She kept rubbing the sleeves of her jacket.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘Now?’
‘I’ve felt frozen ever since you were here last, four days ago.’
He sighed.
‘Please forgive me. I should have understood.’
‘I have to dress warmly even on a day like this, almost ninety degrees in the shade. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes. Yes. I think I can.’
‘I don’t want to be cold.’
She stood up suddenly.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘No, you mustn’t trouble yourself.’
‘No trouble. Do you want one?’
‘Yes please.’
She went in through the open French windows and he listened to the kitchen noises and the shouting of the hockey players. Maybe someone had scored a goal, or another boring old bloke was interfering with their game.
She served the coffee in tall glasses, topped up with foaming hot milk, the way they served it in the cafйs he never had time to go to.
He drank a mouthful, then put the glass down.
‘How well do you know Ewert?’
She studied him with that special look in her eyes, which made him feel awkward. ‘Is that why you’re here? To discuss Ewert?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is this? Some kind of interrogation?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Not sure?’
‘No.’
She rubbed her sleeves again in that chilly gesture.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I wish I could be more helpful, but I can’t. Please see it as me thinking aloud. As far from police work as you can get.’
She sipped from her glass, finishing her coffee before she spoke.
‘What can I say? He was my husband’s oldest friend.’
‘I know. And you, how well do you know him?’
‘He isn’t an easy man to know.’
She wanted Sven to go, didn’t like him. He was aware of her dislike.
‘Tell me something. Please try.’
‘Does Ewert know about this?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘If he did, I wouldn’t need your answers.’
It was hot, his back was soaking. It would have been better to sit somewhere else, but he felt he shouldn’t fuss, the situation was tense enough.
‘Has Ewert spoken to you about what happened? In the mortuary? About what happened to Bengt?’
She wasn’t listening any longer. Sven could tell. She was pointing at him, holding her hand up for so long that he felt uncomfortable.
‘He was sitting there.’
‘Who?’
‘Bengt. When you lot called him in. To the mortuary.’
He should not have come. He should have left her in peace with her grief. The trouble was that he was desperate to hear about another side of Ewert, the positive side, and surely Lena would be able to help him. He repeated his question.
‘What has Ewert said to you about that day? About what happened to Bengt?’
‘I asked my questions. He didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t have read in the papers.’
‘No? Nothing else?’
‘I don’t care for this conversation.’
‘For instance, you haven’t asked him why the prostitute chose to shoot Bengt?’
She was quiet for a long time.
He had put off asking the question, his real reason for being here. Now it was done.
‘What are you implying?’
‘I just wanted to know what Ewert might have said to explain why it was Bengt she killed.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I asked you.’
Her eyes were fixed on him.
‘No.’
‘And you never wondered?’
Suddenly she burst into tears. She looked so small, curled up in the chair, shaking with grief.
‘Of course I’ve wondered. And asked. But he won’t say, he’s said nothing that makes sense. It was chance, that is all he says. It could’ve been anyone. It was Bengt.’
Someone was standing behind him. Sven Sundkvist turned. A little girl of five or six, younger than Jonas, was dressed in white shorts and a pink T-shirt. She had come from the house, now stopped in front of her mother, observing how she was upset.
‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’
Lena Nordwall leaned forwards and gave her a hug.
‘Nothing, sweetheart.’
‘You’re crying. Is it that man? Is he being horrid to you?’
‘No, no, he isn’t horrid at all. We’re just talking.’
The little pink-and-white body swung round. Sven met her wide-open eyes.
‘You see, Mummy is very sad. My daddy is dead.’
He swallowed, trying to look kind and serious at the same time.
‘I knew your daddy.’
Sven Sundkvist looked at the woman who had been left a widow with two young children for four days now. He could sense her deep pain and realised why Ewert thought the last thing she needed was the truth and had chosen to protect her.
Ewert Grens couldn’t wait until the next day. He longed to be with her.
Sunday traffic meant that it was easy to cross the city and the Vдrta motorway was almost empty. He put on a tape and was singing along with Siw as he crossed Lidingö Bridge. The rain started up again, but he didn’t notice.
He pulled into the usually empty car park and realised that it was full. He was baffled, thought for a moment that maybe he had taken a wrong turn, until he remembered that today was a Sunday, the most popular day for visiting the sick.
The receptionist looked surprised. Mr Grens didn’t normally come on Sundays. He smiled at her surprise.
She called out after him.
‘Mr Grens. She isn’t there.’
He didn’t catch it.
‘She isn’t in her room.’
He stopped. In the time it took for her to draw breath before continuing, he felt all that he had felt back then. He died. Again.
‘She’s with the others on the terrace for Sunday afternoon coffee. We try to get everyone outside in the summer. Even when it rains, the parasols are big enough.’
He didn’t hear what she was saying. Her lips were moving, but he didn’t hear.
‘Go out and see her. She’ll be pleased.’
‘Why isn’t she in her room?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why isn’t she in her room?’
He felt dizzy. A chair. He took off his jacket and sat down.
‘Are you all right?’
The young woman knelt in front of him. He saw her now.
‘On the terrace?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Most of the decking outside was protected from the rain by four large parasols, emblazoned with an ice-cream manufacturer’s logo. Ewert recognised some of the staff and all of those who were sitting about in wheelchairs or with Zimmer frames parked next to their chairs.
She was sitting in the middle of the group, with a cup of coffee beside her, a half-eaten cinnamon pastry in her hand. He heard her childish laugh above the patter of rain on the umbrellas and the sporadic singing. He waited until the group of singers had finished their tune and then joined the crowd on the terrace. His jacket was already wet.
‘Hello.’ He greeted one of the white-coated women, who had a familiar face.
She smiled pleasantly.
‘Mr Grens, how nice to see you. And on a Sunday too!’
She spoke to Anni, who stared blankly at them. ‘Anni, look! You’ve got a visitor.’
Ewert went to her. As usual he put his hand on her cheek. He turned to the care assistant.
‘Do you mind if I take her inside? I’ve got something to tell her. Good news.’
‘Of course. We’ve been here for quite a while. Anyway, Anni, you don’t want all of us around when you have a gentleman visitor.’
She released the brake on Anni’s wheelchair and he took over.
Anni was wearing a different dress today, a red one. He had bought it for her a long time ago. It was still raining, but only lightly, and she barely got wet as they dashed from the parasols to the side of the building. He steered the wheelchair in through the door and down the long corridor to her room.