Greta and Birgitta approached hesitantly.
“We have to get him out! Then we’ll lay him on the plastic and pull him across the lawn.”
Together they managed to lift the body and lug it out through the door and up the cellar steps.
It was drizzling. The branches of the fruit trees were moving slowly in the wind. Liisa sneaked up to the corner of the house and spied. The only worrying factor was the associate professor. The lights were on as usual in his tower, a faint bluish sheen that Birgitta had explained came from a plant-growing installation.
She returned to the two others.
“It looks fine,” she whispered. “All the windows are dark. Did you get the spade?”
Birgitta nodded. Liisa stroked her hand across her face. The rain picked up.
She spread out the black plastic on the grass. Greta sobbed. Birgitta mumbled something. Liisa leaned over and rolled the corpse onto the plastic. She knew that she could manage pulling the body, but the hard thing would be to get it through the hedge into Bunde’s lot and then across the fence to Lundquist’s. The latter step was the most critical. For a short time they would not be hidden by any bushes.
“Now let’s get going,” she said, despite her own growing hesitation, and took hold of the plastic and pulled.
Everything went easier than she had thought. The plastic and the damp grass helped make the body seem light. Birgitta was not much help, but Greta was unexpectedly strong. Together they managed to squeeze the dead man through the hedge and over the low fence. He fell with a thud over on Lundquist’s side. It sounded as if Karsten Heller sighed when the air was pressed out of the lungs.
“I’ll manage the rest myself,” Liisa whispered, waving aside Birgitta’s protests. She jumped lithely over the fence, pulled the body into the protection of some bushes, and retrieved the spade that Birgitta tossed over. She waited a minute or two. By using the breathing technique from the shooting range she recovered her equilibrium, and her pulse rate went down. The rain intensified. The body at her feet resembled a sack. The night chill and the tension made her shiver.
The block seemed to rest. All that was heard was the incessant drumming of the rain.
After having memorized how the small plants, which she thought resembled lingonberry, were planted, she pulled them out and set them to one side. She started digging and was surprised at how porous the dirt was. It did not take long for her to shovel up a grave. Half a meter down the earth became hard and she decided that it would have to be deep enough.
After shoving the body, which now felt heavier and more uncooperative, down into the pit, she spread the plastic out like a shroud, tucked in the corners around the body, and then shoveled the dirt back in. She worked quickly and single-mindedly, and when the last shrub was replanted she allowed herself to rest a minute or two. She crouched down. The rain ran over her face. She wanted to recite a prayer, or do something that might resemble a ceremony, but found that she could only remember a few lines of the Lord’s Prayer.
“Thy kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven… Amen,” she murmured.
Thirty-four
The phone rang at six thirty in the morning. The ring was unusually muted and Ann Lindell was grateful for that; Anders needed to sleep. As far as she knew he had been up working until far into the night. She woke up when he crept into bed and glanced at the clock: 2:33. She was happy, he had started writing again. This time it probably concerned the Middle East. She fell back asleep right away.
She was sure it was Ottosson and it was not without feeling a certain excitement that she hurried out into the hall to reach the phone. The calm of the past few weeks would now be broken by something more stimulating to the imagination.
That was a morbid thought, she admitted it, but homicide was her department.
She found the phone on the couch between two cushions.
“Yes, now she’s gone.”
Edvard’s voice sounded distant, as if he was far from the receiver.
“I thought you would want to know.”
Of course she wanted to know! She collapsed on the couch. The news was expected, but still Ann felt paralyzed. She could not get out a sound.
“She died in her sleep,” Edvard continued. “Calmly and peacefully.”
She heard now how tired he was.
“I sensed it last night and got up. Right when I came into her room she took a deep breath, just one. I waited but there weren’t any more. It was over. She was lying with her arms crossed over her chest and it looked like she was smiling.”
Ann had experienced this a number of times, how the dead seemed to smile, even after a violent, unnatural death.
“She had a long life,” was the first thing Ann could say.
It sounded like a platitude, she thought, but the words held much more than just the number of years Viola had lived and she sensed that Edvard understood what she meant.
Edvard hummed a little in response as if he agreed. She could picture him. He was no doubt sitting at the kitchen table staring out over the farmyard where dawn could still only be sensed. It struck Ann how alone he must feel.
“Is it very windy?” she asked.
“Yes, and it’s been a steady northeaster for a couple of days,” Edvard replied.
“Which she detested.”
“Yes,” said Edvard. “Which she detested.”
She wanted to say something to the effect that she could come out, but refrained. Perhaps he would misunderstand.
“Have you spoken with anyone else?”
“No, I’m going to call Torsten, Greta, and a few others. Then the word will spread on its own. But there’s no hurry.”
“Are you having coffee?”
“Mmm.”
“Have a sip for me too,” said Ann. “Will you be in touch?”
“Yes,” said Edvard.
She thought he was crying. After the call she remained sitting on the couch. She realized that a chapter in her life was about to end. Viola’s illness and death had made her and Edvard reestablish contact, she had visited Gräsö, something that only a few weeks ago would have seemed inconceivable. After Viola’s funeral there would be no real reason for continued contact. The story of Edvard led irrevocably to its end.
She wished she could go to the island to keep him company, console him, but that was out of the question. He would take it as a sign that she wanted them to continue seeing each other, perhaps even resume the relationship. But the feelings were not there. Or else they were so deeply pushed back that they could not make themselves known. Her reasonable self had mobilized all its forces to erase all the real or imagined feelings for the man she loved and then frittered away.
“Is she dead?”
Anders was standing in the door, looking at her. He looked as much the worse for wear as his threadbare bathrobe.
She nodded.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No, it would be nice if you’d make some coffee.”
“Sad?”
“Yes, of course. Viola was a remarkable woman. A friend.”
“She lived a long time,” said Anders, and Ann wondered if he had listened to her call.
“I’ll put on a little java, that will perk us up.”
She smiled. He was the only person she knew who called coffee “java.”
“There will be one last trip to Gräsö. Do you want to come with me to the funeral?”
“Don’t think so,” he answered. “Funerals are not my strong suit. And I didn’t know her. It’s better if you go alone.”
And of course that’s how it was. They would both feel uncomfortable if he went along.
She heard him fill the coffeemaker and take out the mugs. Mostly she wanted to stretch out on the couch and let Anders wrap a blanket around her, but she knew that no pardon was given. She had to get up. The clock said seven. In one and a half hours she would be taking part in some kind of conference, the subject of which she didn’t even know. But she was sure it would not affect her work situation for the better. A grinding meeting without meaning or purpose. She would sit there and vegetate, while the knife man Ludwig Ohrman and his ilk could stretch out on any number of couches and plan new mischief. She would have to get to work on him. He did not show up for the interview she had arranged the other day.