The Cruel Stars of the Night (30 page)

Forty-two

Gunilla Uhlén, who was closing, had been alternating between concern and anger for the past fifteen minutes. Of course Ann was sometimes late but then she usually called to let them know. This time she hadn’t said a word. Gunilla had even lifted the receiver to make sure the phone line was working. She had also dialed Ann’s cell phone number but had not received an answer.

Erik was not one to whine but now he was starting to make noise. He had asked for his mother probably ten times during the past half hour. Now they were sitting together in the studio, painting—or rather, Erik was dabbing paint on an enormous piece of paper while Gunilla was listening for the sound of a car. At any moment the door would burst open and Ann would rush in, full of apologies.

Gunilla looked at the clock, stood up, walked into the office, and took out Ann and Erik’s file. There were three contacts: Görel, the parents in Ödeshög, and Ann’s supervisor at the police station. Görel, who also had children at the day care, was listed first. Gunilla dialed the number but there was no answer. The next name was Ann’s supervisor. Gunilla hesitated, tried Ann’s cell phone one more time without result, before she called the police station.

“Ottosson!”

The preschool teacher flinched at the sound of the gruff voice, but collected herself and explained that she was trying to track down Ann Lin-dell who had not picked her son up from day care. Ottosson interrupted her immediately.

“When should she have been there?”

“At four thirty. It’s quarter past five now.”

“I know what time it is,” the policeman said sharply.

“Ann comes in late sometimes,” Gunilla said, “and by the way I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snap at me.”

There was silence on the other end until Ottosson apologized in a regretful voice.

“We are both worried,” he said. “I’ve actually been searching for her all afternoon. She hasn’t called in at all?”

“No. I’m going to close up here now. I don’t know what to do about Erik.”

“I’ll send a car over,” Ottosson said quickly. “My wife can take care of Erik. They’ve met and get along well. If Ann turns up then call me immediately.”

“Okay,” Gunilla said, and now she was very worried.

Ten minutes later an unmarked police car pulled up in front of the day care center. Asta Ottosson stepped out. Gunilla and Erik were already bundled up and ready. Erik stared wide-eyed at the woman.

“Hi there Erik, my friend,” Asta said, as she shook hands with Gunilla. “Why don’t we go back to my place and do a little baking. You like cinnamon rolls, don’t you?”

Erik nodded. Gunilla couldn’t help but smile even though she had a heavy weight in her stomach. She remained standing outside the front doors a good while after Asta had taken the boy by the hand and trotted off to the car.

At the same time Ottosson was pulling out the big guns. News of Ann Lindell’s disappearance was broadcast and information abouther dress, type of car, and license plate went out to all authorities. The search was immediately underway. The disappearance of an officer involved in a murder investigation wasn’t your usual fare. Ottosson could easily imagine what an effect this kind of alarm would have.

Thereafter he called in Haver, Sammy Nilsson, Berglund, and Beatrice and told them the news. The silence that followed did not last longer than a few seconds but to Ottosson it felt like an eternity.

They stared at him with a mixture of consternation and disbelief, before Sammy Nilsson opened his mouth.

“She’s been gone all day,” he burst out.

“Not exactly,” Ottosson said, “but all afternoon I guess. I’ve called countless times. No answer. Have left messages. I even called the Savoy. She has simply vanished into thin air.”

It was simple with Ann Lindell. In the daytime she was on duty, always reachable with the exception of those moments when she retreated to the bakery cafe Savoy to think. Then she turned her phone off. In the evenings she was almost always at home. Ottosson had always gotten ahold of her the few times he had dialed her home number.

Everything spoke for the fact that the absence was not voluntary. Lindell was not one to stay away like this, but what clinched it was the fact that she had not picked up Erik at day care.

“What was she doing?” Sammy asked. “She must have said something to someone.”

“You know what Ann is like,” Haver said.

“We went our separate ways after we had visited Allan,” Ottosson said, “and she didn’t say anything at that time. We talked a little about the chess theory and she muttered something about it seeming unbelievable, but don’t you also have the impression that she was keeping something to herself?”

