The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [15]
“In addition, for many years Blomgren had a donation by direct deposit set up with Doctors Without Borders. They received four hundred kronor every month. He recently raised the amount. Earlier it was three hundred.”
“That’s strange,” Ola Haver inserted. “I would have expected Save the Children or converting the heathens, but Doctors Without Borders is unexpected.”
“The guy at the bank also asked about this, but Blomgren gave no particular reason,” Fredriksson said. “Maybe he saw a TV program about them?”
“No large withdrawals recently?”
“No,” Lindell said. “As we said, everything was in order. No unexpected transactions.”
“He kept a will at the bank,” Fredriksson said. “I talked to the lawyer who drew it up three years ago. It was at Blomgren’s behest. He came alone to the lawyer’s office and had a prepared document that he wanted the lawyer to look through. It didn’t take long. All assets go to Doctors Without Borders, with the exception of twenty thousand to his neighbor, Dorotea Svahn, and ten thousand to Jumkil Church.”
“Damn,” Sammy said.
“It’s hardly credible that Doctors Without Borders or the church board have death squads posted in the countryside,” Haver said, “and Dorotea probably can’t kill a fly.”
“That was sweet of Petrus,” Bea said. “I don’t think Dorotea is so well off.”
“The church is,” Sammy said.
“Not in Jumkil,” Ottosson objected.
The last maple leaves are falling right now, Fredriksson thought. No one will be raking Blomgren’s yard today. As he often did, he fell into a few moments of thought. His colleagues were used to these short pauses and waited patiently for the continuation.
“I think we can rule out a planned financial motive,” Fredriksson continued, “but of course it’s always possible that a passerby had the idea to attack this old man in the hopes that there was money to be gained.”
“But nothing in the house was touched,” Haver said.
“The killer was scared off,” Fredriksson determined laconically.
It seemed he felt there was no more to say on the topic.
For another hour the group discussed possible motives and how they should proceed with the investigation. They did this in an unusually calm manner, as if Petrus Blomgren’s quiet and retiring lifestyle had influenced the assembled homicide detectives.
Everything went according to procedure. The drama that Ann Lindell had once thought she would experience when she started as a police officer fell away as the years went by. The difference was noticeable. The first investigations in the Violent Crimes Division in Uppsala had thrown her into a state of intensity, had claimed her thoughts day and night. Many times it had rendered her unable to live a normal civilian life. It was, she now realized, one of the reasons that she and Edvard had never really become close. In spite of their mutual love and their longing for that intimacy. Now he was lost to her and she steeled herself not to let the bitterness and regret poison the rest of her life.
They had not been in touch since last spring. She had called him right before Pentecost, enraptured and almost completely convinced that a reconciliation was possible. But Edvard was no longer interested. She could hear it in his voice. All summer she had cursed herself, consumed with self-pity and distaste for her life. Only her son, Erik, could make her really happy.
The fall had started with a rape and a case of assault. No excitement, only routine, and a nauseating feeling of indifference.
Now it was October. Her blues month. A new murder. No suspense, only sorrow. She pictured Dorotea on the gravel road, struggling up the hill to Blomgren’s house, on her way to say good-bye.
“Hello, Earth to Ann.” Ottosson interrupted her chain of thought.
“Sorry,” Lindell said quickly, suddenly intensely embarrassed at her distraction.
“I wonder if you could draft a media statement?”
“Of course,” she said, “I’ll talk to Lise-Lotte.”
The meeting broke up.
“We’ll fix this,” Allan Fredriksson said to Lindell as they left the room.