“You shouldn’t be here,” Berglund said as soon as he got into the car.
“I know,” Lindell said curtly. “But I am.”
“And the baby?”
“Mom and Dad are visiting.”
“And you run out on them? What are you thinking? It’s almost Christmas!”
“That’s why,” Lindell said. “I knew it would drive them nuts.”
Berglund sighed in the backseat.
“I never really believed that Hahn killed Little John,” said Haver, who had paid no attention to the squabble between Berglund and Lindell.
“Sammy was the only one who put his money on Hahn,” Berglund said.
“He always wants to go against the pack,” Lindell said to him. It felt good to be back among her colleagues.
“Does Ottosson know you’re here?” Berglund asked sternly. She shook her head.
“Not even my mother knows I’m here,” she said and gave him her sweetest smile. Haver turned on the car radio, and the Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited” came through the speakers. Lindell gave Berglund a meaningful look and sang along. “…I’m about to lose control…”
“You’re impossible,” Berglund said, but smiled. “Turn it down.”
“I like this song,” Haver said.
“I promise I’ll be completely calm,” Lindell said.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Haver said. He chuckled, but both Berglund and Lindell knew it was from nervous tension.
Thirty-eight
Sagander’s house sat on a small hill. If the circumstances for their visit had been different, Lindell would have commented on how idyllic it looked. It was a traditional red-and-white-painted house in two levels with a covered porch that also functioned as a balcony to the upper story. Two small Christmas trees had been put out on the balcony, covered in a string of lights just like the tall one out in the yard that was eight meters or more. A few smaller buildings on either side with cozy lights in the windows completed the look of a well-established farm on the Uppland plains.
“Is it for real?” Haver asked as they drove up the small road to the house.
“He probably owns just the farmhouse, and not the farm proper,” Berglund said.
On either side of the road someone had placed ornamental arrangements of juniper twigs. Small Santas peeked out from between the branches.
“Isn’t it a little out of control?” Haver snorted.
“I think it looks nice,” Berglund said.
Lindell didn’t say anything, keeping an eye out for a red pickup truck.
“No car,” she said.
They understood what she meant although three cars were parked in front of the house. Haver parked behind a run-down Nissan and the patrol car stopped behind Haver. Everyone got out at the same time. Six police officers, of which five were in uniform and armed. Even Haver was carrying his gun, which surprised Lindell.
The three patrol officers waited outside. A ragged dog ran over and sniffed their legs but disappeared as quickly as it had come. Lindell wondered if she should hang behind too, but an almost imperceptible gesture from Berglund told her it was all right to come along.
A woman in her sixties opened the door. She tried hard to appear relaxed and friendly but her eyes betrayed her. They fluttered between the three police officers, resting for a few seconds on Lindell as if hoping to find a show of support, woman-to-woman.
“Mrs. Sagander?”
Berglund’s gentle voice, in contrast to his somewhat grumpy demeanor, made her attempt a weak smile as well as a nod.
“You must be looking for Agne,” she said and stepped aside.
Lindell smiled at her as she crossed the threshold.
“Ann Lindell,” she said and put out her hand.
“Gunnel,” said the woman and smiled back.
The large hall was filled with the rich scent of Christmas baking. Lindell looked around. The door to the kitchen was open and inside Lindell could see a whole wall covered with copper wares, but above all it was the floor of the hall that drew one’s gaze. It consisted of broad pine planks that shone from varnish and daily polishing. A gigantic bureau in the Swedish country style and a pair of antique Östervåla chairs, as well as homemade rugs in bold colors, underscored the rustic character of the home.
In one of the windows Lindell saw a glowing small-scale Advent church surrounded by cotton wool and a few Santas. Mrs. Sagander followed her gaze and told her that her father had made the model church and the gnomes sometime in the 1940s. This talk about everyday things enlivened her.
“Christmas is such a festive time,” Lindell said.
Agne Sagander received them from his easy chair, one leg supported by an ottoman. Haver, who had first met him at the metalwork shop, thought he looked ill at ease in the comfortable room. It was evident that he did not like his current state. He sighed heavily as they came into the room.
“Here I am sitting like a goddamn cripple,” he said, dispensing entirely with the polite formality of introductions.
“Agne, please,” his wife said, submissive and tired.
“What the hell does it matter?” he asked.
“Pity about the shop,” Berglund said.
“This is quite a delegation,” Sagander said and looked at Lindell. “I know you from the papers. Murder and mayhem, is it really all that fun?”
Lindell walked up to him, stretched out her hand, and introduced herself. Sagander squeezed her hand forcefully. Lindell smiled.
Berglund also walked up and introduced himself.
“Do you hunt?” he asked.
“Yes, I bagged that one in Jämtland,” Sagander said and looked up at the enormous elk head above the fireplace. “Eighteen points, as you can see. Ström’s valley. There’s an abundance of elk there. Or was,” he added with a satisfied smile. “What about you, do you hunt?”
“I used to,” Berglund said.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourselves? Do you have any leads? It feels like ape shit to be sitting here, I can tell you that much.”
“Agne is in a great deal of pain,” his wife inserted. “They operated on his back and now something seems to have gone wrong.”
“It’s those damned butchers at Akademiska,” Sagander said. “Butchers.”
“I think you have an infection,” Gunnel Sagander said in a firmer voice. “You should go in.”
“And be stuck there over Christmas? Not if I can help it.”
“If it’s an infection they’ll give you antibiotics,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?” she said, changing the topic and turning to Lindell.
“Thanks, that would be nice,” she said. Mrs. Sagander left the room. Her husband gazed after her thoughtfully.
“The shop has burned to the ground,” Haver said ruthlessly. “It’s a fucking wasteland.” He seemed to have adjusted his language to Sagander’s own.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Are you upset?” Lindell asked.
“Upset? What the hell kind of question is that?”
“We think someone put a match to it,” Berglund said.
“Can’t you sit down? From down here it feels as if you’ve come to pay your final respects.”
The three officers sat down. Lindell felt like she was paying a visit to a sick, bad-tempered relative.
“Put a match to it,” Sagander said. “Who would do that?”
“Are you on bad terms with anyone?”
“That would be the tax authorities, but I don’t think they resort to arson. Hardly Ringholm, minister of finance, either, that yellow-bellied sap.”
“We’ve been thinking,” Haver said and leaned forward. “Recently one of your former employees was murdered and now your shop has burned down. Is there a connection?”
Sagander shook his head.
“What did you do on the seventeenth of December?” Berglund asked.
Sagander looked at him for a second before answering. Lindell thought she saw a brief look of disappointment on his face, as if Sagander thought that Berglund was letting down a fellow hunter.