The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [119]
“I don’t want to upset you but I need to clear this up. Do you think that Ulrik knew of Blomgren’s existence?”
“In that case he never mentioned it,” Laura said gruffly.
“No hints? No word after you had grown up? Some parents love to tar the other just to have the advantage or win the sympathy of the child.”
“Ulrik isn’t like that.”
“How is he?”
“I don’t know why you would be interested in that. Wouldn’t it be better if you found him?”
“We’re trying to, or rather, we have done everything. Your mother seemed very interested in gardening. You can still see that your garden was very beautiful once. While I was waiting for you I walked around in it. There is—for me at least—an unusual tree in your garden. It must be old, at least twenty or thirty years. It has several trunks. Do you know which one I mean? It has a striped bark.”
Laura nodded.
“Who planted it?”
“My mother most likely,” Laura said.
“I saw an identical tree outside Blomgren’s house. Not quite as large, but it grows better here.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s my job.”
“I also have a job,” Laura said and gave a nod to the pile of papers on the table.
“Aren’t you on sick leave?”
“Are you an insurance officer?”
Lindell smiled.
“Where did your mother die?”
“Are we going to dig her up as well?”
“No, I just want to understand how she died.”
“I live with that knowledge every day.”
“I know,” Lindell said and wriggled out of her jacket.
She felt the tension and warmth rising in the kitchen. She couldn’t figure Laura out. She was lying about Petrus Blomgren, Lindell was convinced of it. Behind the secure, swift replies there was a person who was on her guard.
“You don’t understand anything about my family,” Laura said. “My mother died. I was left alone.”
“And your father?”
“He lived in another world. He simply happened to live here. There was a summer when I . . . was always swinging. I did lots of childish things, ran around barefoot, tied dandelions together, and everything I had never had time for. Ulrik read his books. It was a beautiful summer. He sat in a wicker chair and read. Sometimes he stood up and gave speed to the swing again. I was almost afraid I would go over the top but he just laughed. In the evenings we sat up late, played games, and listened to Verdi. Should we go down?”
“Go down?” Lindell asked.
“Into the basement. That was where she died.”
Laura smiled sadly and for a moment Lindell hesitated. Something about this woman didn’t add up. Lindell had seen it before, an unpredictable rage lurking behind the controlled surface.
She pushed aside her doubts and followed Laura into the hall.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said. “I can’t afford an illegal Polish cleaning lady.”
“That’s allright,” Lindell said. “I won’t remark on the dust.”
Laura pulled the door open and was about to walk down the stairs when she turned around.
“Wait a minute, I need to get a flashlight. The light down there isn’t working.”
Lindell peeked down into the darkness.
“Take this,” Laura said and held a flashlight out to Lindell. “I’ll get one more. It’s probably in the kitchen,” she said and left.
Lindell turned on the light. The battery was low and in the faint light she saw the contours of the steps and the little area at the bottom. There was the gleam of a large number of wine bottles. Most of the remaining space was taken up by cardboard boxes.
Lindell leaned forward to get a better view. On both sides there were openings that led to dark recesses. It smelled musty.
Laura returned.
“I can’t find the other flashlight, but why don’t you go ahead. Be careful, the third step is a little treacherous.”
Lindell looked down. Laura nodded and smiled. Lindell took another step and let the flashlight illuminate her way. The third step swayed.
“Careful,” Laura said behind her back. “It was that exact step that became my mother’s death.”
“Was she on her way up or down?”
“Up, I think, because she was carrying a jar of lingonberries.”
Laura giggled and Lindell turned her head.
“Now you die,” Laura said tonelessly