Johnny shook his head and went up the stairs on shaky legs. Several curiosity seekers had gathered. The sound of sirens was coming closer and closer. Someone must have called an ambulance, maybe the police too.
He stepped out into the street, stopped a car, opened the door on the driver’s side. A young woman was sitting at the wheel.
“Beat it,” said Johnny. “And keep your mouth shut.”
Fifty
“Give up, damn it!”
Håkan Malmberg sat straddle-legged on his cot, with his back toward the wall and his arms crossed on his chest. He smiled, showing a perfect row of teeth.
Ann Lindell looked at him, trying to find the slightest hint of a crack in the scornful attitude, but, on the contrary, Malmberg showed nothing to make her optimistic.
She looked down at the floor, closed her eyes for a moment, and made another attempt. She coaxed, shifted perspective somewhat, but once again found herself stuck in the same meaningless repetition. He obviously had no empathy she could appeal to, and if he did he was hiding it very well. Maybe he was innocent? Lindell had gone back and forth on that question. No, he had murdered Klara Lovisa. No one had leaked the information that the girl had been buried, Lindell was sure of that.
Now he was smiling again, this time not scornfully, but more sympathetically, as if he was sorry that she was on the wrong track.
She happened to think of Anders Brant. Why, she did not understand, because there was no connection between them, other than that they were both men.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Håkan Malmberg, interrupting her train of thought.
“I guess I am,” said Lindell. “But that’s nothing compared to what you’ll be doing the next few decades.”
He laughed.
“Decades may be pushing it.”
“You’ll get life,” said Lindell. “Raping and strangling a young girl does not give you any credits in court. The only thing that can help the situation at all is if you cooperate.”
Malmberg shook his head dejectedly.
“Lay off,” he said.
Ann Lindell was overwhelmed with disgust, and not only about Malmberg. It was the whole atmosphere, the institutional shabbiness of the jail and the musty odor that clung to her skin.
Håkan Malmberg smiled again, which made Lindell stand up quickly. She really wanted to spit on him, strike him, see him tortured. Never before had the feeling of hatred and revenge overcome her so.
“Take a vacation,” he said in a derisive tone.
“That’s none of your damn business!”
Lindell turned toward the door and waited for the guard to open and let her out. She felt Malmberg’s eyes on her back. For a fleeting moment she had the idea that he was going to knock her down from behind.
“You need a dick,” Håkan Malmberg whispered just as the door opened.
Ann Lindell left the jail without a word, her body bathed in sweat and her face bright red.
Fifty-one
He was forewarned, but it still came as a shock. They had been snooping around in his apartment, the traces were obvious. A folder that was not where it should be, piles of papers that had been moved a few centimeters, and a closet door that was wide open were some of the signs.
Anders Brant walked slowly around his apartment. It suddenly felt soiled, and foreign in a peculiar way. I don’t want to live here! The little apartment in Salvador, two rooms and a kitchen with minimal furnishings, suddenly seemed like his true home.
He recognized this, a sense upon returning of being at home in two places, and yet nowhere. He knew the feeling would go away, usually within a few days, but this time the rootlessness and alienation were underscored by the visit by the police.
“Vanessa, what should I do?” he mumbled, leaning his forehead against the refrigerator door.
He was tired, had a pounding headache, and did not know what his next step should be. At his feet was the small travel bag.
He laughed at his own pettiness. What should I do? A non-question. He knew what he had to do-transcribe and edit all the interviews, compile texts, get to work in other words, but for the first time he saw no way out of his state of doubt and suspicion of himself.
“Ann.”
He tried her name. He had tried to pump Sammy Nilsson for a little information about what Ann had said, but only got a wry smile and a few cryptic words about patience. What did he mean? Who was the one who should show patience?
Ann Lindell, a very everyday name, police detective, all the more sensational, at least for him. What was it about Ann that he was drawn to? In superficial terms they did not have much in common. She showed no great interest in the issues that had occupied him for almost twenty years.
He could not remember a single occasion when she had brought up a social issue, recommended a book, or commented on a story on the TV news. She had been remarkably passive and evasive. On the other hand he had not been particularly talkative or open either, or for that matter not overly interested in her job. They had made love and cuddled, and enjoyed it.
He opened the refrigerator door and took out a bottle of beer. When he finished it he would lie down on the sofa, pull a blanket over himself, and sleep, hopefully until the next morning. With his head more or less clear and his body rested he would start dealing with all the work that was waiting.
How he would handle Ann he did not know. With an unusually fatalistic attitude for him, he decided that it would work out. Perhaps Ann would resolve it all by making a decision. Based on Sammy Nilsson’s evasive insinuations he could absolutely not predict what such a decision would look like.
He was wakened by the doorbell ringing. In his dream he had been in Salvador, at the hotel room in Barra. The view had been the same, the harbor, the bay, and in the background Itaparica, but the interior of the room was different-paintings on the walls, thick carpets on the floor, a gigantic bed where someone, perhaps the cleaning lady, had decorated the bedspread with flowers in the form of a heart. Monica was there. From the bathroom singing was heard. A good dream, a dream without guilt.
He got up, but his legs barely held him. Confused and a little shaky he rocked back and forth. The ringing from the door cut into his head and the ache returned like a blow across his skull.
As his dizziness abated he shuffled out into the hall. Just then the door was thrown wide open.
“What the hell, at least you can open the door!”
Anders Brant stared in surprise at the intrusion. It took a moment or two before he recognized Johnny Andersson-homeless, informant, and sought by the police.
“Is it raining?”
Johnny did not answer but instead took off his shoes and threw the soaked jacket on the floor.
“I have to borrow some threads from you.”
“What’s happened? Have you been injured?”
Johnny shook his head, despite the trickle of blood on top.
“What do you want?”
“Clothes,” said Johnny. “Don’t you get it? I have to change.”
“Why come to me of all people?”
He realized that Johnny was in trouble and that he had appointed Brant to solve his problems. He had no time to feel afraid before Johnny’s right fist reached out and grabbed the front of Brant’s shirt.
“Clothes,” he hissed. “I’m cold, do you get it?”
“Okay,” said Anders Brant, putting up his hands.
The grip on his shirt slackened a little.
“Do you have any food too?”
Anders Brant decided to play along.
“I’ll get out some clothes, though they may be too small, so you can change. There’s not much food but I can probably arrange a beer and a few sandwiches. Okay?”
Johnny Andersson released his hold. He looked almost surprised.