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Fridh had pulled up and Beatrice took the woman’s arm and guided her to the side so that the van could drive in.

“He’s badly beaten,” Beatrice said.

“I realize that,” Dorotea said.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to see him later, I mean when they’ve had a chance to clean him up.”

“I want to say good-bye. Here.”

There was a faint smell of mothballs around her.

“Of course you can say good-bye. I’ll come with you,” Beatrice said.

Fredriksson turned away. Haver kicked the leaves at his feet. Lindell and Sammy Nilsson looked at each other. Lindell shook her head, turned, and walked up to the house.

Beatrice accompanied the woman up to the door of the barn. Charles Morgansson had finished putting away his equipment and he made way for them. He nodded to Beatrice who took it as a green light for them to go in.

“I think the very first blow made him unconscious,” Beatrice said.

She felt Dorotea’s thin body tense up. She freed herself from Beatrice, took the cane as support, and sank down next to Petrus Blomgren, mumbled something, and put her hand on his shoulder. Bea was glad that Dorotea had not walked over alone in the dawn and found Petrus, but that she had just called the police and forced them to come out and take a look.

“He was my best friend,” Dorotea said.

Beatrice crouched down so she could hear better.

“My only friend. We pottered around here like ancient memorials, me and him. Petrus said many times that it wasn’t right, ‘They had no right,’ was how he put it.”

Beatrice didn’t really understand what she meant.

Dorotea’s hand caressed the wool sweater. She appeared oblivious of the blackened blood in the wound on the back of the head.

“Little Petrus, you went first. I could almost . . .”

Her voice was overcome with emotion. The bony hand went still, took hold of the sweater as if she wanted to pull the dead man to his feet.

“He came over with lingonberries this fall. More than usual. ‘Now you have more than enough,’ he said, as if he knew.”

She braced herself on the cane and slowly straightened to standing.

“When you are as old as I am you see things, how it is all connected. Petrus would always say it would be better to turn life around, be old first and then become younger, leave the frailty behind but keep the wisdom.”

“That would be good,” Beatrice said.

The old woman sighed heavily.

“They had ten cows in here, maybe twelve. He sold the land later on.”

“For a good price?”

“It was good enough. He didn’t lack for anything, Petrus.”

“It looks like he lived frugally,” Beatrice said, taking the old woman’s arm and helping her back out into the fresh air.

“That’s how we were raised,” Dorotea said.

“Do you know if Petrus had a special place for his valuable documents?”

Dorotea shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

The four police officers were still waiting in the yard. Beatrice had the feeling that she and Dorotea were leaving a church, as if after a funeral.

Fridh was sitting in the van and would remain there until after the old woman had left.

“Will you pray with me?” Dorotea asked. “Just a few words. Petrus was not a believer but I don’t think he’ll mind.”

Beatrice interlaced her fingers and Dorotea quietly said a few words, remained motionless for a few seconds before opening her eyes.

“He was a magnificent man,” she said. “With a good heart. May he rest in peace.”

Far off in the distance, a horse neighed.

Three

Had she ever liked him? She often asked herself this question. At times, perhaps. That time when he tripped outside the house and fell on his face she had at least felt sorry for him. That was what he had said, that he tripped, but Laura imagined that something else must have happened since he had scraped both his cheeks and forehead.

She dressed his wounds. She did this with divided feelings: part disdain for his whimpering when the disinfecting solution stung, part tenderness at his helplessness. The skinny legs dangling over the edge of the bed, the thinning hair growing still thinner, and the hands that gripped the soiled blanket.

At other