Sammy Nilsson got up abruptly, took a few paces across the floor, and then sat down in Ottosson’s visitor’s chair.

“She found a photograph in Blomgren’s house,” he said. “The picture of a woman who apparently had a relationship with the farmer dude. We know he went to Mallorca with a lady. Maybe it’s her. I think Ann is hunting down this lady.”

“When did she find it?” Bea asked.

“Yesterday,” Sammy said. “She didn’t want to say anything because it would look bad for Allan who had searched the room.”

“Did she say anything about . . .”

“No,” Sammy said. “Not a thing.”

“Damn,” Haver said, “that she didn’t—”

“Let’s drop it,” Ottosson said firmly, “what matters now is finding Ann and nothing else.”

“And then this damned Silvia visit.” Beatrice sighed.

The five officers discussed the possible directions that Lindell’s investigation could have taken but since they were searching in the dark they only came up with speculation.

“Okay,” Sammy said, “if we assume she’s standing there with the photo in her hand. How does Ann think?”

“She went to see the neighbor, Dorotea,” Bea said, “to see if she could identify the woman in the photograph.”

Sammy nodded energetically.

“Let’s call her right away. What’s her last name?”

“I’ll call,” Bea said and walked over to the phone.

It was quickly done. Bea shook her head during the conversation. Ot-tosson looked at his watch.

“Sammy,” he said, “search Ann’s office. Ola, see to it that Alsike is checked out. Maybe she went out to Andersson’s cottage. The same goes for the stables and Palmblad’s relatives. Berglund will have to call Andersson’s niece in Umeå. Ann may have contacted her.”

He paused for a few seconds before he continued.

“Berglund, you’ve been at this a long time, what would you do?”

There was a note of pleading in Ottosson’s voice that made the others start. They looked at Berglund, who had not said anything up to this point.

“We’ll contact all the taxi companies and ask the drivers to keep an eye out for Ann’s car. Maybe we’ll even ask Radio Uppland to appeal to the public to do the same. It’s a drastic move, I know, but we’re fumbling in the dark. Ann is out there somewhere and we need to find her, and fast.”

Ottosson and Berglund exchanged glances. Bea closed her eyes for a moment. Sammy Nilsson imagined she was praying. Haver drummed his pencil against the back of the chair.

“Taxi companies are fine,” Ottosson said, “but the radio?”

“We can wait on it,” Berglund said.

Sammy Nilsson sighed heavily.

“Can you please stop tapping like a woodpecker?” he said to Haver.

Sammy Nilsson turned on Ann Lindell’s computer. He knew the password and typed it in: “Viola.” He knew she kept a daily log of notes. Many times they had leaned over her computer screen together, discussing various cases. Her system of note taking was somewhat difficult to understand, with many abbreviations and words that did not always relate to the main text. It seemed as if she freely jotted down her associations even in the middle of her notes. Sammy had read some poems by a famous Swedish poet—at the urgings of his sister-in-law who had a fondness for the incomprehensible—and Ann’s creations reminded him strongly of the cryptic, hard-to-interpret lines.

He opened this morning’s document, created at 8:51, which consisted of three words: “Mallis,” “Sorrow,” and “Threat.”

He understood “Mallis” or Mallorca immediately. That was where Petrus Blomgren had gone on vacation over twenty years ago. “Sorrow” and “Threat” were not as easy. Who felt the sorrow? Petrus seemed the most likely candidate. He had written a farewell letter. Did he also feel threatened? Sammy was struck by the fact that they had found the telephone number of a man who installed alarm systems. He had denied all knowledge about the farmer and that might have been true. Blomgren might have looked up the number in the phone book with the intention of calling but changed his mind.

Had Andersson and Palmblad felt threatened? Nothing they had turned up indicated this.

“Okay,” Sammy muttered. This Petrus guy felt threatened, wanted to install a burglar alarm but instead decided to commit suicide because of his grief.

Who threatened him? The murderer, of course. The woman in the snapshot? He sighed. Ann had gone a step further. Her sleuthing had led her into a minefield and now she had disappeared. Had she been killed? Sammy pushed the chair back from the desk. He didn’t even want to think the thought.

