The doorbell rang shortly before four.
“Here we are,” her mother said cheerily when Ann opened the door.
And she was unexpectedly happy to see them. Her mother was carrying several large grocery bags with Christmas presents. Her father was carrying the food.
“And there’s more in the car,” her mother said when she saw her daughter’s look. “Is he sleeping?”
They hung up their coats and looked around. Ann felt a rising sense of unease. It was only now that she realized she would be a captive for the next four days. She wouldn’t be able to get away. But then she felt guilty. They were, after all, her parents, and they had been looking forward to this visit for months. They immediately walked into Erik’s room. Her mother teared up at the sight of the little one in his bed.
“What a darling child,” she said and gently stroked his thin locks.
Her father didn’t say anything but was humming, something that Ann interpreted as approval.
“I cooked the ham too long,” she said, breaking the spell. It was best to get it out of the way.
“How many degrees?” her mother asked.
“Ninety,” Ann said and left Erik’s bedroom.
“Is there any broth?” her father asked.
Ann turned around and smiled at him.
“Lots,” she said.
“In that case,” he said, satisfied.
“Ninety,” her mother echoed.
“Erik was crying and I forgot to check it. I think he has colic.”
“Does he cry a lot?”
“Yes,” Ann said. “But mostly at night.”
She walked out into the kitchen and everything felt wrong. She stared at the ham, which had contracted into a grayish lump. The smell made her step back. She heard her mother still making cooing noises in Erik’s bedroom. She knew she should start to unpack the food they had brought and exclaim delightedly over their spare ribs, herring salad, homemade pâté, cured herring, but she couldn’t bring herself to.
“I’m going out for a while,” she shouted and walked to the front door.
Her mother immediately left Erik’s room, stopped in the doorway, and stared at her with bafflement.
“Going out?”
“There’s something I have to do. If Erik wakes up just give him a little baby porridge. There’s a box on the kitchen counter.”
“But we only just got here.”
“I won’t be gone long, I promise. Maybe I can get a new ham. Is there anything else we need?”
Her mother was hurt but also concerned.
“Is it your job?”
She knew her daughter.
“Not exactly,” Ann said evasively and put her coat on. She pretended to think it over, trying to smooth over her escape by reaching out to her mother in some way, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead she gave her mother a halfhearted smile and opened the door.
“Only give him one bottle,” she said, her body already turning away. “If he has more he gets a tummy ache. He likes a little mashed banana too,” she added and slipped out.
Lindell immediately called Haver, but he didn’t answer. She checked the time and decided to go to Sagander’s workshop. Maybe he was still there.
When she arrived there wasn’t much left of the building. The oldest part, which had been made out of wood, was completely devoured. The two masonry ends and a gable remained as sooty ruins. The snow that had not melted on the ground was no longer white but covered in sooty particles. The firefighting operation was still in process but no open flames were visible.
She looked around for Ola Haver and was beginning to think he had left the scene when she spotted him.
She walked over and stood close to him. He hadn’t seen her. He was talking to the fire chief, whom she recognized. He nodded to her over Ola’s shoulder and Ola turned. He laughed when he saw her.
“Couldn’t stay away, I see.”
“My mom and dad are looking after Erik. Have you heard anything about Justus?”
Haver shook his head. He ended the conversation with the fire chief, who gave Lindell an amused look.
“We’ve called Sagander. We thought he would want to come down but it turns out he’s on bed rest.”
“Bed rest?”
“He had an operation recently and has developed an infection,” Haver said, and his expression shifted so perceptibly that Lindell thought he was wincing in pain.
“What is it?” she asked and touched his arm.
“The crutch,” he said. “I knew there was something. The hospital,” he added, as if that explained everything.
“Tell me more,” Lindell said.
She had seen that look before and knew it must be something important. He drew her aside and she liked the feeling of his hand on her arm.
“Sagander has recently had an operation, probably at Akademiska Hospital. The knife was stolen from a car in the hospital parking garage. Maybe Sagander has a pickup truck. Maybe he’s the ‘angry man’ from Vaksala square?”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Lindell said.
“I should have thought of it before. When I came down here to question Sagander he was sitting the whole time, zooming around on his office chair. A crutch was leaned up against the wall by the door.”
It was all falling into place. The vague feeling he had around construction sites now had its explanation. The construction site at the hospital and the neighboring site here. He recalled how he had watched the workers for a while and how one of them had waved to him. As the son of a construction worker he had always liked the sight of pits, work sites, and temporary barracks. Construction had been the key word, but his love of construction in general had masked the connection for a while.
“Who is the angry man?” Lindell asked.
Haver gave an succinct account of what Hahn had told them.
“If we accept your line of reasoning for now,” Lindell said, “do you think Justus could have suspected that Sagander was responsible for the murder?”
Haver looked at her thoughtfully. Lindell assumed he was trying to make more connections now that the first pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly and looked around.
Nearby, a fireman was rubbing his face with snow, spitting and grumbling. He straightened his back and turned to look at the burned building as if he fully expected it to burst into flame and smoke again.
“They’re doing a fantastic job,” Lindell said and nodded to the firefighter.
Haver didn’t answer. He had his cell phone in his hand.
“Maybe we should call Berglund,” he said. “And a patrol car.”
Lindell knew what he was thinking: Drive out to Sagander’s house.
“Where does he live?”
“On a farm in the Börje area, I think. I’ll have Berglund check it out.”
He dialed a number and Lindell walked away. She took out her phone and called Berit. The phone rang several times before she picked up. Her voice was muted, as if she was expecting bad news.
“Did Justus know Sagander very well?” Lindell asked.
“Sagge? Why do you ask?”
Lindell thought about telling her that the workshop had just burned to the ground but decided not to.
“I thought that…”
“I can tell you that Sagander was hated in our family. Justus would never have gone out to see him. Why would you think that?”
Lindell told her about the fire and heard Berit draw her breath. She had said it herself: Sagander was hated. Sometimes the step from hate to arson was not so big.
“Do you think Justus did it?”
“No, I’m just asking,” Lindell said.
“Are you at the shop? What does Sagge say?”
“He’s not here. He can’t walk right now. We’re driving out to see him.”
“You too? Where’s the baby?”
“He’s with my mother.”
Lindell left her car at the scene. They picked up Berglund at the station and a patrol car with three officers followed behind.