Two patrol officers were placed at the end and prepared to intervene if needed. Beatrice felt confident. The one, Conny Holmlund, was Swedish police champion on the low hurdles. True, that was a few years ago, but she was sure he could still catch up with anyone trying to get away.
The idea was that two colleagues from the uniformed police, but in civilian clothes, would go up to the apartment and get an impression of what Brant’s call was about. Sammy Nilsson, whom Johnny had met and would surely recognize, would wait a half-flight down. If no one opened, they would go in with the key Sammy had appropriated after a brief, heated discussion with the building manager.
“That journalist,” said Riis.
“Yes, what about him?” said Beatrice.
There was a crackle on the radio. Sammy Nilsson’s voice: “Screams from the apartment, a fucking commotion. We’re going in.”
The radio was silent.
“I think he’s screwing Lindell,” said Riis. “I saw them when I donated blood at the hospital.”
“Are you a blood donor?”
Beatrice’s surprise was unfeigned. That Riis would donate blood was completely improbable; it was the first time she had heard of Riis performing a philanthropic act.
“Are we going to hang around?”
Riis left their hiding place and set off toward the outside door. Beatrice followed after a few moments of hesitation.
When Sammy Nilsson called her, Ann Lindell had just sat down at the Café Savoy with a cup of coffee and a filled doughnut. She had gone there to try to dampen her fury over Håkan Malmberg’s arrogance, his scornful sneer, and his parting words.
That he would slink out of the net was an appalling thought. She had expended a lot of energy and much thought to Klara Lovisa’s fate. Twice she thought she had solved the case, but saw her hopes dashed.
Besides, she hated herself for having felt attracted to the tall motorcycle rider the first time they met. She realized that he had read her thoughts and now could mock her that way too.
She pushed aside the cup of coffee. Johnny Andersson at Anders Brant’s apartment, Sammy’s message said. She had heard about Johnny’s escapades at the Tuna allotment gardens and how he came climbing up the stairs from the river just south of the New Bridge, jumped right into traffic, a stopped a car on West Ågatan, forced the driver out, and without further ado took possession of the car. The car was found twenty minutes later on Svartbäcksgatan, crashed into a tree. According to the witness the driver had left the scene running east on Sköldungagatan.
From Savoy it was not far to Svartbäcken and when Ann Lindell arrived she saw Beatrice Andersson and Riis rushing out of their hiding place and running toward the back entrance. Lindell drove up onto the grass to quickly park, leap out of the car, and follow her colleagues.
In the stairwell clamor and yelling was heard. Between the thin railing she glimpsed Bea’s legs disappearing through a door. At the same moment a shot rang out, immediately followed by a howl. It was Sammy Nilsson’s voice. Lindell ran up the half-stair and into the apartment.
The odor of gunpowder. Once before she and Sammy Nilsson had been involved in gunfire. That time a man had died, shot in the head by her.
In the report that Sammy Nilsson wrote that evening he described, in the best police prose, how the kitchen floor was “bathed in blood.” Ottosson asked him to change the formulation. He thought it was more likely Anders Brant and Johnny Andersson who were bathing in blood on the floor.
Johnny Andersson was lying with his head at a strange angle toward the radiator under the window. The strange thing was that he had Brant’s checkered shirt on, the one he’d had on the first time he came to see her. Johnny’s eyes were unfocused. Shock, thought Lindell.
The other body was only visible from the waist down, but Lindell knew who it was. She recognized Anders Brant’s worn sandals.
Sammy said something she did not catch. Johnny Andersson turned his head a little and spit blood out of his mouth.
Riis was on his knees, leaning over Anders Brant.
“That looks really bad,” he shouted. “See about getting a couple of ambulances here. As soon as possible!”
“Ambulance en route,” said Beatrice.
The odor of gunpowder was mixed with the raw smell of blood.
For a few moments a kind of stillness rested over the kitchen, before Beatrice rushed in, pulled on her plastic gloves, crouched next to Johnny Andersson, put her hand under his neck, and moved his body somewhat so that the head was at a more comfortable angle. Then she started unbuttoning the shirt that was already stained dark with blood.
“I need bandages!” shouted Riis. “He’s bleeding like a pig. He has abdominal injuries too. I think he’s dying.”
The ambulance sirens came closer and closer. Sammy Nilsson had lowered his gun but remained standing in the doorway. One of the patrol officers took the pistol from his hand.
Ann Lindell registered all of this before she turned on her heels, went into the bedroom, and sank down on the bed.
Fifty-three
“Often all it takes is a single stab for a person to stay lying down for good,” said the surgeon.
The surgeon Bertil Friis told that Anders Brant had been stabbed nineteen times-four on his arms, one in the throat, six on his legs, and eight on his upper body, not counting the cut on his face. He had lost more blood than anyone Friis had heard of. The injuries in his abdomen were the most serious.
Several times during the operation the doctor thought about the foreign minister Anna Lindh, who with similar injuries had been lost on the operating table. Brant’s injuries were even more extensive.
For eight hours the surgical team was at it, a total of four doctors and just as many nurses.
“Is he going to make it?”
“We don’t dare say anything.”
Although the doctor was beyond tired, he did everything to appear fresh, but hinted that it wasn’t going that well. The woman before him also looked hollow-eyed, to say the least.
“Are you related to Anders Brant?”
“I’m a police officer.”
She stared at him as if it were his fault the prognosis was uncertain.
“Police,” said Friis.
Ann Lindell nodded.
“I want you to save that man,” she said, and then turned on her heels and went her way.
Sammy Nilsson caught her just as she came out in the fresh air. It was an unusually lovely day. Right outside the entry stood a group of smokers.
“I wish I smoked,” he said, mostly to have something to say.
Lindell tried to smile. She appreciated his concern. Ever since the bloody showdown in Brant’s apartment, he had followed her closely. It struck her that perhaps this was also for his own sake. He was the one who fired the shot that dropped Johnny Andersson. Johnny’s life was not in danger, and he would not have lasting injuries, but a policeman is normally put on leave after a shooting.
That was also Ottosson’s obvious decision, but nothing could keep Sammy Nilsson from keeping Lindell company. They could say that the visit to the hospital was personal.
“Will he make it?”
“They don’t know.”
“Will you make it?”
“I have to pick up Erik,” said Lindell.
Görel had picked him up at preschool and Lindell knew that Erik was not lacking for anything, but she had a bad conscience anyway.
They stood quietly a moment. Sammy Nilsson let out a big yawn. The group of smokers broke up. A great emptiness came over Ann Lindell, as if she were only a walking shell.
She slipped her arm behind Sammy’s back and leaned her head against his arm.
“He’ll make it,” said Sammy.