He studied Ann’s desk. As usual it was covered in loose papers, transcripts of witness questioning, and files. It was a miracle that she ever found anything. Sammy maintained a very different level of order, he sorted and filed, threw out or archived material that was no longer relevant. Among the piles on the desk Sammy caught sight of files that pertained to cases they had worked on over six months ago.

He rolled closer to the desk again and started to look through the papers. A manila folder was lying on top. It concerned a man who had gone missing in September. Åsa Lantz-Andersson had written the report. Ulrik Hindersten, seventy, had disappeared without a trace from his home in Kåbo. Åsa had added a few notes. The man’s daughter had called several times during the past month.

Sammy’s cell phone rang. Before he answered he silently prayed for it to be Ann or at least a message that she had turned up, but it was Ottos-son who reported that Ann had not been seen either in Alsike or in Palmblad’s stables in Skuttunge.

Nor had any of their relatives heard from her.

“Are you finding anything?”

“No, Ann wasn’t exactly the best in the world at keeping notes, she . . .”

He had said, “wasn’t.” To judge from Ottosson’s silence he had also caught the use of the past tense.

“She’s alive,” Sammy said. “Isn’t she, Otto?”

His commander was not able to respond immediately.

“Of course she is,” he said finally.

They ended the call. Sammy got up and walked back and forth anxiously although his gaze kept being pulled back to the picture of Erik. It was an enlargement of a day care photo that Ann had pinned to the wall. The boy was looking right into the camera and laughing. He had some of Ann’s features but the dark, curly hair had to be from the unknown father. Sammy had the feeling that Erik was looking at him and following his snooping.

He continued his search of the desk. Under several files there was a newspaper that had run a photo of Ann. Someone, probably Ann herself, had doodled horns and a goatee on her face and written in a speech bubble: “Kiss my ass.”

Sammy smiled. Why not, he thought, and put the newspaper aside. If Ann really was gone for good he wanted to keep that picture.

Forty-three

The driveway was full of leaves. It had been clean that morning. Stig Franklin’s first thought was to get a broom and sweep them out onto the street but he changed his mind. Why should I care, he thought and walked into the house.

Jessica was half lying on the bed. She had piled a bunch of pillows at the head of the bed. A few reports that he recognized from the Haus-mann deal were spread out over the floor.

“Have you been working?”

“Yes,” Jessica said slowly, “I went home after lunch.”

“I’ve been with
Evita.”

He could just as well have said he had been with Laura, or so he judged from her expression.

“Now it’s all about other women,” she said and he heard that she was trying to inject an ironic edge to her voice but she failed completely. She sounded miserable.

“I’ve had
Evita
just as long as you have been in my life,” he said. “You are the one who has seen her as a competitor and not as an asset.”

She said nothing but shook her head and sat up in bed. She was wearing a light-colored tank top that reminded him of summer.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

Stig felt a tug in his stomach, fearing what would come next. Convinced he was making the right decision, he experienced this feeling as a solid mass in his body when he had left Laura’s house but this now threatened to crumble completely. To himself he cursed his timidity and steeled himself for what was coming.

“I have too,” he said with unexpected rancor. “I’m leaving you. Now. I don’t want any fighting, I want us to be able to talk and separate—”

“. . . in a clean way,” she filled in.

He nodded.

“Is it Laura?”

“It’s not just her,” he got out, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.

Their life together suddenly appeared so trivial. Even splitting up became petty.

“It’s not about you,” he said.

“Stig,” Jessica said, “do you know what you want? Is it freedom?”

He nodded and let out a sob. Damn, he thought exasperatedly, she makes me feel sorry for myself.

“Don’t treat me as if I’m underage,” he said. “I can make my own decisions.”

She looked closely at him as if to take measure of his steadiness.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll sell our shares, rent out the house, prepare
Evita
for a long-distance trip, and set off.”

He stared at her. He could hardly believe his ears.

“We’ll be able to scrape together a decent amount, especially now when it looks as if the Hausmann deal will go through. I don’t need any of this,” she continued and made a sweeping gesture.

“Then what is it you want?” he whispered.

