As the elevator door slid open, she walked right into Sammy Nilsson. Lindell took a quick look in both directions before giving her colleague a hug that was as quick as it was unexpected.
“That was a pretty nice welcome,” he said.
“Anything new?”
Sammy Nilsson told about Fredriksson’s conversation with Gunilla Lange and that Myhre has been hunched over Kumlin’s accounts all weekend. Lindell realized at once that this opened several possible pathways that might raise the investigation from the question mark level, but she could not keep from thinking about Brant’s possible involvement.
“Although we must have a chat with Brant,” said Sammy Nilsson, as if reading her thoughts. “And now a chat is actually approaching. By some miracle Haver managed to find out that Brant is booked on a flight from Brazil to Madrid tomorrow, and from there to Stockholm by Spanair.”
Sammy Nilsson leaned forward and pressed the elevator button.
“Who should-”
“Me,” said Sammy Nilsson. “I’m going to Arlanda to meet him so he doesn’t disappear again. You don’t want to come along?”
Lindell shook her head.
“You could do a separate interrogation,” said Sammy Nilsson, trying to strike a light tone.
“Doubtful,” said Lindell.
“Take the chance,” said Sammy, getting into the elevator and blowing her a kiss.
Lindell headed for the coffeemaker but changed her mind when she saw that Riis was standing there. Talking with him would be a real step down after the encounter with Sammy and probably ruin her good mood.
Instead she went into Ottosson’s office, mostly to make an appearance. She considered telling him that she hadn’t had a drop of wine, either on Saturday or Sunday, but such information would surely make Ottosson nervous. He was a specialist in finding reasons to worry in anything that deviated from the usual. “Are you sick?” he would probably ask.
“You look frisky,” he said enthusiastically.
“Blame it on the booze,” she blurted out.
Ottosson looked surprised at her before his face cracked open in a smile. The message was received.
She went up to the desk, leaned over, and patted him on the cheek.
“What now?”
“It’s WHO International Pat-on-the-Cheek Day, didn’t you know that?”
Ottosson, sometimes painfully lacking in imagination, looked even more confused.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “But that was a good idea from the UN.”
“I thought about skipping morning chapel this morning,” said Lindell. “I have a few ideas.”
Ottosson started to protest, but stopped himself and nodded. Like no one else on the unit, Lindell was allowed to run her own race, and she knew how to exploit this to the breaking point.
“A few ideas,” she had said to Ottosson, but the fact was that she had turned onto two dead ends, Fredrik and Andreas, and now did not have a single reasonable idea of a passable way to proceed.
“Horny little bastards,” she mumbled.
She devoted an hour to making a clean copy of her notes from the interviews with both of them. Sometimes it helped to go over everything again with fresh eyes and a rested brain. But the results were the same this time as well.
The question of the grave in the forest constantly returned. That was the key. Deep and carefully dug, by someone who was cold and calculating, not a rush job. The only weak point was that it was so close to the shed. For the only thing that might lead to a discovery of Klara Lovisa’s body was that someone could say she had been there. There were two to choose from, Fredrik and Andreas, but both had kept quiet. They could have gone to the police but didn’t, afraid and ashamed.
The murderer must have realized that but took the risk anyway. That argued for Andreas, but against Fredrik. Did he come back, unaware that Andreas had also made a visit and then disappeared? Perhaps there was no third man? Andreas, one visit, but Fredrik two. The latter with Klara Lovisa’s death as a result.
Her musing was interrupted by the phone. She answered immediately, happy to break the vicious circle.
“I’m back now,” he said in his light voice.
It was Håkan Malmberg, Klara Lovisa’s soccer coach.
“I see, that’s nice,” said Lindell absentmindedly.
“You wanted me to call.”
“Exactly. I have a few questions about Klara Lovisa, perhaps you can fill in a few things.”
“I doubt it,” said Malmberg. “What’s it about?”
Lindell glanced at the clock.
“Is it possible for you to drop by this morning?”
“Drop by,” Malmberg laughed. “That sounds like a social visit, but sure, I’m going into town, so I guess I can drop by.”
Håkan Malmberg was a tall man-Lindell estimated his height at 190 centimeters-and when he took off his motorcycle jacket it was clear that he spent many hours at the gym. He radiated energy in an unexpectedly attractive way to her. Otherwise she had a hard time with tattooed, leather-clad men with bandannas around their necks and ponytails, maybe because she associated them with biker gangs. There was also something pathetic in their attempts to radiate masculine energy, which in Malmberg’s case was dampened somewhat by his shrill voice.
He also lacked a ponytail and was constantly rubbing his hand over his shaved head. Lindell guessed that he had very recently shaved his head and was not used to it, perhaps unsure whether it had been a good idea.
He was noticeably nervous. She could only speculate why. His body language gave her the impression that he had something to hide, or else he was just uncomfortable about being at the police station.
“How well did you know Klara Lovisa?”
“Pretty well, she was on the team for several years.”
“Have you played soccer yourself?”
He simply nodded, and Lindell noted that he did not take the opportunity to tell when and with which club, an area that was reasonably not a minefield.
“Do you know Klara Lovisa’s parents?”
“Well, not really, I guess I’ve seen her mom at a match sometimes.”
“Did you have a relationship with Klara Lovisa?”
Malmberg looked up at her, then his eyes wandered toward the reception counter and around the reception area, where people were coming and going in a steady stream, the majority on their way to the passport department, before he answered.
“No, damn it, she was jailbait.”
Those were Fredrik’s words.
“She definitely did not look like a fourteen year old. Was she flirtatious?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Malmberg. “More or less like the others, a little giggly sometimes. You know how girls are, like hens, cackling.”
“And you were the rooster?”
“Sure,” said Malmberg. “No, damn it! You have to keep your distance. I’m a coach and I like it. The girls are good for the most part. We have a good time together.”
“But the club wasn’t doing so well,” Lindell observed.
“Not good? It wasn’t working at all.”
“Do you know why Klara Lovisa stopped playing soccer so suddenly?”
Malmberg shook his head.
“Were you upset?”
“Of course I was,” he muttered.
“What did you have against Fredrik? He was forced to quit.”
“He was too on all the time.”
“What do you mean? Where soccer or the girls were concerned?”
“Both,” said Malmberg.
“Was that why she left the club? Did he hit on her?”
“I don’t know, but I guess it’s not inconceivable.”
“Do you think he murdered Klara Lovisa? You said something about that when we talked on the phone.”