Albin would never have committed suicide, and even if he had entertained the crazy idea it would never have happened during his work hours, on a roof. But the uncertainty hovered over the family like a cloud.
“I haven’t talked so much with her,” Lennart admitted. He got up and Micke thought he was getting himself another beer but instead he walked over to the window.
“Did you watch him as he was leaving? Did you happen to look out the window, or something?”
“No,” Micke said. “I stayed on the couch. Jeopardy was on.”
“Do you remember Teodor?”
“You mean Teodor from when we were little? Of course.”
“I think of him sometimes. He took care of me and John after Dad died. He put us to work.”
“Do you remember when we played marbles?” Micke smiled. “He was phenomenal.”
“John was his favorite.”
“He looked out for all of us.”
“But especially John.”
“That’s because he was the youngest,” Micke said.
“Just think if our teachers had been like Teodor.”
Clearly, the loss of his little brother was causing Lennart to look back at his Almtuna childhood, and there was no better person than Micke to relive it with. Micke understood Lennart’s need to access these comforting memories of early childhood. He didn’t have anything against it himself either, reveries of the busy playgrounds, the games, bandy matches on Fålhagen ice rinks, and track-and-field practice on Österängen.
It was the life they’d been given, that’s how Micke felt, and he thought it was even more true for Lennart. After those early childhood days, all hell had broken loose, starting with their attendance at Vaksala High School.
Lennart had been placed in a remedial class because he had “trouble following standard instruction,” and thus he fell into the hands of Stone Face, whose instruction was not particularly hard to follow since it consisted mainly of playing table tennis. Lennart was good at Ping-Pong from all the matches with Teodor in the boiler room. So good that he creamed Stone Face in match after match.
But where Teodor had figured as a portal to an adult life with as full a register of emotions as the sentimental janitor could muster, Stone Face was merciless about drumming his particular brand of life knowledge into his pupils.
Lennart would have none of it. He cut class, or hit back. From ninth grade on he was absent more and more, which had resulted in his poor reading and writing abilities. He knew nothing of history, math made him uncontrollably enraged, and he even cut shop classes.
The alternatives for Lennart were the pool hall in Sivia, Lucullus restaurant-which made the town’s first pizzas-and Kullen. He stole to survive, in order to finance his pool and pinball habit, to buy cigarettes and soda. He stole to impress, and fought in order to frighten others. If he couldn’t be loved he would be feared, he seemed to reason.
He didn’t accuse anyone, or direct blame at others, but inside he hated his teachers and the rest of the adults. At home, Albin stuttered out his admonitions. Aina became nervous and could oftentimes not take care of herself, let alone her difficult son. Aina found comfort in her youngest, John, whom she nonetheless saw being dragged into his older brother’s increasingly wild escapades.
“John was a good guy,” Micke said. He heard how inadequate it sounded, how flat.
“There’s one thing I’ve been wondering,” Lennart said and sat down at the table again. “Did John have another woman?”
Micke looked at him in disbelief.
“What are you saying? That he was fooling around on the side?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he said something to you.”
“No, I never heard him talking about another girl. You should know that. He adored Berit.”
“Of course he did. He was only unfaithful with his cichlids.”
“What’s going to happen with those fish?”
“Justus is taking over,” Lennart said.
Micke thought about John’s son, Daddy’s boy. In Justus he could see the teenage John. A man of few words, an easily averted gaze. It was as if the boy saw through whomever he was talking to. Many times Micke had felt inadequate, as if Justus was choosing not to burden his mind with Micke’s chatter, much less dignify it with an answer.
Come to think of it, in childhood John too had had that attitude. John could also give the impression of being superior, proud, unwilling to make compromises. That’s probably why he and Sagge had never seen eye-to-eye, even though John was a good craftsman.
It had been only in his closest relationships, especially with Berit, that John had revealed himself at all, flipping up the visor to display a thoughtfulness and capacity for dry humor that it took a while to catch on to.
“If anyone should carry on, it’s that boy,” Micke said.
He wanted another beer but knew that if he had one, Lennart would inevitably join him. And he wouldn’t stop at one. Chances were they would clean out his whole supply.
It was close to midnight and Lennart made no motion to leave. Micke got up against his will. He had a hard day to look forward to.
“Don’t know when it last snowed this much before Christmas,” he said and went to get the beers.
Seventeen
Berglund had been posted at the number 9 bus stop downtown for more than an hour. He had a police ID in one hand and a picture of John Jonsson in the other. It seemed to him that he had asked hundreds of people if they recognized the man in the photograph.
“Is he the one who was murdered?” someone had asked eagerly.
“Do you recognize him?”
“I don’t associate with people like that,” the woman had said.
She was weighed down by numerous bags and boxes, like most of the others. There was a general air of tension. The people did not look happy, Berglund thought.
He had been a policeman in Uppsala for a long time. This was another routine assignment, one of several thousand, but he never ceased to be amazed by the reactions of his fellow citizens. Here he was, trying to solve a murder, working overtime, freezing his butt off when he should be home helping his wife with the Christmas preparations, and he was met by reserve, if not outright distaste.
He walked up to an older man who had just stopped, put his bags down, and lit a cigarette.
“Hello, my name’s Berglund. I’m from the police,” he said and held up his ID. “Do you recognize the man in this picture?”
The man inhaled deeply and studied the photo.
“Yup, I’ve known him for a long time. He’s that metalworker’s boy.”
He looked up and scrutinized Berglund.
“Is he caught up in some trouble?”
Berglund liked the sound of the man’s voice. A little hoarse, he must smoke a great deal, he thought. The face matched the voice: a lined, friendly face with clear eyes.
“No, quite the opposite, so to speak. He’s dead.”
The man dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
“I knew his parents,” he said. “Albin and Aina.”
Berglund suddenly sensed a great network. It was a diffuse feeling that, strictly speaking, had nothing to do with solving a crime. It was rather that the man’s pleasant voice and demeanor fit into a certain context. Sometimes Berglund pursued this instinct, although if he tried to put it into words they felt awkward, insufficient.
He guessed that the man had been some kind of worker, perhaps in the construction business. His weathered skin told of years exposed to sun, wind, and cold. His dialect gave him away, also his way of wearing the overcoat, the slightly moth-eaten but respectable hat, the hands and their hard nails. He looked after himself, somewhat hunched but still tall.