The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [118]
“Is that freedom?” Lindell said with a little laugh.
“His name is Stig and he is absolutely wonderful,” Laura went on, ignoring Lindell’s comment. “He’s a colleague. We fuck. No, we don’t fuck. We make love to each other. If you only knew.”
Laura didn’t look at Lindell. It seemed as if she was talking to herself. She walked over to the window and looked out. She grew silent but Lindell saw her lips still moving.
“He’s mine,” she said after a while.
“Congratulations,” Lindell said.
“He’s married but that doesn’t matter. That can be solved. The essence of freedom lies in solving problems as they arise, don’t you think? If you accept the fact that the problems are unsolvable then you become half a person. An impoverished person. Isn’t that right?”
She turned to Lindell and looked at her for confirmation. Lindell nodded.
“For thirty-five years I have believed that everything was my fault. But it wasn’t! Jessica is her name. She’s no good for Stig. Jessica is no good. She . . . when everything . . . I’ve lived shut up here. Now I’ve paid all the debts.”
“Are they getting a divorce?”
“Yes, I’m the person who’s going to separate them. That has become my task. Stig is too weak for such things. He doesn’t even dare talk to her. He says he has but I can see that he’s lying. He is so scared! Just as I was. If you only knew how much he loved me. He’s loved me for a long time. Maybe several years.”
Laura smiled. Her features softened.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine?”
Laura picked up a half full bottle from the counter. Lindell shook her head and at the same moment took out the picture of Alice Hindersten.
“This is you mother, isn’t it?”
If Laura was taken aback she didn’t show it. She didn’t move a muscle.
“Yes, it is. My mother, Alice Henrietta.”
“I found this photograph in Petrus Blomgren’s house. He was murdered a couple of days ago. Why do you think he had a picture of your mother?”
“I’ve no idea,” Laura said and sat down across from Lindell.
“I asked you earlier if you knew Blomgren but at that time you denied it.”
The phone in Lindell’s pocket rang but she ignored it.
Laura studied the photo.
“Wasn’t she beautiful?” she said in a soft voice voice. “My mother.”
“Did you know Petrus Blomgren?”
“No,” Laura said.
“I think Alice and Petrus had a relationship.”
Laura swallowed.
“I don’t think so,” she said, and Lindell could barely make out the words. “My mother was faithful. The letters!” she cried out suddenly.
She stood up and left the kitchen. Lindell heard the front door open and Laura ran down the steps.
She returned quickly with her handbag.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I was just given some old letters.”
“From your mother?”
“Yes, I visited a cousin and he had some old papers.”
“Have you read the letters?”
“Yes, it was just family gossip but it was fun anyway. It was sweet of Lars-Erik to think of me.”
“If we could return to Petrus. I think he and Alice went to Mallorca together. Do you remember that trip?”
“Of course, that was my mother’s own little excursion, as my father called it. She had been operated on for something that spring and needed cheering up.”
“What kind of an operation?”
“Something to do with her gall bladder, I think.”
“But you didn’t hear of anyone named Petrus?”
Laura shook her head again.
“How do you explain the picture?”
“Is he from Skyttorp or Örbyhus, this Blomgren?”
“No, why?”
“I was thinking perhaps he was a childhood friend of my mother’s.”
“But why would he have such a recent picture of her?”
“Maybe he was in love with her,” Laura said simply and lightly, as if it were a trivial matter.
“If I can speak frankly,” Lindell said, “then—”
“One should be frank,” Laura broke in.
“. . . I don’t believe it. I am convinced that Alice and Petrus had a relationship. That you didn’t know about it is one thing but do you think your father knew?”
Laura didn’t answer. Lindell waited for a while before continuing.
“Your mother died shortly after she returned from Mallorca.”
“My mother’s death is personal and has nothing to do with anyone else. It is my grief.