The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [3]
Haver was talking about the letter but he stopped when he noticed her expression.
“Are you listening?”
“I’m sorry,” Lindell said, “my thoughts were elsewhere.”
“The view?”
“Yes, among other things, the view.”
That was the first thing that had struck her. The view.
“He lived in a beautiful place,” she said. “But tell me about the letter.”
“It’s short. A few lines. Somewhat oddly phrased.”
“And Blomgren is the one who wrote it?”
“That remains to be seen,” Haver said, “but I think so.”
“If the murder was supposed to look like suicide it was an extremely sloppy job.”
“Not with blunt trauma to the back of the head,” Haver said and looked in the direction of the shed where Petrus Blomgren had been struck down.
“Fury,” he said. “He is in very bad shape.”
“Maybe it’s Ottosson? Doesn’t he have a summer cabin in this area?”
“Should we take a look?” Haver said and walked toward the hall.
They glanced at the building where the forensic team was working. One of Petrus Blomgren’s legs could be seen through the door opening.
Lindell had already been in the house but had gone outside again to call the number they had found on a piece of paper. Petrus Blomgren had been a man of order, that much was clear. Maybe it’s the number of Eldercare Assistance, Lindell thought, as she and Haver again went into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. No dirty dishes. A coffee cup and saucer, a serrated knife, a bowl, and several serving dishes neatly placed in the drying rack.
There was a saltcellar and a newspaper on the table. The waxed tablecloth was wiped down. A couple of potted plants in the window and a vase with the last flowers of the season, several twigs of goldenrod and orpine.
“Was he signed up to receive Eldercare?” Lindell asked.
“Maybe. It’s nice and tidy, you mean.”
“Yes, for an old man on his own. It normally looks a little different than this.”
“Here’s the letter,” Haver said and pointed to an area of the counter next to the stove.
Lindell was surprised that she hadn’t spotted the white envelope earlier. It was placed next to the coffeemaker, but partly blocked by the bread box.
She leaned forward and read: “It’s fall again. The first snow. The decision is mine. That’s how it’s always been. I have had to make all of my decisions alone. You arrive at a certain point. I am sorry that perhaps I haven’t always handled things as I should have. A final request: I beg you not to chop down the old maple tree. Not yet. Let it stand there until it falls. My grandfather was the one who planted it. It’s not a pretty sight to hang oneself but I don’t see any other choice. It’s over.”
The letter was signed “Petrus Blomgren.”
“Why did he put the letter here and not on the table?” Haver wondered.
“Have you seen the leaf caught in the window?” Lindell asked and pointed. “It’s like a greeting from the maple.”
A yellow leaf had wedged itself into the woodwork of the window. The dark nerves were shaped like an outstretched hand. It wiggled a little in the wind, silently dashed a couple of times against the glass only to peel off and join the thousands of fall tokens whirling around the yard.
Haver looked at her.
“He wanted to die, but for the tree to live,” she said. “That’s strange.”
“Could he have sensed that the killer was waiting for him?”
Lindell shook her head.
“But then he wouldn’t have written like this.”
“The neighbor who called said that Blomgren lived alone, had always done so.”
“Where is she now?”
“At home,” Haver said and indicated a house that could be seen some hundred meters up the road. “Bea is talking to her again.”
“Did she see anything?”
“No, she reacted to the fact that the gate to the road was open. He was apparently very careful to keep it closed. She realized at once that something wasn’t right.”
“A