What did he write about? She didn’t know. Cultural articles was the most likely candidate. Here Ann felt that she was in foreign territory and no doubt that was also the reason she had not shown any great curiosity. She did not want to admit how ignorant she was in that area.
They had not talked that much really, mostly cuddled and made love, and Ann had not protested, starved as she was for skin and touch.
And now he had gone somewhere. She did not know where and she did not know how she could quickly and easily find that out. A week, maybe two, he had said. She guessed it had to do with work. Was he in Sweden or abroad? Perhaps Görel knew something? Ann had no idea where and when they had met. Görel was not someone you immediately associated with cultural magazines.
She went to the Eniro website and searched his cell phone number. The phone was turned off and an automated message said something about a voice mailbox.
All in all, Anders Brant was one big question mark. She guessed that the reason the murdered man had a slip of paper with a journalist’s phone number on it was purely professional. But what could Bo Gränsberg have to say to a cultural journalist? Perhaps they were acquaintances from before, perhaps even related?
There were too many questions. She decided to talk with Sammy Nilsson and then Görel, but that would have to wait until this evening. Reaching her at work was difficult and not greatly appreciated.
It struck her that her girlfriend had not called during the time Brant was tumbling around in Ann’s bed. Didn’t she know that they had met? She must be curious, but if Brant hadn’t said anything to her, then Görel must have guessed that her attempt at procurement had not succeeded. She usually called now and then, but the past few weeks there had been complete silence, and Ann had not thought about contacting her. I’ve had my hands full, she thought, and could not help smiling to herself, on some level very satisfied with the experiences of the past few weeks. And she did not want to believe that it was over. It couldn’t be over. But why this aching, unpleasant feeling, which also expressed itself physically, that the whole thing was over, that for a few weeks she had been able to look out over landscapes that were not her true domains. A temporary visit.
Ann Lindell got up with a heavy sigh. Never, she thought, it can never be really good, never uncomplicated.
Sammy Nilsson did not answer either. In Lindell’s experience, that could be due to two things; either he was talking with a “customer,” as he insisted on saying, or he was exercising. Considering the circumstances she believed in the first alternative. She left a message and asked him to call her as soon as possible.
Then she sat down at the computer to do some research. She typed “Anders Brant” in the search field and after a moment or two the screen was filled with information. There was a total of 2,522 hits, even if many of course came from the same source.
The first entry was a short article published in the Swedish Society for Nature Conservation magazine, about biofuel, followed by some longer articles about Putin and Russia printed in a magazine she was not familiar with, followed by an opinion piece on the same subject published in Dagens Nyheter.
Lindell skimmed through the text. A different Anders Brant emerged than the one she knew. His tone was polemical, but quiet nonetheless. He formulated himself well, she thought, and felt a touch of pride in his ability. We were fucking that same day, she thought. Dagens Nyheter inserted his article on the editorial page and Anders inserted a different article in me, she thought, smiling in the midst of her confusion.
The phone rang and she saw that it was Sammy Nilsson.
“Good,” she said. “I’m wondering about that Brant.”
“I am too,” said Sammy. “I’m actually at his residence.”
Lindell’s face turned red.
“Where does he live?”
“In Svartbäcken. No one’s home. I’ve talked with some of his neighbors and one of them saw him leave the house with a suitcase yesterday morning. He came home at eight in the morning in a taxi. It’s good to have old ladies around who keep an eye on things. But this time it was a guy, Mr. Nilsson, like Pippi Longstocking’s monkey.”
“Suitcase,” she said stupidly and could not hold back her disappointment, even though he said he was going away.
For a brief moment she considered telling about her relationship with Brant. Sammy was someone who could take it without getting upset or criticizing her. On the contrary, he would think it was exciting. He would congratulate her and say that there was nothing to worry about. Lie low, he would encourage her, you’re not working on the case. We’ll find Brant, question him, and remove him from the investigation.
Just as the words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to be spit out, because that was how she felt now, she had to spit Brant out, get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth, Sammy continued.
“Well, sure, that messes everything up. He was only carrying a small suitcase, which the neighbor believed was a computer case.”
“He’s a journalist,” said Lindell.
Sammy laughed.
“We know that,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Super!” said Lindell.
It struck Lindell that Brant must have called for a taxi when he left her apartment. Now he was Brant and not Anders.
“Then he took off in another taxi half an hour later,” Sammy continued.
“Have you checked the fare?”
“Will do. He took Uppsala Taxi. The monkey noticed that.”
Lindell took a deep breath, trying to think of something intelligent to say.
“I see,” she managed to say.
“Why do you ask? Do you have anything new concerning our writer friend?”
“No, no, I was just curious, I knew you would be checking up on him. Ottosson mentioned something about it.”
Sammy Nilsson did not say anything. Perhaps he was waiting for more? But why did he say “monkey”? Sammy’s last name was Nilsson too.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Lindell at last, when the silence became too tangible.
“We’ll do that! Bye!”
After the call Lindell sat for a long time, brooding about whether she should go to see Ottosson and tell him what she had been unable to say to Sammy. But she decided to lie low. On the screen his name was shining and she shut down the computer.
“Jerk,” she said.
Listlessly she opened a folder that contained the latest about Klara Lovisa. At the top was the photograph and as usual Lindell studied it carefully before she browsed further and produced the hastily jotted down notes from yesterday.
A man in Skärfälten, just ten kilometers west of the city, had seen a young girl in the company of a man. The description tallied, and the witness had even specified the right color of her jacket and pants. They were walking together at a slow pace on the road toward Uppsala-Näs.
A day after the disappearance, when the media had reported on the case, the man, Yngve Sandman, called the police tip line, but since then no one had shown any interest in questioning him further.
Yesterday he had called, somewhat bitter but mostly surprised at the lack of action, and was forwarded to Lindell.
“I have a daughter myself,” he said.
Lindell could not explain why no one from the police had been in touch. Carelessness, she thought to herself, but obviously could not say that. Always with disappearances, especially when young women were concerned, there was an abundance of tips and observations. Mostly they led nowhere. The man’s call had no doubt drowned in the flood of calls.
Ann Lindell got his information again and promised to be in touch within a day or two. Now it had been exactly twenty-four hours and she made the call. They agreed that she would drive out to see him right away.