Before the Frost Page 17

  “Any chance?”

  “Zilch.”

  “What do her lectures consist of?”

  “She talks about the poverty of our daily existence. That we don’t nurture our inner selves. I don’t know exactly what she believes in, other than that she’s Christian. I tried to discuss Islam with her one time and she went ballistic. She’s a conservative Christian. More than that I don’t know. But there’s something genuine about her when she talks about her religious views. And sometimes I hear her when she’s in her room. It sounds real. That’s the only time she isn’t lying or stealing. She’s being herself. Beyond that, I can’t say.”

  Margareta looked at her.

  “Has something happened?”

  Linda shook her head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “But you’re worried?”

  “Yes.”

  Margareta got up.

  “Anna Westin’s God will protect her. At least that’s what she always brags about. Her God and some earthly angel named Gabriel. I think it was an angel. I can’t remember exactly. But with that kind of protection she should be fine.”

  She stretched out her hand.

  “I have to go now. Are you also a student?”

  “I’m a police officer. Or will be soon, that is.”

  Margareta took a closer look at her.

  “I’m sure you will, as many questions as you’ve been asking.”

  Linda realized she had one more.

  “Do you know anyone called Mirre? She left a message on Anna’s answering machine.”

  “No. But I can ask the others.”

  Linda gave her her phone number and left the house. She was still vaguely envious of Margareta Olsson’s poise, her self-confidence. What did she have that Linda didn’t?

  The following morning, Monday, Linda was awakened by the sound of the front door slamming shut. She sat up in bed. It was six o’clock. She lay down and tried to fall back asleep. Raindrops were spattering against the windowsill. It was a sound she remembered from childhood. Raindrops, Mona’s shuffling slippered gait, and her father’s firm footsteps. Once upon a time these sounds had been her greatest source of security. She shook off her thoughts and got up. Her father had forgotten to turn the stove off, and he hadn’t finished his coffee. He’s nervous and he left in a hurry, she thought.

  She pulled the paper toward her and leafed through it until she saw an article about the latest developments in the Rannesholm case. There was a short interview with her dad. It was early, he had said, and although there were almost no clues, they thought they had some leads, but he was not free to comment further for the time being. She put the paper away and thought about Anna. If Margareta Olsson was right—and she had no reason to doubt she was telling the truth—Anna had turned into a very different person. But why was she staying away, and why did she claim to have seen her father? Why wasn’t Henrietta telling the truth? And that man that Linda had seen walk past the front of the church—why was she convinced it was Anna’s father?

  And the other crucial question: what was the connection between Anna and Birgitta Medberg?

  Linda had trouble separating all these thoughts. She heated up the coffee and wrote everything down on a piece of paper. Then she crumpled it up and threw it away. I have to talk to Zeba, she thought. I’ll tell her everything. She’s smart. She never loses touch with reality. She’ll give me some good ideas. Linda showered, put her clothes on, and then called Zeba. Her answering machine picked up. Linda tried her cell phone but it was out of range. Since it was raining, she could hardly have taken her boy out for a walk. Maybe she was with her cousin.

  Linda was impatient and irritated. She thought about calling her father, possibly even her mother, just to have someone to talk to. She decided she didn’t want to interrupt her father. And a conversation with Mona could drag on forever. She didn’t need that. She pulled on her boots and a rain jacket and walked down to the car. She was getting used to having a car. That was dangerous. When Anna came back, Linda would have to start walking places again. When she couldn’t borrow her dad’s car. She drove out of the city and stopped at a gas station. A man at the next pump nodded to her. She recognized his face without being able to place him until she was standing in line at the cashier’s window. It was Sten Widén, her father’s friend who had cancer.

  “It’s Linda, isn’t it?”

  His voice was hoarse and weak.

  “Yes. Sten, right?”

  He laughed, something that seemed to cost him an effort.

  “I remember you as a little girl. And suddenly you’re all grown. A police officer no less.”

  “How are the horses?”

  He didn’t answer until she had finished paying and they were walking back to their cars.

  “Your dad has probably told you what’s going on,” Widén said. “I have cancer and I’m going to die soon. I’m selling the last of the horses next week. That’s how it is. Good luck with your life.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just got into his muddy Volvo and drove away. Linda watched him leave and could only think one thing: how grateful she was that she wasn’t the one selling her last horse.

  She drove to Lestarp and parked by the church. Someone must know, she thought. If Anna isn’t here, where is she? Linda pulled up the hood of her yellow rain jacket and hurried down the road behind the church. The yard to the house was deserted. The old tractor was wet and shiny from the rain. She banged on the front door and it swung open. But no one had opened it; it hadn’t been properly closed. She called out, but no one answered. The house was empty, abandoned. Nothing was left. She saw that they had taken the black cross on the wall. It felt as if the house had been empty for a long time.