“Don’t you think I have dreams too? I have been struggling like an animal to build up our life, you know that. We have done it together so I’m not complaining. I saw it as our project. Now you’re getting off because Laura . . .”

“This isn’t just about her. We aren’t really living. All our so-called friends at all our respective dinner parties whine about not having enough time and that they should really devote themselves to living instead.”

With each word he raised his voice. By the end he was snarling.

“Look around you! No one we see lives a dignified life. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“I’m not letting you go,” Jessica said calmly. “Not to a completely deranged lunatic. I care about you more than that.”

It wasn’t her self-possession that frightened him but the very fact that she was speaking to him.

“She’s not crazy.”

Stig sank down onto the bed. He felt Jessica’s gaze on the back of his neck. It felt as if a giant glacier was forming in his insides and freezing his internal functions.

Jessica inched herself closer and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched and became terrified that she was going to hug him. But instead she stood up, crawled clumsily out of the bed, and left the room.

He heard her in the living room. It sounded as if she was moving objects around, picking up.

“Come out here and look,” she called out, but he did not stir from his spot, disturbed by her calm. It would have been easier if she had screamed and yelled.

The sound of her bare feet on the floor as she approached the bedroom reminded him of their Åland vacation the first summer they had spent together.

She appeared in the doorway.

“Come,” she said and vanished again.

He got to his feet and followed her. She had placed herself at the window. The Italian glass vase that they had bought in London, the eighteenth-century goblet they had bought at an auction in Helsinki— a real find—were both placed on the couch, and several paintings were leaning against the back of it.

He looked bewildered around the room.

“These are worth at least four hundred thousand, perhaps half a million. You know what we paid for Liljefors alone.”

“Take it,” he said. “I don’t want anything.”

He stared at a grotesque painting by Lindström. A distorted face in red and yellow with thick layers of paint. He hated it.

“We’ll sell this,” she said.

“But you love the paintings.”

She shook her head.

“We’ll sell them and start over. I want to. Do you remember what we talked about in the cottage at Kökar?”

Something in her voice made him look at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Maybe it was because Jessica was also thinking about that summer. Afterward they seemed like the happiest weeks of his life.

“We can sail there,” she said.

She’s tricking me, he thought, but there was nothing of the calculating expression in her light face that he recognized so well from when she wanted to tempt him into an argument from which she would emerge the victor. There was no aggression, but also no submissive pleading. It was as if her features were smoothed out, milder. She suddenly resembled a young girl, unscathed by years of tiring fights.

“Do you really want that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why this turnaround? All this,” he said and held out his arm, “that was so important.”

“I have also been thinking,” was the only explanation she gave him.

He tried to evaluate her metamorphosis. Jessica was not the one who threw out claims without first having worked them out carefully. The fact that the old Jessica never bared herself in this way convinced him she was being genuine, and he was suddenly touched by her courage. He knew what it must have cost her in self-esteem and pride.

“I need a beer,” he said and went to the kitchen.

He took down the bottle opener that was hanging above the counter but dropped it into the sink. It hit a glass that broke. It was not a valuable glass but the sight of the shards made him cry. He leaned his forehead against the cupboard and tried to be clear about what was happening. Jessica’s suggestion of leaving the company and setting out on the boat was too big. Even his own wild plans seemed harmless in comparison with a life reorganization on that scale. What had she been thinking? It remained a riddle to him.

He picked up the opener and managed to get the bottle cap off, took a few sips, and then went back to the living room where Jessica was waiting in the same position as when he had left.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Because I love you,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And you tell me this now? First now, after years of coldness? You mentioned Åland but do you remember what that was like? How we made love and talked. Talked! About everything and nothing. Do you remember the old graveyard with the crosses that stood piled up against the wall? The scent of thyme from the sand dunes and tar from the church roof?”

“Of course,” Jessica said.

“How moved we were by the simple crosses and the inscriptions. You said something about that fisherman’s wife.”

She nodded. Stig couldn’t continue.

“Of course I remember,” she said. “That’s why I want to go back there. Maybe we’ll recapture that feeling and find our way back to those words.”

He looked dumbfounded at her. She was crying. He saw that she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

“Jessica,” he whispered, paralyzed by a mixture of guilt, bitterness, and tenderness.

