The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [44]
Had Blomgren and Andersson had any relationships? This did not immediately communicate itself from their homes and none of those who had been questioned so far had said anything. But back in the day there must have been some love in both of the farmers’ lives. Somewhere perhaps there was a woman who remembered her love for Petrus Blomgren. Maybe there would be someone who would shed a tear when she opened the newspaper tomorrow morning and read that Jan-Elis Andersson had been murdered in his home in Norr-Ededy village, Alsike.
Women were good at keeping track of the dead as well as the living and there was always the chance that someone would turn up when the two murder victims were buried. Ann decided to attend the funeral services. She did not expect they would be very large.
If there was a connection between the two murders she was not yet able to see it. But she was convinced the connection lay in their lives, perhaps far back in time. Two farmers are not murdered by accident within two days of each other, not in Ann Lindell’s book.
She did not feel optimistic but still more confident than before. Perhaps it was the chat with Sund or the fact that she had now poured herself her second glass of wine that meant the outlook appeared brighter.
She studied the bottle’s label that showed a hilly landscape dotted with grapevines snaking up the slopes. In the background there was a castle with turrets and spires.
“From shed to castle,” she muttered.
When Ann Lindell crawled into bed she was slightly dizzy. Two glasses of wine were enough. The pillow felt like a dear friend and the warm blanket like a desired lover.
Thirteen
It was reading hour at the Homicide Division, something both funny and frightening.
Upsala Nya Tidning had headlined their first page with the news of the second murder in as many days. They had managed to interview the nearest neighbor who described Jan-Elis Andersson as an “honorable man.”
“It’s an ‘honor’ killing,” Ola Haver said.
Expressen did its bit by dubbing this the work of the “Country Butcher.” They had even managed to get a statement from the Federation of Swedish Farmers’ chairman, who was not, however, particularly concerned. Apart from that the papers were full of bloodthirstiness and “revelations.”
“She lives more than a thousand kilometers from here,” Berglund said and pointed at a photograph of the head of the farmers’ association. “Of course she’s not particularly worried.”
“A chairman of the Federation lives at least a thousand kilometers from all farmers,” Sammy Nilsson said. “Especially from guys like Blomgren and Andersson.”
Aftonbladet had also jumped on the theory about a serial killer. A well-known criminologist had expounded in its pages with customary verbosity and gave an account of experiences from the United States. What this had to do with Uppsala was not clear. Dagens Nyheter had managed to mix up the pictures of Blomgren and Andersson’s houses.
“That one,” Ottosson said bitterly. He had bumped into the expert and had formed his opinion. Ann Lindell walked in with the chief of the crime information service, stepping right into the charged feeling that the assembled daily papers managed to create in the morning. They chatted almost cheerily. The rest looked up. Sammy Nilsson grinned.
“Have you been to the movies again?” he asked Lindell, who ignored him. She knew that was often the best tack.
Ola Haver pushed the stack of papers away.
“Should we get going?”
Ottosson started as usual with a brief overview of the situation in the city and also dutifully came with a report of the Tierp area. This consisted of a violent perpetrator who had smashed a couple of cars and then taken