A summer with Kim Novak Page 12

  But Ewa Kaludis was a different matter. We had to put her on the agenda now and then.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Edmund. ‘I wonder what she said to the police about her black eye?’

  ‘She’s probably not feeling particularly well at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Must be lonely,’ said Edmund. ‘Without Henry and all that. You don’t think they’re seeing each other?’

  ‘I should think not,’ I said.

  The idea of looking her up had already started to sprout in the back of my mind. In Edmund’s, too, apparently.

  On Sunday Detective Lindström returned. He didn’t stay more than an hour, but he spoke with all three of us. One after the other, and this time to me and Edmund separately.

  ‘This is about a couple of details,’ he explained when it was my turn.

  ‘Details?’ I said.

  ‘Details,’ said Lindström. ‘They might seem insignificant, but the whole picture always comes together through the details.’

  ‘Only time will tell,’ I said.

  He furrowed his brow for a moment. Then he turned a page in his notebook and clicked his biro several times.

  ‘Do you have many tools out here?’

  ‘Tools?’

  ‘Saws, axes, hammers and the like.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Some, not many.’

  ‘We are mainly interested in a large hammer or a small sledgehammer.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you know if you have one like that?’

  I thought back.

  ‘There’s a hammer in the tool box,’ I said. ‘But it’s not big.’

  ‘Is it this one?’

  He lifted up a hammer that he’d been hiding under the table. I glanced at it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  I looked at it more closely.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. We used it when we built the dock; I recognize it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lindström. ‘That’s what your friend said, too.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘There isn’t a larger one?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ I said. ‘I think there’s a small sledgehammer or something out in the shed.’

  ‘Is there?’ said Lindström. ‘Shall we go take a look?’

  I followed him out to the tumbledown shed next to the privy. Unlatched the door and looked in at the mess.

  ‘I don’t know where it is.’

  I poked around inside.

  ‘Can’t you find it?’ Lindström wondered. He had taken out his tube of Bronzol and was rocking from heel to toe.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe it’s here. Your brother couldn’t find it either. You don’t happen to know where it might have gone?’

  I climbed out of the shed and brushed off the dust.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Do you remember when you saw it last?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Dunno. A few weeks ago, maybe.’

  ‘You didn’t use it when you were building the dock?’

  ‘No.’

  We went back to the kitchen table.

  ‘The other detail,’ Lindström said after writing in his notepad. ‘The other detail concerns a certain Miss Ewa Kaludis.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Are you acquainted with her?’

  ‘She was a supply teacher at school,’ I said. ‘In May and June. But only for a few subjects. Our usual teacher had broken her leg.’

  Lindström nodded.

  ‘Was she a good teacher?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose she was.’

  ‘Did you know that she kept company with Berra Albertsson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen her at all this summer?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes actually. Once in Lackaparken.’

  ‘Lackaparken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not on any other occasion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I thought about it.

  ‘Not that I remember,’ I said.

  Lindström was silent for a few seconds and didn’t make any notes. Then he stood up.

  ‘I think I’ll need to stop by again,’ he said. ‘If you find that sledgehammer, I want you to get in touch.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised.

  We shook hands and he was on his way.

  Once in fourth grade Balthazar Lindblom wet himself. It happened during RE class with a supply teacher called Rockgård, whom we called Rockhard, because he was. He was incorruptible. It was no use trying to be cheeky or doing things differently from how he’d decided.

  Balthazar had his accident around ten minutes before the lesson finished, and because we were silently working from our books, everyone noticed the gushing sound coming from under his desk.

  Even Rockhard.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he barked. ‘What are you doing, you imbecile?’

  Balthazar finished peeing before answering. The puddle spread out into a small lake, and those of us who were sitting near him had to lift our feet.

  ‘Teacher said so,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘What?’ said Rockhard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Teacher said that we had to make sure to visit the toilet during break. That there was no point in asking to go during the lesson.’

  It was probably the only time in his teaching career that Rockhard ended his class ten minutes before the bell.

  And Balthazar Lindblom is the only person I know that managed to become some sort of hero—if only for a short time—just by pissing himself.

  With time it wasn’t so much the act of peeing, but Rockhard’s comment that stuck in my mind. What he said before he ushered us out into the playground, that is.

  ‘Perfect. You handled this perfectly, my boy.’

  I thought of Rockhard when Detective Superintendent Lindström left Gennesaret that Sunday afternoon. Not because they were especially similar, either in their manner or in their looks, but they still had something in common. Something incorruptible. Something that was useless to try to change or oppose.

  I didn’t know if this was for better or worse.

  To be honest, it was the first time that summer that Britt Laxman paid us any attention. Edmund and me. That Monday morning, I mean, when we walked under the ringing bell into the shop in Åsbro.

  The first and only time, actually.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ she said. Flashing her teeth and losing interest in the grey-haired woman at the counter airing her complaints. ‘Hi Erik, hi Edmund. How’s it going?’

