what happened,” said Sammy Nilsson calmly.
“No,” said Lindell. “That’s not what happened. Fredrik isn’t the type. He would wet his pants, curl up in a corner, and fall apart.”
“We’ve seen stranger things happen.”
“We have, but this is too professional, if you get what I mean. Not a single mistake. And even if we accept that Fredrik is that cold and does everything right, it collapses on another matter.”
Lindell paused.
“And that is?”
“The timing. We will never get him convicted. Klara Lovisa left home at ten thirty. At eleven thirty Yngve Andersson sees them on the road. That seems credible. Fredrik calls her, picks her up somewhere, and they talk a little in the car, drive off toward Skärfälten, have engine trouble, and decide to walk the final stretch. What happens then we can only guess at. An hour and fifteen minutes later, a quarter to one, the tow truck driver Allen Pettersson gets a call. He keeps a log and for that reason he’s dead certain of the time. Fifteen minutes later he’s there. Then Fredrik Johansson is standing by the car, waiting. He seems completely normal, jokes a little with Pettersson, rides along in the tow truck. Half an hour later the car is at the garage.”
Lindell’s idea of checking with the towing company had been a long shot. To give her thinking some new impetus, she drove out and took a position along Route 72, watched cars, buses, trucks, and other work vehicles pass in a steady stream. How did Fredrik and Klara Lovisa get to Skärfälten? Bus was one possibility; they could have walked up to the bus stop across from Flogsta, which was about ten minutes from Berthåga and Klara Lovisa’s home, but was that likely? Fredrik would certainly want to impress her, he wanted to come cruising up in his dad’s car, not bump along on an intercity bus.
The conclusion Lindell drew, standing by the side of the road, was that something had gone wrong with the car, but Fredrik hadn’t given up. Lust is a peculiar motivating force, and they started walking toward the hut.
She immediately phoned the trainee, Nyman, who willingly took on the task of making calls to the towing companies. She had no idea how many there were.
“An hour or so,” said Sammy, “for some pretty words, protests from Klara Lovisa, strangulation, grave digging, and a walk back to the car. But he may have called the towing company from the shed. He knew it would take a while for the truck to get there.”