Lindell nodded and smiled back. Ottosson’s wrinkle smoothed out somewhat.
“How was the barbecue last night?” she asked.
“Ola postponed it, so you’ll get another chance.”
She realized he was wondering what she’d been doing the night before, what was so important that she chose it over the traditional barbecue. Perhaps he thought it was a demonstration on her part, a way of communicating that she was not in sync with the others at the unit.
“That’s nice,” she said without any great enthusiasm.
Ottosson was drumming his fingers on the armrest.
“So, what do you think?” she asked.
Ottosson leaned back in the chair. His fingers became quiet.
“The usual,” he said. “A wino has too much to drink and kills another wino.”
“But there was no alcohol in his body, was there?”
Lindell’s face suddenly turned red. What if I misunderstood that too?
“No, but maybe the murderer had a little under his belt.”
“And the phone number on the scrap of paper?”
“No one answers. Berglund is checking on that.”
“Whose account is it?”
“His name is Anders Brant, some kind of journalist.”
Ann Lindell stared at Ottosson. Her mouth opened, but not a word came across her lips. Unconsciously she raised one hand as if to say: Hold up, repeat that!
“You know him?”
In the midst of her confusion she marveled at how easily her boss read her.
“Tell me,” Ottosson continued. “Has he interviewed you?”
Lindell shook her head.
“No, we’ve just met casually,” she said.
“What’s he like?”
“I don’t really know,” she said.
Ottosson observed her.
“What connection do you think there is between the murdered man and Brant?”
“Not a clue,” said Lindell.
“But if you know him.”
“I don’t know him.”
“But something-”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying? I don’t know him!”
She braced her feet in the chair as if to get up but sank back with a sigh.
Ottosson put his hands up in a defensive gesture. This had happened before, these moments of collapse in their otherwise familiar relationship. No powerful collisions, and their quarrels never dragged on and seriously poisoned their collaboration. It would not happen this time either, Lindell was clear about that.
Ottosson smiled at her. The wrinkle of worry was gone. It was as if he strove to lure her over a boundary, to get her to expose herself, say something that might explain. He knew her so well. Ottosson was conflict averse but also wise enough to understand that out of anger something might come loose from his otherwise reserved colleague. The iceberg Lindell might calve a piece out into the sea, a frozen clump that would drift away leisurely and slowly melt. She knew his tactics and her own weakness with respect to him.
This time you won’t get any confidences, she thought gloomily, but she braced herself and let out a short laugh, a gesture and a grimace that might indicate resignation, not due to Ottosson, but rather a kind of excuse, evidence of self-insight: Yes, this is me, Otto, and you’ll have to put up with it.
“I do have my cold case,” she said, and he took her hint.
“Okay,” said Ottosson. “You don’t know him, but soon enough we will. Sammy’s going to check up on this Brant. And how’s it going with the girl?”
“I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
In April a sixteen-year-old girl had disappeared from her home in Berthåga. Lindell had expended considerable effort trying to figure out what happened, but had not found anything, or anyone, who could explain why Klara Lovisa Bolinder was as if swallowed up by the earth.
Every year a number of Swedes disappeared from their homes; the majority ran away of their own free will from their everyday lives, their jobs, and their families. For understandable reasons, the investigating police occasionally thought.
Klara Lovisa’s disappearance on the other hand was a mystery. Lindell had stared at photographs of the young girl, the best one taken only a week or so before she disappeared. It depicted a blonde, laughing girl, with long, straight hair parted in the middle, blue eyes, and a classical nose that hinted at Roman blood in her veins. She was smiling into the camera. Her eyes were confident, she trusted the photographer.
It was a girl you noticed. Lindell sensed that from the first moment, which was also confirmed by her family and friends. Even more peculiar was that absolutely no one had noticed Klara Lovisa after she left home on April 28, 2007, to go into the city and shop for a spring jacket.
“I want to find her,” said Lindell quietly.
Ottosson nodded. He leaned forward and placed his hand on Lindell’s. They both knew that in principle the odds of finding Klara Lovisa alive were equal to zero.
Four
The visit to “The Grotto” had produced an identity, an ex-wife, and a handful of names that might be characterized as Bo Gränsberg’s friends, or at least acquaintances.
The manager of the refuge for the homeless, Camilla Olofsson, looked at the photograph of the dead man for a long time.
“Bosse was a considerate man,” she said at last, but neither Ola Haver or Beatrice Andersson took her words at face value. It was a common reaction; very few people wanted to say anything bad about a dead person. Instead their positive qualities would usually be emphasized.
“He was considerate,” the manager repeated. “He helped out. He was handy too. Nothing was left undone. I remember when we were going to… it doesn’t matter.”
Ola Haver stepped aside. Beatrice took a step closer.
“No one deserves to die like that,” she said.
Camilla Olofsson nodded resolutely.
“Can you help us? We need a list of names, persons who maybe can tell us about Bosse, what he did, who he associated with, what plans he had.”
“Plans,” the manager said flatly, fixing her gaze somewhere far away. “He was happier recently,” she said at last. “It seemed more positive, life, I mean. He came here a couple years ago, when he was really bad off. Then it went up and down.”
“But now he was happier,” Beatrice observed. “Did he say anything that explained-”
“No, nothing. Bosse didn’t talk much. He kept most of it inside. He was trying, you could see that, but it was a struggle. He never recovered after the divorce. And then the injury, of course.”
“What injury?”
“I don’t really know how it happened, but he fell on the job, he was a construction worker. He broke his one arm and shoulder. Sometimes I could see that he was in pain.”
“Do you know the name of his ex?”
“Gunilla Lange. I think she lives in Svartbäcken. I have a brother who lives up there and I’ve seen Gunilla around there a few times. She’s been here a few times, dropped off clothes and that sort of thing. I liked her. I think she cared about Bosse too. She asked how he was doing. Maybe he was too proud to take any help from her, so she donated clothes here instead. Maybe they were his old clothes, what do I know?”
“He never talked about a job or apartment, or anything like that?”
Camilla Olofsson looked at the police officer.
“Job and apartment,” she sniffed. “You don’t know what life is like for these men and women.”
“No, I don’t,” said Beatrice. “But you do. That’s why I’m talking with you.”
“Why the hell does he have to die for all of you to get interested?” said Camilla.
Besides Gunilla Lange’s name, they also got a list of a few names-five men and a woman. According to Camilla Olofsson it was likely that the men on the list would show up at “The Grotto” later in the day.