  At least she had learned our names. I looked at Edmund and around the shop. It was unusually crowded. I could tell that Britt Laxman wasn’t the only one who knew who we were. I could tell that most of them weren’t there to do their shopping. The sudden silence and tongue-tiedness were connected to our arrival, that was as clear as day. While it was flattering, it was also threatening, and I think Edmund felt the same.

  Three seconds, it wasn’t longer than that, but it was enough. We looked at each other knowingly. Old Major Casselmiolke cleared his throat and continued the train of thought that he’d begun with Moppe Nilsson at the meat counter.

  ‘Tracks!’ thundered the military man. ‘There have to be tracks! Clues, for heaven’s sake! They’re just waiting for the analysis! We live in a scientific age, don’t you forget that!’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t agree,’ Moppe countered leisurely while moving the sausages around with his sausage-like fingers. ‘I think the perpetrator should thank God for the rain.’

  ‘The rain?’ said Casselmiolke. ‘God?’

  As if he’d never heard of those things.

  ‘The rain that fell between four and five in the morning,’ Moppe explained. ‘It would have washed away every last clue. That’s what it said in Aftonbladet this Saturday.�
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  ‘Aftonbladet?’ said Casselmiolke. ‘Dreadful rag! You don’t happen to have a copy, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no,’ Britt Laxman called from across the store. ‘They sold out in half an hour.’ Then she turned to us wide-eyed and with a fresh smile. ‘What’ll it be?’ she asked. ‘How are you both doing?’

  We went through the shopping list as quickly as we could, but when we were done, she didn’t want to let us go.

  ‘What do you think?’ she lowered her voice—to avoid every last person in the shop hearing her. ‘Who did it?’

  Edmund cast a glance at me.

  ‘A madman,’ he then said. ‘Some nutjob who escaped from a loony bin. Isn’t that obvious?’

  And that was the line we continued to toe. The madman-line. When people asked us what we thought—and that happened every so often, God knows: we’d seen the body, we lived right by the scene of the crime after all, we must’ve heard something in the night, and so on—yes, then we went with the lunatic theory. A madman. An escaped mental patient. Only someone who was out of his mind could’ve been behind the murder of Bertil ‘Berra’ Albertsson. Of course. Anything else was unthinkable.

  We knew instantly—as soon as we were back on Laxman’s steps, and without having to discuss it—that this had been exactly the right response.

  A madman.

  Who else?

  17

  Those nights, I was dreaming about Ewa Kaludis again. Sometimes she had a black eye, sometimes not. I sensed that Edmund was also lying in bed dreaming of her, and when I asked him, he wasn’t shy about admitting it.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘She’s got her hooks in me. Britt Laxman feels sort of stale now.’

  ‘Britt Laxman?’ I said. ‘You’re not saying you used to dream about her?’

  ‘Well,’ said Edmund. ‘Not dream, exactly. Fantasize.’

  Soon we were talking about if it was possible for two people to dream the same dream. Could Edmund and I lie, each in our own bed, and be looking at the same images of Ewa Kaludis? As if we were sitting in the cinema watching the same film?

  It seemed to make sense. The dream factory might have some sort of rationing programme and there simply weren’t enough unique dreams to go around for each person every night.

  But Edmund disagreed.

  ‘They can’t be that bloody stingy in the dream world,’ he said. ‘It’s only in our crap world that you have to go around niggling and skimping. Can’t we at least have our dreams to ourselves?’

  A dream for each person?

  I hoped that Edmund was right. It sounded fair and democratic—as Brylle would say during social studies. As for our nightmares, we never discussed them.

  After the murder my brother Henry stuck closer to Gennesaret than before, but he was hardly more talkative. He didn’t write much either; mostly he lay on his bed, reading what he’d already written, I think. He took Killer out for short spins and went for a row on the lake a few times, too. But he was rarely gone for more than an hour. On Tuesday morning, he explained that he had to go to Örebro and that he’d be away for a while. He set off soon after twelve, and Edmund and I decided that we’d give the pinball machine down at Fläskhällen another go. We were just about to push off in the boat when a man appeared around the side of the house.

  He appeared to be in his thirties. But with thinning hair. He wore a white nylon shirt and sunglasses and was signalling for us to come back by waving both of his arms.

  We looked at each other and went ashore again.

  ‘Lundberg,’ he said when we came up to him. ‘Rogga Lundberg. I’m looking for Henry Wassman.’

  I introduced myself and explained that Henry wasn’t at home. And that he’d probably be away a while.

  ‘Aha,’ said Rogga Lundberg. ‘You’re his little brother, aren’t you?’

  I didn’t like him. From the very first moment, I knew that Rogga Lundberg was no good and that we had to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Maybe it was the sunglasses that gave away his unsavoury nature; he didn’t bother to remove them even though it was a cloudy day.

  Still, I admitted that I was indeed Henry’s brother.

  ‘Let’s sit and have a chat,’ said Rogga Lundberg. ‘I know Henry. It would be fun to get to know his brother, too. Who’s your mate?’

  ‘Edmund,’ said Edmund.

  We reluctantly sat down at the garden table. Rogga lit a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve worked with Henry,’ he said. ‘At Kurren. I’m freelance, too.’

