At Jan-Elis Andersson’s the bookshelves were the dominating feature, filled to bursting with light brown folders in hard-pressed cardboard, carefully arranged in chronological order. Why did one keep accounts, receipts and vouchers, ancient sale agreements and contracts with such meticulous care?
Money, Ann decided and doodled a little on the page. It was the concern about his own finances, need for order and a nervous cataloging of debit and credit that controlled Jan-Elis Andersson’s life.
Perhaps he was happy with his folders, but there was probably also a source of concern and perhaps even anxiety. Was that the tear in Jan-Elis Andersson’s life?
“BLOMGREN-LOVE” she wrote in capitals on her pad, followed by a heart. On the next line there was “ANDERSSON-MONEY” and a dollar sign.
The investigation into Andersson’s life was in full swing. Sammy Nilsson and Ola Haver were the ones who were doing the digging and Ann believed they were going to verify her theory that money was the driving force in the murdered Andersson’s life.
Lindell was speculating, she knew this, but from the swaying tower of loose theories that she was now constructing she would perhaps be able to provide herself with an overview.
She saw the process in an inner graphic, how she scrutinized the landscape, binding together Vilsne village, Jumkil and Norr-Ededy village, Alsike, and in the intersection between the imagined lines she would find the answer.
“It’s that simple,” she muttered, drew a few lines, and threw down her pen, suddenly aware of the fact that it was the first time she could see Uppsala and the surrounding area in her mind, exactly as she could with her childhood Ödeshög. She had become an Upplander.
With this conviction she left the office but returned immediately. It’s not quite so simple, Upplander or not, she thought and opened the telephone directory. There she quickly found Birger Rundgren’s name and number, and pulled the phone over.
The voice that answered betrayed the fact that Ann Lindell was speaking with an old man. He could not remember Petrus Blomgren, which did not surprise Lindell. Blomgren was not the one who ran to the doctor at the slightest twinge.
“But his medical entries are most likely still there,” Birger Rundgren croaked. “My son, who has taken over the practice, can surely help you.”
Lindell took down the number to Lars-Erik Rundgren, thanked him for his help, dialed the number, and smiled to herself as the phone rang.
It turned out that Rundgren Jr. sounded like his father.
“I have an upper-respiratory infection and shouldn’t be speaking at all,” he managed to squeeze out.
Lindell explained what she was after, gave the doctor her e-mail address, asked him to look for Blomgren’s records, and then send her the information he felt was relevant.
The mail arrived in five minutes. Petrus Blomgren had, of his own accord, contacted Birger Rundgren, whose office was on Kungsgatan at that time, on the eighth of June 1981. They had never met before. Blomgren had cited sleeping difficulties as the reason for the visit. The reason for the problem was “that the pat. has felt anxious for a while.” The doctor had noted that “not fin., wk, rel., loss.”
Otherwise he appeared healthy, employed as a farmer and construction carpenter. He was prescribed Ansopal, one tablet per night. No follow-up visit was required.
Lars-Erik Rundgren concluded with an explanation of his father’s cryptic abbreviations. According to his father there were four main reasons for poor sleep: bad finances, unhappy at work, love problems, or the loss of someone close to you. In other words, in Blomgren’s case Rundgren senior had ruled out all four explanations.
What does that leave? Lindell wondered as she read the mail a second time. She surmised that the doctor’s conversation with Blomgren had been short, that no real examination had taken place, that no diagnosis had been made, and that Rundgren had taken the easy way out.
Eighteen
What surprised him was not Laura’s pale skin that looked as if it never saw the sun, or the exquisite body that she had always managed to conceal beneath layers of clothing that betrayed a lack of attention to color and finesse. It was the abundance of hair.
He pulled his hand down her belly, his index finger tracing a dark line down to the luxuriant tendrils and swirling it around.
“Should I braid it?” he asked, turning his head and looking at her.
He had no idea what she was thinking and right now he didn’t really care. He was still caught up in the physical rush, now mixed with a satisfied indolence, after the release of desire and a feeling of revenge.
Stig chuckled. She closed her eyes.
Laura had said at most ten words since he arrived. When he commented on the massacred bookshelves she shrugged and pulled him closer. She was dressed in a flowery dress that he imagined was very old. It reminded him of his grandmother’s summer dresses.
The ghost-like house, Laura’s silence, and the tense anticipation he felt made him talk. He talked about work, what the Germans had e-mailed and what he had replied. She did not seem interested.
Stig started to get cold.
“Laura,” he whispered, “I have to go soon.”
She opened her eyes. He saw the whites.
“We’re going to have dinner,” she said.
“I don’t have time.”
“Ribs.”
“I have to go,” he repeated.
Her eyes moved anxiously.
“Are you cold?”
He pulled up the covers and carefully draped them over her breast, got up on his knees and kissed her stomach and drew the covers further up over her body.
“You have to stay,” she said.
“I can’t.”
He got out of bed. She stretched out and grabbed his elbow, looking him in the eyes.
“It’s you and me, Stig, right?”
He nodded. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, put her ear against his crotch, and started to talk.
“I’m cleaning out my old life. If you only knew how good that felt. I was no one before. I was half a person.”
“You were a little depressed,” Stig said. “That can happen to anyone.”
“I held my tongue all these years but now I’m talking. I know many people don’t like it. You should see how the neighbor watches me. When I carried the books out in the garden he stood there staring at me through the hedge.”
“He must have been curious.”
“He hates me. I think he’s started a campaign in order to get rid of me.”
“It’s too bad about all the books,” Stig said, and felt desire stir again. “You’ve been a little confused since your father disappeared,” he continued and put his hand on her head.
“Maybe he’s not my father,” Laura said.
“What do you mean?”
She turned her head.
“Stay,” she said.
“We can’t keep going like this,” he said and pressed her head to his crotch.
Jessica was waiting for him. He was sure she was sitting at their shared desk. He could see her clearly in his mind, illuminated by the globe-shaped lamp, how she put the last touch on the offer to the Germans, fine-tuning the wording and examining the numbers to the last little decimal.
He should also be there. More and more it felt as if the future of the firm stood and fell with the results of the negotiations with Hausmann.
Laura licked one side of his groin.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He stared straight ahead. On the wall across from him there was a photograph of Laura and Ulrik Hindersten. He saw no details but sensed it had been taken in Italy. Laura was around twenty. Ulrik had his arm around her shoulders and smiled for the camera.
Next to it there was a framed picture of a little red cottage. It was the type of aerial photo sold in the forties and that no cottager, farmer, or householder could resist. The colors had faded of course, but it made even the humblest little cottage look grand. There was no indication of how extensive the grounds were. All sense of meagerness was gone.