  Linda stood in the middle of the room. The man in the sun, she thought. The one I saw yesterday and thought was Anna’s father. He came here, and today everyone is gone.

  She left the house and drove to Rannesholm. There she was told that Wallander was up at the manor, conducting a meeting with his closest associates. She walked over in the rain and settled down to wait for him in the big hall. She thought about the last thing Margareta Olsson had said, something about Anna Westin not having to worry about her safety because she had God and an earthly guardian angel named Gabriel for protectors. It seemed important. She just couldn’t think how.

  25

  Linda never stopped being surprised by her father, by his rapid mood changes, that is. When she saw him come through a door in the large hall at Rannesholm manor she expected him to be tired, anxious, and downcast. But he was in good spirits. He sat down next to her and launched into a long-winded story about a time he had a left a pair of gloves at a restaurant and been offered a broken umbrella instead. Is he going crazy? she thought. Then he left to go to the bathroom and Martinsson stopped briefly on his way out. He told her that her father had been in a relatively good mood ever since she had moved back to town. Martinsson hurried on when Wallander returned. He sat down so heavily on the old sofa that the springs groaned. She told him about running into Sten Widén at the gas station.

  “He’s remarkably stoic about his fate,” Wallander said. “He reminds me of Rydberg, who had the same calm attitude. I hope that will turn out to be true for me one day, that I’ll be stronger than I think.”

  Some officers carrying cases of equipment walked by. Then the room was silent.

  “Are you making progress?” Linda asked.

  “Not really, or slowly, I should say. The worse the crime, the more impatient one becomes about solving it, even though in these cases patience is critical. I once knew an officer in Malmö—Birch—who used to compare our investigative work to that of a surgeon facing a complicated operation. The calm, time, and patience needed for such procedures are key ingredients even for us. Birch is dead now, as it happens. He drowned in a little lake. He went swimming, must have suffered a cramp, no one heard him. He should have known better, of course, but now he’s dead. I feel as if
people are dying all around me, although I know it’s irrational. Births and deaths are going on all around us all the time. But the dying seems more pronounced when you reach the front of the line. Now that my father is dead there’s no one ahead of me anymore.”

  Wallander looked down at his hands. Then he turned to her and smiled.

  “What was it you asked me?”

  “How is the investigation going?”

  “We haven’t found a single trace of the perpetrator. We have no idea who was living in that hut.”

  “What do you think?”

  “You know you should never ask me that. Never what I think, only what I know or what I suspect.”

  “I’m curious.”

  He sighed.

  “I’ll make an exception. I think Birgitta Medberg came upon the hut accidentally in her search for the pilgrim trail. The person who was there panicked or became enraged and killed her. But the fact that he dismembered the body complicates the picture.”

  “Have you found the rest of it?”

  “We have divers in the lake and a canine unit combing the forest. They haven’t found anything yet.”

  He got ready to get up off the sofa.

  “I take it there’s something you want to tell me.”

  Linda told him in great detail about her visit to Anna’s house in Lund as well as to the house in Lestarp.

  “Too many words,” he said when she finished.

  “I’m working on it. Did you get the gist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been too bad.”

  “I’d give it a beta query,” Wallander said.

  “What’s a beta query?”

  “When I was in school, anything less than a beta query was considered a failing grade.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “Stop worrying. You haven’t been listening to me. What happened to Birgitta Medberg was a mishap, one of almost biblical proportions. She took the wrong path. If I’m not mistaken, Birgitta Medberg had excruciatingly bad luck. Therefore there’s no longer any reason to think Anna is in any danger. The journal shows there is a connection between the two of them, but it’s no longer of concern to us.”

  Ann-Britt Höglund and Lisa Holgersson came walking by at a brisk clip. Holgersson nodded kindly to Linda. Höglund didn’t seem to notice her. Wallander got up.

  “Go home now,” he said.

  “We could have used an extra set of hands,” Holgersson said. “I wish the money was there. When is it you start?”

  “Next Monday.”

  “Good.”

  Linda watched them walking out together, and then she also left the manor. It was raining and getting colder, as if the weather couldn’t make up its mind. She walked back to the car. The house behind the church had sparked her curiosity. Why were they all gone? I can at least find out who the owner of the house is, she thought. I don’t need a permit or a police uniform for that. She drove back to Lestarp and parked in her usual spot. The doors to the church were half-open. After hesitating for a moment, she walked in. The old man she had talked to before was in the vestibule. He recognized her.

  “Can’t stay away from our beautiful church?”

  “I came by to ask you something.”

  “Isn’t that why we all come here? To find answers to our questions?”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant. I was thinking about the house behind the church. Do you know who owns it?”

