The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [4]
“A man of order,” Haver said.
“Who couldn’t get his life in order,” Lindell said and walked over to the window. “How old is the tree?”
“At least a hundred years,” Haver said, a bit impatient with Lindell’s reflective mood, but well aware of the fact that there was no sense in hurrying her. It wouldn’t make any difference to Blomgren anyway.
“Do you think it’s a robbery-homicide?” Lindell asked suddenly. “Was he one of those old men with his dresser drawer full of cash?”
“In that case the thief knew where to look,” Haver said. “The technicians say that nothing appears to be disturbed.”
“Did he know that Blomgren was on his way to the barn? That’s a barn, isn’t it?”
Haver nodded.
“Or was he hiding in there and taken by surprise when the old man walked in with a rope in his hand?”
“We’ll have to check with the neighbor,” Haver said. “She seems to be the kind who keeps tabs.”
They both knew that Beatrice Andersson was the most suited to handle the questioning of the neighbor. If there was anything Bea excelled at, it was talking to older women.
“Who stands to inherit?”
Sammy Nilsson’s question broke the silence that had settled in the kitchen. He had come creeping in without either Haver or Lindell noticing.
Haver didn’t say anything but gave him a look that was difficult to interpret.
“Am I interrupting?” Sammy asked.
“Not at all,” Lindell said.
“Let’s hope for a dead broke, desperate nephew,” Sammy continued. Lindell tried to smile.
“Look over by the bread box,” she said.
Sammy walked over to the kitchen counter and read the good-bye letter in a low mumble.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
A gust of wind underscored his words. Their gazes turned to the window. Outside a rain of leaves whirled from the tree to the ground. Lindell had the impression that the maple tree had decided to shake off all its leaves on this day.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Sammy Nilsson said.
“I wonder how his thought process went last night,” Haver said.
“We’ll never know,” Sammy said and read the letter one more time.
Lindell slipped away, entering the small room off the kitchen. If she had been forced to guess what it would look like she would have scored a nine out of ten. There was an old sleeper couch with dingy red upholstery, most likely from the thirties, and an armchair of the same color, a TV on a table with a marble top, a couple of chairs surrounding a small pillar table, and a bookcase. On the small sofa in front of the TV there was nothing except the remote control.
It was a very personal room in spite of its predictability. It gave Lindell the feeling of intimacy, perhaps because she sensed that Petrus Blomgren spent his evenings here alone. He must have favored the armchair; it was extremely worn and had threads coming out of the armrests.
She walked over to the bookcase, which was filled mainly with older books. She recognized a few of the titles from her parents’ house. They had a coating of dust. No one had touched these books in a long time.
The left part of the bookshelf had a small cabinet. The key was in the keyhole. She pulled the door open with a pen and on the two shelves inside she saw what she thought was a photo album and a book entitled The Uppland Horse Breeder’s Association.
Everything looked untouched. If this was a burglary-assault the perpetrator had been exceedingly careful.
“Allan will have to take a look at this,” she said, and turned in the direction of the kitchen. She got up and looked around but could not spot anything out of the ordinary.
“He’ll be here soon,” Sammy Nilsson said.
Haver had left the kitchen. Nilsson was staring out of the window. Lin-dell looked at him from her position diagonally behind him and discovered that he was starting to go bald on the back of the head. He looked unusually thoughtful. Half of his face was illuminated by the soft morning light and Lindell wished she had had a camera. She was gripped by a sudden feeling of tenderness for her colleague.
“What do you think about the new guy, Morgansson?”
“He seems all right,” Lindell said.