The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [113]
It was a stab in the dark, the flash of the woman in the photograph and another in front of a bonfire, that made her perform the insane maneuver. At the Vivo grocery store, a couple of hundred meters from Laura Hin-dersten’s house, she stopped the car and got out, consumed with an idea. The chance of success was minimal but it was worth testing.
There was a young woman at the cash register. She smiled when Lindell came in. Lindell introduced herself and asked if there was anyone around who had worked in the store about twenty years ago. The young woman looked perplexed.
“You mean here?”
Lindell nodded.
“Twenty years ago?”
A new nod. A polite smile doesn’t always mean quick wits, Lindell noted.
“No, I don’t think so. It’s just mullah Ante and me here.”
“And Ante?”
“He’s twenty-five.”
“Okay, do you know of anyone who might have worked here before, someone older?”
“Like you, or what?”
Lindell smiled.
“Yes, like me, or maybe someone even older.”
“Sivbritt used to work here but she’s retired.”
“Then she’s older,” Lindell pointed out.
“She still comes in sometimes, pretty frequently actually.”
“Maybe she lives in the area?”
“Ante!” the cashier yelled suddenly. “Do you know where Sivbritt lives— you know, the one who comes in all the time and tells us how to do our job?”
Ante emerged from the back of the store. He looked much older than twenty-five, probably because of his considerable beard.
“Sivbritt Eriksson, she lives on Birkagatan. I’ve delivered groceries to her home. Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The cashier nodded at Lindell.
“It’s her.”
Ante looked interestedly at the newcomer.
“Has Nicke sent you?”
Lindell grew tired of this and explained that she wanted Sivbritt’s address, and she wanted it right away. Ante reacted immediately, wrote it down on a piece of paper, tore it from the pad with a suave expression, and gave it to Lindell, who thanked them and hurried to the exit.
“While I’m here,” she said and turned in the doorway. “I’m investigating a disappearance. It’s an older man who went missing about a month ago, Ulrik Hindersten. Do you know who that is?”
“Your buddies have already asked us about it,” Ante said.
“I’m asking you again.”
“He was here sometimes but his crazy daughter is here, like, a lot.”
“Crazy?”
“She’s a real freak who asks for a sick amount of stuff.”
“Like?”
“Cheeses and stuff,” the cashier said and made it sound like a personal insult that Laura Hindersten wanted to buy more than bread and milk.
“Has she been here today?”
“Is she also missing?”
“Thanks,” Lindell said abruptly and left the store.
Lindell knew where Birkagatan was. Several years ago, before she worked in Violent Crimes, she had been there to check on a reported case of domestic abuse. From what she could remember a woman was later charged with assault in a lesser degree. She had hit her husband in the head with a frying pan and thereafter thrown hot potatoes at him as he tried to flee from the apartment.
She parked directly outside the entrance, walked quickly up the two stairs, and rang Sivbritt Erikssons bell. It’s sick how many Erikssons there are, she thought and smiled to herself.
After the third try she gave up. I thought retirees were home all the time, she thought obnoxiously, already having created a mental image of the whiny Sivbritt who disturbed young people in their work.
When she walked back there was a man next to her car. A white piece of paper was on the windshield, attached with duct tape. It looked like an enormous invitation to a funeral. The man surveyed his work with satisfaction.
“What the hell is this?” Lindell burst out.
“Read it yourself,” the man said impudently, but drew back when he saw Lindell’s expression.
She tore off the note and read, “You have repeatedly parked your car . . . “ She glared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“You can read, can’t you?”
“Can you read?