Ola Haver saw the scene before him: Bo Gränsberg lying in the gravel.
Ingegerd Melander suddenly sat up, raised herself halfway, one hand resting heavily on the kitchen table while the other pointed at the man. Her hand was shaking. Her whole body was shaking.
A string of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. Her face was beet red and her cheeks wet with tears. Hate, thought Ola Haver. That’s what hate looks like. She wanted to scream something but there was only sound somewhere far down in her throat, and she lowered her hand.
“That was why,” she mumbled.
“What do you mean why?”
“I turned forty.”
Ola Haver glanced at the calendar. She sank down on the chair. Haver signaled with his hand that the man should follow him into the living room.
“What the hell is this?”
“Murder,” said Ola Haver. “Bosse was murdered.”
“I don’t understand a thing,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
“Johnny Andersson. Why?”
What a nutcase, thought Haver. He recognized the name from the list they got from Camilla Olofsson at “The Grotto.”
“So you knew Bosse too,” he said. “What do you think happened?”
“Me? How should I know?”
“When did you last see him?”
Johnny Andersson suddenly looked scared.
“You don’t think…”
“Answer the question,” said Haver, not able to hold back his fatigue and irritation. From the kitchen loud sobbing was heard.
“A couple days ago,” said Johnny sullenly. “You can’t just storm in here like the fucking Gestapo-”
“Where and when?”
“We met in town. It was last Sunday, maybe.”
“What time?”
“In the morning.”
“What were you doing?”
“We just ran into each other. You know, down at S:t Per.”
Haver nodded. The little square in the middle of downtown where he and Rebecka used to meet when they were going to do something together. “See you by the fountain,” she always said.
“How was he?”
“Well, same as usual. We talked a little. He was like he usually was… what should I say? A little bent.”
“Bent?”
“It’s like he curled himself up, made himself smaller than he was.”
“He was a hundred eighty-six centimeters,” said Haver for no reason.
“Right, that tall.”
The man seemed to ponder the fact that there was at least ten centimeters difference between the dead man and himself.
“He didn’t seem worried, agitated, or depressed, or anything?”
“Where that’s concerned, was concerned, Bosse made you guess.”
“One thing,” said Haver, lowering his voice. “Did Bosse and”-he made a movement with his head toward the kitchen-“did they have a relationship?”
Johnny Andersson looked to the side. Now he’s going to lie, thought Haver.
“Yes, before.”
“When was before?”
“A month or two ago, maybe.”
“They broke up then?”
Johnny nodded. Haver was not equally convinced that he had been served a lie, perhaps mostly because that lie would crack easily. He sensed that Johnny was interested in the woman in the kitchen. There was something in his attitude, but maybe mostly the tone he used in the cheerful call when, so free and easy, without ringing the doorbell, he stepped into the apartment.
“Who ended that relationship?”
“Ingegerd.”
“In other words, Bosse was unhappy. Was there a rival?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Not as far as I know,” he said.
There was the lie, thought Haver.
When the two police officers left Sköldungagatan they felt dejected. The mood did not lighten until they came to the crossing with Luthagsleden.
“Sometimes it’s better when there are two of us,” said Beatrice Andersson at last.
Haver nodded. Beatrice turned right.
“Bosse and Ingegerd had a relationship previously,” said Haver.
“Yes, she told me that. She thought that he would congratulate her on her birthday anyway.”
“Why did she break up with him?”
“Too much partying, she maintained. The strange thing, or Ingegerd thought it was strange, was that Bosse had stayed sober since the day she broke off the relationship. Stone sober.”
“He wanted to become a better person and make everything all right,” said Haver, catching himself using a careless, almost belittling tone.
Beatrice squinted at him.
“How are things at home?” she asked mercilessly.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to become a better person and make everything all right too?”
Haver looked at her and the fury made him clench his fists.
“Admit it,” said Beatrice. “I have eyes and ears. You’re feeling terrible. You’re not doing well.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
“It affects your job.”
When the light turned green at Sysslomansgatan she gunned the engine and took off long before the other motorists.
“And mine,” she added.
“Up yours,” said Ola Haver.
Beatrice made a quick left turn onto Rackarbergsgatan and slammed on the brakes so that Haver was thrown forward and caught by the safety belt.
“Listen,” she said, turning toward her colleague. “You need to cool down! We work together. We depend on each other. I can take a lot, but when I see that it’s affecting people we meet in our work, then it’s gone too far. Right now you are not a good policeman, do you see that?”
Haver stared straight ahead. More than anything he wanted to get out of the car.
“We know each other well, we’ve worked together for many years, so I can be frank. You’re not a trainee, you’re an experienced, capable detective. So act like one.”
Shut up, he thought, but said nothing. Beatrice did not let herself be silenced by his stone face.
“Take sick leave if you’re feeling shitty. Go somewhere. Do something you think is fun. In the worst case, get a divorce!”
She pushed forward the gear shift and the car rolled off up the hill. They had intended to check on an address in Stenhagen, where a former coworker of Bosse Gränsberg lived. A man whom Gunilla Lange knew was on long-term disability and whom Bosse often talked about. According to his ex-wife, they had seen each other several times during the last month.
But as if by unspoken agreement they returned, in icy silence, to the police building.
Five
As soon as Ottosson left, Lindell took out the phone book and looked up Anders Brant’s number.
With increasing agitation she punched in the numbers. She wished he would pick up the phone and explain how it all fit together, but after a half-dozen rings an answering machine came on: “Hi, you’ve reached Anders Brant. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.” Anders Brant, the man who made her feel pleasure like never before, the man who made her feel hopeful. When she heard his voice the thrill from the morning returned, the satisfaction and excitement. He didn’t say he wasn’t at home, just that he couldn’t come to the phone.
She had never called him before. She did not even have his cell phone number. He was always the one who made contact, and until now she had not found that strange. Now it felt all the more peculiar.
Now he did not pick up the phone and what was worse, he was involved in a murder investigation. He had suddenly gone away. She called again, with the same result. For a moment she considered leaving a message, but decided not to.
Someone other than Anders Brant might listen to the message.
Who was he? A journalist, he said, freelancing now after resigning from a magazine she had never heard of, much less read. A cultural magazine, he explained, which in his taste had become a little too stuck-up. He mentioned something about a “battle-ax” in the editorial office he didn’t get along with.