The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [46]
“The most exciting thing about his life was that he died,” Sammy said.
“Are you done?” Ottosson asked.
Fredriksson nodded.
“With regard to Andersson we haven’t managed to find very much,” Berglund said, “but tomorrow we will probably be able to present the exciting details.”
“Sammy,” Ottosson said.
Sammy Nilsson’s account of the two farmers’ involvement in the Federation of Farmers was also not particularly dramatic. Both of them had been members but in different divisions. There was nothing to suggest that they had bumped into one another on such occasions.
“What about the threatening letter at Andersson’s house?” Lindell asked.
“Everything points to him being the author. The handwriting matches that on his own papers, but it will be checked into more thoroughly.”
The conference room fell silent. Ottosson gave Lindell a look and started to sum up the main points but noticed that his colleagues’ concentration was failing. Everything had been said and they were experienced enough to know what had to be done.
They broke up convinced that their working day would be long. Lindell gathered up her notes and exchanged a few words with the director of KUT before she went back to her office.
Fourteen
The knee-length grass swayed as if a giant hand was stroking it. Laura Hindersten thought there was something comforting about the movement. It was as if the wind in a gentle gesture took leave of what was left of the summer.
A rotted apple landed with a thud on what had once been a gravel path but was now woven through with weeds. The path led to an oval sitting area, paved in slate and surrounded by some gangly roses that Laura’s mother had planted. Laura could still remember the name of the rose: Orange Sensation. She remembered where and when they had bought them. It was at the nursery on Norbyvägen and Laura had just turned ten. Laura thought the talkative gardener was a distant relative because he used the same words as her mother and because the ends of his sentences disappeared and were replaced by a gesture or an expressive face, exactly like her grandfather’s.
He took them to an earth cellar on the edge of the nursery where they were greeted by the smell of raw earth. The roses were arranged on shelves, packed into bundles and with tiny pale shoots coming up from the stems. He carefully chose a bundle, cut the string, and inspected each rose one at a time. He saw poorly but compensated for this with touch and stroked the stems with his fingers. He put roses with shrivelled branches to one side.
“Those are B-quality,” he explained, “and that isn’t what you want.”
Laura got the impression that he was treating her mother very well. Few people were as polite to her as this old gardener.
“Is the young miss also interested in roses?”
Laura nodded. The man smiled at her. It seemed as if he enjoyed lingering in the earth cellar. He read the different names of the roses bundled on the groaning shelves. There was Poulsen rose, Alain, Nina Weibull, Peace, and many others.
“The Poulsen I only keep because . . .”
He smiled again and nodded.
“Well, you know, memories . . .”
She had watched the garden passively for an hour. She was so cold she was shivering but could not bring herself to go inside the house.
If someone had entered the garden and discovered her pressed up against the French windows, with the grocery bags at her feet, then Laura would have given the impression of a person without hope. Her inability to cross the threshold had imparted a strange stiffness to her pale face. Her gaze moved restlessly as if it was searching for a place to rest. The movement in the grass and the sound of the falling apple had of course not spurred her to open the terrace door and step into the warmth but it did wake her from her paralysis. She pulled her right hand across her face while the left one felt for the door handle behind