The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [37]
What spoke against the theory of a robbery was the fact that the house appeared so undisturbed. The general consensus when they had discussed the case that morning was that the perpetrator or perpetrators had become frightened and left without even entering the house.
Haver circled the gurney He felt some peace in the company of the dead man. They came closer to each other. He was happy that the doctor from Skåne had left. What Haver was looking for was something no pathologist could reveal. It could not be fixed on paper in a report.
Petrus Blomgren had a heavyset, slightly sorrowful face. Perhaps this impression was colored by the tone of his good-bye letter, but Haver had the impression that the dead man had not had an easy time of it during his hardworking life. Perhaps a little joyless, and not even the beautiful nature around his house had been able to compensate for the feeling of sadness that characterized Vilsne village.
Now it was October, it was probably different in May. Then perhaps the optimism of the place was as deafening as birdsong in the springtime. Blomgren could sit in the garden with a cup of coffee, or a little drink even, feeling pleased at the thought of the shed filled to bursting with firewood, at the thought of Dorotea showing up for a chat, that . . .
Ola Haver built up a nicer existence for the dead man, gave him a different, more comforting life, reshaped the heaviness and the deep furrows in his face to signify wisdom, experience, and security. Under Haver’s gaze, Petrus grew to a man who was unafraid.
It seemed as if there had not been a woman in his life, at least not for many years. That bothered Haver. There should have been someone, nearby. Then he would never have written such a letter.
Revenge, he thought, was that why Petrus Blomgren was murdered? The revenge theory felt too cumbersome even if the logic of violent crimes was not always that easy to comprehend.
General statistics gave most credence to a botched robbery, where the killer had become frightened and fled, but he could still not let go of the idea that the murder had been planned.
The phone rang. It was Sammy Nilsson. Haver told him the results of the autopsy.
Nilsson grunted. Haver had the impression that his colleague was displeased, that he had been hoping for some sensational find that could lead to simply having to go pick up the perpetrator.
“I think we have to look more closely into Blomgren’s life,” Haver continued. “The motive could be located far back in time.”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Nilsson said.
Haver smiled. Sammy was being true to form. He almost always dismissed Haver’s theories and suggestions. Often they were like cat and dog. Sometimes it was simply tiring but often their bickering brought their investigations a step further.
“And what do you think, then?”
“Robbery-homicide,” Nilsson said curtly. “You know what, maybe there was something in the house that we missed, or to put it another way, that we aren’t missing on account of the fact that we didn’t know it was supposed to be there.”
“Like what, for example?”
“A wad of cash, gold watch, stamp collection, a painting Blomgren bought in the forties and that’s now worth a bundle.”
“How likely is that? The farmer as art collector?”
“Maybe the guy didn’t even know the painting was worth its weight in gold,” Nilsson continued.
Haver didn’t say anything.
“We should maybe talk to the neighbor and that childhood friend— who should take that on?”
“Ann,” Haver said.
“Okay,” Nilsson said. “Are you coming in?”
“No, I’m going out to Jumkil.”
“I see, take Allan with you. He needs some fresh air.”
They hung up. Haver knew Sammy Nilsson was immediately going to call Lindell and present his theory about an art theft.
A man in front of her was laughing. He was dressed in a green waist-length coat. His pants were frayed at the ends. He walked quickly, deliberately, and efficiently turned the corner by the Vålamagasinet building. Ann Lindell caught up with him.
There was a white sofa in the shop window.