  “It’s been in many different hands. When I was young, a man with one leg shorter than the other lived there. His name was Johannes Pålsson. He worked as a day laborer up at Stigby farmstead and was good at mending china. The last few years he lived alone. He moved the pigs into the living room and the chickens into the kitchen. That kind of thing went on in those days. When he was gone, someone else used the place as storage for grain. Then there was a horse breeder, and after that, sometime in the 1960s, the house was sold to someone whose name I’ve forgotten.”

  “You don’t know who owns it now?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen people come and go lately. They’re peaceful and discreet. Some say they use the house for meditation. They’ve never bothered us. But I don’t know who the owner is. You should be able to find out through the property-tax records.”

  Linda thought for a moment. What would her father have done?

  “Who knows all the gossip in this village?”

  He looked at her with a smile.

  “That would be me, wouldn’t it?”

  “But apart from you. If there’s anyone who would know who owns the house, who would it be?”

  “Maybe Sara Edén, the retired schoolteacher. She lives in the little house next to the car-repair shop. She devotes her time to talking on the phone. She knows everything that’s going on, and fills in the rest as needed. She’s a good sort, just insatiably curious.”

  “What will happen if I ring her doorbell?”

  “You’ll make a lonely old woman’s day.”

  The front door opened wider and the grieving woman walked in. She met Linda’s gaze before walking to her regular pew.

  “Every day,” the old man said. “The same time, the same face, the same grief.”

  Linda left the church and walked down to the house. It was still empty. She returned to the church, decided to let the car stay where it was, and walked down the hill to Rune’s Auto and Tractor. On one side of the shop there was a ramshackle pile of spare car parts; on the other there was a high fence. Linda suspected that the retired schoolteacher didn’t care for a view of a car-repair shop. She opened the gate and stepped into a well-tended garden. An elderly woman was kneeling over a flowerbed. She stood up when she heard Linda come in.

  “Who are you?” she asked sternly.

  “My name is Linda. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  Sara Edén came over to where Linda was standing, holding a garden shovel aggressively outstretched. It occurred to Linda that there were people who were the human equivalent of ill-tempered dogs.

  “Why would you want to ask me questions?”

  “I’m looking for a friend who’s disappeared.”

  Sara Edén looked skeptically at her.

  “Isn’t that something for the police? Looking for missing persons?”

  “I am from the police.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll show me your ID. That’s my right, my older brother informed me. He was the headmaster at a school in Stockholm. He lived to be one hundred and one years old despite his bothersome colleagues and even more bothersome students.”

  “I don’t have an ID card yet. I’m still in training.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it then. Are you strong?”

  “Fairly.”

  Sara Edén pointed to a wheelbarrow that was filled to the brim with discarded plants and weeds.

  “There’s a compost pile around the back of the house, but my back has been giving me a bit of trouble. I must have slept in a strange position.”

  Linda took hold of the wheelbarrow. It was very heavy, but she managed to coax it around to the compost pile. When she had finished emptying it, Edén showed a kindlier side. There were some chairs and a table tucked into a little arbor.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Then you’ll have to pick it up yourself from the vending machine by the furniture warehouse on the road out to Ystad. I don’t drink coffee—or tea for that matter. But I can offer you a glass of mineral water.”

  “No, thank you.”

  They sat down. Linda had no trouble imagining Ms. Edén as a schoolteacher. She probably saw Linda as an unruly schoolgirl.

  “Well, tell me what happened.”

  Linda gave her a brief outline of the events and said she had traced Anna to the house behind the church. She was careful not to let on how worried she was.

  “We were supposed to meet,” she said. “But something happe
ned.”

  The old lady looked doubtful.

  “And how do you believe that I can be of assistance?”

  “I’m trying to find out who owns that house.”

  “In the olden days, one always knew who was who and who owned what. But in this day and age, there’s no way of telling. One day I’ll find out I’ve been living next to an escaped criminal.”

  “I thought perhaps in such a small town people still knew these things.”

  “There has been a great number of comings and goings in that house during the past while, but nothing that caused any disturbance. If I have understood it correctly, the people there are involved in some kind of health organization. Since I take good care of myself and am not planning to give my departed brother the satisfaction of dying at a younger age, I watch what I eat and drink, and I am curious about this new so-called alternative medicine. I went up to the house one time and spoke to a very friendly English-speaking lady. She gave me a pamphlet. I don’t remember what the organization was called, but they espoused meditation and certain natural juices for promoting health.”

  “Did you ever go back?”

  “The whole thing was far too vague for my tastes.”

  “Do you still have the pamphlet?”

  Edén nodded toward the compost.

  “I doubt there’s anything left of it by now.”

  Linda tried to think of something else to ask, but she didn’t see the point of pursuing it further. She got up.

  “No more questions?”

  “No.”

  They walked back to the front of the house.

  “I dread the fall,” Sara Edén said. “I’m afraid of the creeping fog and the rain and the noisy crows in their treetops. The only thing that keeps my spirits up is the thought of the spring flowers I’m planting right now.”