Ann Lindell leaned against the wall. The rising sun warmed her frozen body. She had felt groggy when she woke up and it had not helped to be called out to a blustery front yard on a cold morning at the end of October.
The maple leaves glowed in shades of yellow-red, marred by tiny, black fungal spores, which, woven together, presented an impression both of the unending richness of the plant kingdom, but also of sadness and transience. Scoops of snow were evidence of winter having arrived early this year.
Ola Haver came out of the house, spotted her leaning against the wall, and nodded. He looked tired. He had mentioned something about both kids and his wife, Rebecka, having colds.
Or else it was because he had a hard time enduring the sight of a dead body. Lindell sensed it had to do with the fact that as a teenager Haver had seen his own father collapse at the dinner table-stung in the throat by a bee-and he had died within a few minutes.
“Do you know a Petrus Blomgren?” Lindell continued.
“No, I don’t think so,” Manfred Olsson said. “Should I?”
She heard voices in the background. It sounded as if a TV was on.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Burglar alarms,” Olsson said curtly. “Why?”
“We found a note with your number on it at the residence of Petrus Blomgren. He must have gotten it somehow.”
Manfred Olsson did not reply.
“You have no explanation?”
“No, as I’ve already said.”
“Are you acquainted with the Jumkil area?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. I know roughly where it is. What is this all about? I have to get going soon.”
“Where do you work?”
“I work for myself. I’m going to… I guess it doesn’t matter.”
No, Lindell thought and smiled in the midst of the misery, it doesn’t matter. Not now and maybe not later.
“Have you been to Jumkil recently?”
“I was there for a wedding once. That was maybe ten years ago.”
“You install alarms, isn’t that right? Have you had any requests for alarms in Jumkil in the last while?”
“No, not that I can remember.”
“Thank you,” Lindell said. “We may be in touch later and have you look at a photograph.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he? That Blomgren man.”
“Yes.”
The conversation came to an end. A sudden gust of wind made the leaves dance at her feet.
“Nothing,” Lindell said to Haver, who had come up to her. “He didn’t know a thing, not about Jumkil and not about Blomgren.”
“We’ve found a letter,” Haver said. “A farewell letter.”
“What? That Blomgren wrote?”
“It appears so.”
Lindell sighed heavily.
“Do you mean he was planning to kill himself and someone beat him to it?”
Haver suddenly started to laugh. Lindell looked at him. One of their colleagues from Patrol looked up. Haver stopped just as quickly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but sometimes it’s just too much. You’ve got red on your back. You shouldn’t lean up against walls.”
He started to brush off her light-colored jacket.
“It’s new, isn’t it?”
Lindell nodded. She felt his forceful strokes across her shoulders and back. It was not unpleasant. It warmed her. She had an impulse to punch him playfully but restrained herself.
“There we go,” he said, “that’s a little better.”
Lindell looked out at the surroundings. Here they were out in the field again. Yards, stairwells, basements, apartments, houses. Police tape, spotlights, screens, measuring tape, camera flashes, chalk marks on wooden floors, parquet floors, concrete floors, and asphalt. Voices from colleagues and crackling radio receivers. Footsteps in the darkness, in sunlight, in fall gloom and spring warmth. Objects that had been brought out, hung up, for decoration and joy, memories. Letters, diaries, calendars, notes, and grocery lists. Voices from the past, on videotape and answering machines.
Haver was talking about the letter but he stopped when he noticed her expression.
“Are you listening?”
“I’m sorry,” Lindell said, “my thoughts were elsewhere.”
“The view?”
“Yes, among other things, the view.”
That was the first thing that had struck her. The view.
“He lived in a beautiful place,” she said. “But tell me about the letter.”
“It’s short. A few lines. Somewhat oddly phrased.”
“And Blomgren is the one who wrote it?”
“That remains to be seen,” Haver said, “but I think so.”
“If the murder was supposed to look like suicide it was an extremely sloppy job.”
“Not with blunt trauma to the back of the head,” Haver said and looked in the direction of the shed where Petrus Blomgren had been struck down.
“Fury,” he said. “He is in very bad shape.”
“Maybe it’s Ottosson? Doesn’t he have a summer cabin in this area?”
“Should we take a look?” Haver said and walked toward the hall.
They glanced at the building where the forensic team was working. One of Petrus Blomgren’s legs could be seen through the door opening.
Lindell had already been in the house but had gone outside again to call the number they had found on a piece of paper. Petrus Blomgren had been a man of order, that much was clear. Maybe it’s the number of Eldercare Assistance, Lindell thought, as she and Haver again went into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. No dirty dishes. A coffee cup and saucer, a serrated knife, a bowl, and several serving dishes neatly placed in the drying rack.
There was a saltcellar and a newspaper on the table. The waxed tablecloth was wiped down. A couple of potted plants in the window and a vase with the last flowers of the season, several twigs of goldenrod and orpine.
“Was he signed up to receive Eldercare?” Lindell asked.
“Maybe. It’s nice and tidy, you mean.”
“Yes, for an old man on his own. It normally looks a little different than this.”
“Here’s the letter,” Haver said and pointed to an area of the counter next to the stove.
Lindell was surprised that she hadn’t spotted the white envelope earlier. It was placed next to the coffeemaker, but partly blocked by the bread box.
She leaned forward and read: “It’s fall again. The first snow. The decision is mine. That’s how it’s always been. I have had to make all of my decisions alone. You arrive at a certain point. I am sorry that perhaps I haven’t always handled things as I should have. A final request: I beg you not to chop down the old maple tree. Not yet. Let it stand there until it falls. My grandfather was the one who planted it. It’s not a pretty sight to hang oneself but I don’t see any other choice. It’s over.”
The letter was signed “Petrus Blomgren.”
“Why did he put the letter here and not on the table?” Haver wondered.
“Have you seen the leaf caught in the window?” Lindell asked and pointed. “It’s like a greeting from the maple.”
A yellow leaf had wedged itself into the woodwork of the window. The dark nerves were shaped like an outstretched hand. It wiggled a little in the wind, silently dashed a couple of times against the glass only to peel off and join the thousands of fall tokens whirling around the yard.
Haver looked at her.
“He wanted to die, but for the tree to live,” she said. “That’s strange.”
“Could he have sensed that the killer was waiting for him?”
Lindell shook her head.
“But then he wouldn’t have written like this.”
“The neighbor who called said that Blomgren lived alone, had always done so.”
“Where is she now?”
“At home,” Haver said and indicated a house that could be seen some hundred meters up the road. “Bea is talking to her again.”
“Did she see anything?”
“No, she reacted to the fact that the gate to the road was open. He was apparently very careful to keep it closed. She realized at once that something wasn’t right.”