  The word ‘freelance’ suddenly lost some of its sheen.

  ‘So, things have happened here.’ He gestured meaningfully toward the woods and the clearing. Edmund and I didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘It’s not every day that there’s a murder on our doorstep. Yup, I’m doing a little writing about it, you know. One man’s death is another man’s bread. You read Kurren, don’t you?’

  ‘We don’t know anything about it,’ I said.

  ‘We just happen to live nearby,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Really?’ said Rogga Lundberg and smiled briefly. ‘But I think Henry knows a lot, doesn’t he?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.

  He didn’t answer right away. He clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back in the chair as if he were sunning himself. Wearing those bloody sunglasses. Even though it was cloudy. He took two drags from his cigarette and then let it hang from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘When’s he back, did you say?’

  ‘Late,’ I said, suddenly reminded of the conversation I’d had with Berra Albertsson just under a week ago. It had been almost exactly like this, and it felt so uncanny that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. ‘Won’t be back until tonight, probably.’

  ‘Does he have nocturnal habits, your brother?’

  I didn’t answer. Edmund took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I knew this was a nervous tic.

  ‘Listen,’ said Rogga Lundberg in a serious tone. ‘It’s just as well that you understand what the police are thinking. Or that Henry does. That’s why I want to have a chat with him.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said.

  He flicked his cigarette over his shoulder. ‘It’s not that strange,’ he said. ‘Clever lads like you shouldn’t have a hard time catching my drift. Especially if you put your heads together.’

  We didn’t reply.

  ‘Berra Albertsson was found up where you park the cars. Right? On the night between Wednesday and Thursday last week?’

  I nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Someone killed him just as he was getting out of his car. So, the police’s first conclusion must be that he’d intended to park there. Can you tell me why?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer,’ Rogga Lundberg continued when neither Edmund nor I showed any sign of wanting to speak. ‘It’s obvious. There is only one reason you’d park up there. Either he was going to visit the Lundins or he was going to visit you … Either-or. There are no other alternatives. What do you have to say about that?’

  ‘Maybe he was stopping for a piss,’ said Edmund.

  ‘And a madman just happened to be up there,’ I said.

  Rogga Lundberg didn’t mind the interruption.

  ‘Let me tell you, the police were working from this premise from the start: that Super-Berra had planned on coming here—or going to the Lundins’ over there …’ He nodded nonchalantly toward the Lundins’. ‘And there was someone who wanted to prevent him from getting there. Or here. And who succeeded … Hmm?’

  The question mark after the ‘hmm’ was as clear as anything, but neither I nor Edmund made any attempt to reply.

  ‘The police focused on the Lundins first, of course—they’re no strangers to this sort of thing. Unfortunately that didn’t lead anywhere. There’s not much pointing to their involvement this time around.’

  ‘How c-c-could you know that?’ said Edmund. ‘Y-y-you’re talking bollocks.’

  It
was the first time that I’d heard Edmund stutter. Rogga Lundberg lost track of himself for a moment. Then he sniffed contemptuously and took out another cigarette.

  ‘This is what I need to talk to Henry about,’ he said. ‘Shame he isn’t home. It’ll be too bad if we can’t have a chat soon.’

  Cancer-Treblinka-Love-Fuck-Death, I thought for the first time in a long time.

  ‘So you should probably tell him I stopped by and tell him what I said. You can say that I know about his romantic entanglements, too. One in particular. He’ll understand.’

  He got up and lit a cigarette, looking at us through his dark lenses. Then he shrugged and left.

  We stayed put for a long time and tried to put him out of our minds. But we couldn’t.

  It was probably the conversation with Rogga Lundberg that made us tackle the Ewa Kaludis problem that very Wednesday.

  Henry was sleeping when we got up. We hadn’t heard him come home the previous night, and before we set off, we left a note on the kitchen table saying that a colleague had come looking for him. I didn’t want to write anything else; it would be better to tell him the rest when we were back in the evening.

  It was a warm but windy day. We left on our bikes in the morning, but Edmund got a puncture about halfway between Sjölycke and Åsbro. We had to go down into civilization and spend an hour outside of Laxman’s with a bucket of water, patches and rubber solution. Britt Laxman wasn’t there; Edmund and I thought that was just as well, and finally we decided that the inner tube would be able to hold air again.

  The headwind meant that we didn’t reach town until around two. We’d called my dad from Laxman’s—it was the second of his three weeks of holiday and he hadn’t yet gone to the hospital—and said that we were thinking of stopping by Idrottsgatan. When we arrived, he had just started to prepare mince patties with onions.

  His cooking was so-so, as usual, but we were hungry and he looked pleased when we were done.

  ‘Good, boys. Eat until you burst. You never know when you’re going to get your next meal.’

  ‘Truer words were never spoken,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Has it settled down out there?’ my father asked.

  We nodded. If we let anything slip about Henry and Ewa Kaludis or about Rogga Lundberg, then he’d lock us in on the spot and forbid us from setting foot in Gennesaret ever again. I realized that I felt ashamed of keeping him in the dark and hoped that somehow I’d have a chance to explain everything afterward.