Ann made a sign to Ottosson that could be interpreted any number of ways and slipped out the door, relieved that her execution had been postponed, but also with a dawning hatred of the man who had sneaked into her life and crumbled her awkward defenses, brought her down like a hunted animal, and then disappeared with her ridiculous hope as a trophy.
He had also interfered in her professional life in a completely unforeseen and drastic manner. She had become so distorted that through her silence, her duplicity, she had jeopardized her good relationship with Ottosson and her position at the unit.
In the corridor she met Beatrice, who hurried past, clearly on her way in to see Ottosson.
“Everything all right?” said Beatrice in passing, not expecting an answer.
Lindell was prepared to run after her colleague and give her a kick in the rear. She sensed how in the future Beatrice would exploit the Brant affair in veiled comments, peevish stabs that would never be completely understood by the others, and for that reason could not be parried factually. In the unspoken measure of strength between the two women on the squad, the weapons were not fair. And Lindell perceived that she was almost always at a disadvantage. Now it would be even worse.
Back in her office she sank down in the chair, shaken and sweaty. A week ago she was sore and happy.
Hate and love, so close to each other. In her mind Nina Simone was singing “Don’t Explain,” about a desperate woman’s self-degrading appeal to the man to come back: You don’t need to explain anything. Just come back!
It was a long time since she played it. She got the CD as a Christmas present from Rolf, long after they separated. He was like that, Rolf, eager to foist his taste in music off on her, and in this case he hit the mark. She liked the record and during long, wine-soaked evenings, while Edvard Risberg was disappearing from her life, she listened to it over and over again, engulfed by Simone’s mournful voice, until she learned the lyrics by heart.
Now Simone came back. Don’t explain. “You are my joy, you are my pain.”
I’m so pathetic, she thought, like a line in a sentimental pop song, like a schoolgirl in love, without any distance, middle-aged but still so immature, easy prey for a man who simply by talking a little, touching a little, cleared away all resistance, to suck on her like candy for a little while, and just as nonchalantly spit her out when the taste got too monotonous, taking away her self-respect and crushing her.
But even so she wanted him to come back! Anything else was too sad, too heavy to bear, in any event at the moment. A respite, that was all. Then, when the worst pains had subsided, perhaps she might take his betrayal and start properly hating him. But now she simply wanted to rest together with him, without explanations, without promises. She wanted to be loved, even if not for real.
That’s how bad things were for homicide investigator Ann Lindell.
Twenty-eight
“No, don’t call the police!”
“What? He’s been standing there an hour, just staring.”
“He must be waiting for someone.”
Henrietta Kumlin snorted and gave her husband a look that declared him feeble-minded. In principle she had thought that for a long time, but this almost took the cake.
Just when they had finished dinner and started clearing the table, a man came walking by on the street. Henrietta immediately noticed that he did not belong in the area, because she had never seen him before, but above all due to his attitude and dress. Besides, he was obviously drunk or on drugs. She could see that immediately, having grown up with an alcoholic father.
He stopped outside their house, went up to the mailbox, then crossed the street, and leaned against the fence that the neighbor opposite had erected just last week. Now it was seven thirty, and the man was still standing there. For over an hour he had vegetated on the street.
He stood there quite openly, without moving. Sometimes he changed position, resting first on one foot, then on the other. Henrietta noticed that he was whistling. He seemed relaxed and carefree. The few cars that passed he noted with an indifferent expression. When Birgitta Lindén, who lived at the far end of the cul-de-sac, walked by with her collie, he leaned over and petted the dog, exchanged a few words with its owner, and then resumed his position.
It was quite clear that he was watching their house, and the most unpleasant thing was that he was doing it so openly. Henrietta thought her husband’s comments that the stranger was waiting for someone were completely sick. She came to the conclusion that Jeremias was afraid; there was no other reasonable explanation for his passive attitude.
At first she tried to get him to go out and ask what this was all about. She did not want to expose herself to the risk of being attacked, well aware of what an unbalanced alcoholic was capable of.
When he refused, she wanted to call the police, but he was against that too.
“There will be so much talk, questioning, and shit. And you know I have to leave early tomorrow morning.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“You never know,” said Jeremias, and Henrietta was too upset to comment on his cryptic remark.
“And then maybe he’ll want to take revenge,” he resumed.
“What do you mean, revenge?”
“Well, if the police arrest him, maybe he’ll get beat up in jail, then he’ll have a grudge against us.”
She stared at him.
“Beat up in jail?” she said with a skeptical expression. “This isn’t Russia.”
Jeremias shrugged. Henrietta saw that he was trying to look indifferent, but she knew her husband well enough that she could see that the stranger’s appearance made him worried.
“Do you know him?”
Jeremias glanced out at the street and shook his head.
“No, but those types are everywhere, people who wander around. You know how it is in Moscow. And remember when we were in California, on the beach in Santa Monica? There was a bum every five meters. He must be sick in some way.”
“If he’s sick then shouldn’t he have medical care? I feel sorry for him.”
Henrietta was playing her naive card. That was when Jeremias usually talked about how things “really” fit together, implying that she did not understand a thing. In his blathering he might unconsciously let information slip out that he never would have if she tried to discuss things normally.
But this time it didn’t succeed. Jeremias simply let out a deep sigh.
“I’m going to take a peek at the news, maybe there’ll be something about the pipeline,” he said, leaving the kitchen.
She stared after her husband as he disappeared up the stairs, heard him turn on the TV and tumble down in his creaky armchair.
That damn pipeline, she thought indignantly. Since it became known that the Russians were planning a gas pipeline through the Baltic, an installation that would cut past the coast of Sweden and Bornholm, he had not been himself. He followed the debate with feverish interest, spent hours on the phone, wrote e-mails, and let it be known that Swedish and Danish fishermen were the biggest reactionaries there were.
“Europe has to live, develop, get its energy,” he asserted with emphasis.
Henrietta understood that one or more of his companies was involved, but not how and to what extent; she didn’t want to know either. He thought it was unnecessary, almost offensive, that “amateurs” got involved. And he no doubt counted her as one.
She had never followed his business dealings too carefully, even though she knew that their affluence, well, their entire existence, was based on Russian contacts and business deals. A few times she had accompanied him on trips but got tired of it. It was too gray, too much alcohol, and above all deadly dull, especially Oleg with his mannerisms, his bragging, and his extravagant dacha.
He tried to get her to shop, but she quickly discovered that Moscow was many times more expensive than either Paris or New York, and a gloomy city besides, with indifferent sales clerks who had developed a rare capacity to look bored.