Lindström’s grotesque face on the couch grimaced at him. The anxiety communicated by the picture became his own and suddenly it struck him that he never wanted to sell it.

Jessica advanced several steps. Stig fled to the bathroom.

Jessica had scrubbed it. It smelled of lemon. He stood in front of the mirror and for several minutes he studied his image. His anxiety felt like a pole thrust into his stomach. He knew he had to make a decision. A decision that would influence the rest of his life.

He took off his clothes. The overalls and the shirt landed in a heap at his feet. He pulled off his socks and his underpants.

“Who is Stig Franklin?” he asked the mirror.

He heard Jessica walk past, how she put on the kettle for tea and took milk out of the refrigerator. He sank down onto the toilet lid and held his head in his hands.

“How is it going?” Jessica asked through the door.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said.

“Would you like some tea?”

“No thank you,” he replied and stepped into the shower stall.

When he stepped out of the shower a quarter of an hour later there was a suitcase in the hall.

Jessica was sitting in the living room with a cup of tea and a few rusks.

“Have you packed?”

“Only the essentials,” she said, picking up a rusk. She spread marmalade on it, looked at him, and smiled.

Stig had only slipped on a bathrobe and regretted that he had not dressed properly. Now it seemed like she was the one who was leaving him and not the other way around. First she was going to drink a cup of tea, then stand up, take her bag with “the essentials”—whatever that was—and leave the house.

He walked to the bedroom and quickly pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt. When he returned she had finished her tea.

“I want you to unpack,” he said.

The silence in the room was deafening. They looked at one another. There was no triumph in her voice when she finally answered.

“Allright, I’ll stay.”

She didn’t ask him why he had changed his mind, made no attempt to get up and throw herself in his lap or venture any words of reconciliation, simply a dry observation that they were still a couple. What he was grateful for was her passivity. It was as if she could tell that if she made a big deal of the whole thing then Stig would have fled.

He poured himself a cognac. They sat quietly, Jessica on the couch and he in an armchair. He knew that the silence could only be broken slowly and with great care. For a long time they would have to walk across new ice.

He thought about Laura, about her suitcase and the decision to leave the country for Italy. She had shown him the airline ticket to Palermo, told him which hotel she was going to check into, and that he could come later.

She was going to leave on Saturday morning and then wait for him there. An old song about longing came back to him. It was about Italy, wasn’t it? He only knew the fragment of a stanza:“. . . where small lemons grow . . .”

Then, a couple of hours ago, the thought of spending days and nights with Laura at a romantic hotel by the sea had seemed fabulous. Granted it is not particularly warm in Sicily in November but the air in the mountains is fantastic, there are few tourists, and the wine is excellent, Laura had explained.

Can I ever trust myself again? he wondered and glanced at Jessica. Can she trust me? He was unable to feel real joy. Not yet, maybe it would come. It felt as if he had completed a terrible training session, run a marathon, or wandered thousands of miles through the desert under the burning sun. The exhaustion was total, both physical and emotional.

He felt as if he could go on now that he was cleansed. Of course he had heard friends talk about similar conflicts, emotional and mental cleansing rituals, but he had not understood how arduous they could be.

Jessica was lost in thought. He knew she was keeping tabs on him and that she would continue to do so for a long time.

What he was dreading most was the conversation he would have to have with Laura. Was that what Jessica was waiting for? He suddenly stood up and left the room without a word, closed the door to the study, and walked over to the phone.

When Stig was gone Jessica made two calls from her cell phone. One was to the lawyer who took care of the firm’s business. They only exchanged a few words, as if speaking in code. The second call went to Lennart Öhman. He was still at the office.

“It’s me,” Jessica said in a strained voice. “Whatever Stig may tell you, it’s not true. If he talks about any changes, wants to sell, or talks shit about Hausmann, then don’t pay any attention. Listen but don’t talk back too much.”

“But—”

“Don’t interrupt me! Stig is going through a crisis but everything’s going to be fine. First we’ll finish with the Germans and then continue on with Paris. Have you heard anything?”

“Philippe called. He thought things would work out in Lyon.”