“Maybe the carpenter would like a little herring,” he said when she saw his expression.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy,” said Ann.
“Plant Asterix too, so you have potatoes this fall” was his parting line.
She looked after him, like always his upper body swaying a little, his back a bit more crooked, his hair a bit thinner, straggling in all directions, but basically the same Edvard that she got to know many years ago. She had also changed, of course. The move to the cottage had improved her physical condition, however, and helped her lose twenty pounds. She was moving more, eating more sensibly and at certain times, she was happier and for that reason drank less. She often felt fresh, with a litheness in her movements like seldom before. Didn’t he see that she was a different person?
Without turning around he climbed into his pickup and took off. Where was he going, home to the island, or to some red-haired bitch in Norrskedika? What would he do on a Saturday evening? Should she have said something about the filet and the other goodies in the refrigerator? Should she simply have said something about her longing?
“The hell with you,” she mumbled, casting a glance at the potato patch. She took the bucket of cleaned herring and trotted off. Gösta would probably want some, likewise Bertil and maybe his sister a little farther away.
Three villagers, three testimonies that she was going to take, not document on tape or in a notebook, but even so. She was still an investigator.
Eight
First up was Bertil. She thought that Gösta would talk as usual, and for that reason it was better to take him last. But Bertil also wanted to get something off his chest, she realized that almost immediately. He was sitting apparently idle on a bench, leaning against the wall, but stood up immediately when Ann arrived.
“A welcome visitor,” he said in a voice that betrayed a cold coming on.
“I thought maybe you’d like a little herring.” Ann held out the bucket.
He went into the house and came back with a plastic bag. “Gladly,” he said. “Cleaned and ready besides.”
After the completed transaction they stood there. Bertil looked at her and smiled.
“How long have you lived here now?”
“Two years.”
“You like the job?”
She nodded. Out with it now, she thought, setting down the bucket.
“Yes, it’s a nice village, but a lot has changed,” he said. “Before there was more solidarity.”
She’d heard that before, how community parties and arrangements had gradually disappeared.
“Since the school burned it’s gotten even worse.”
“Of course that has an impact, a school means something.”
“It was arson,” he said suddenly.
“Did you see something that night?”
“Not me, but now I’ve heard two people say that. Who saw.”
“Independent of each other?”
“What do you mean? Yes, now I understand, yes, they don’t even know one another!”
Bertil swung the bag of herring. A car passed on the road and reflexively he raised the other hand in a greeting. Ann waited for him to continue, but he said no more. She suspected that Bertil was good at keeping quiet.
He’d lived alone ever since his parents died, about twenty years ago. Gösta had told her a little about his friend and neighbor, that he could be uncommunicative and sometimes a little blunt, but the latter was not something she’d noticed.
“Have you talked with the police?”
“You’re the police, aren’t you?” he said with a mournful smile, as if that was deplorable.
She didn’t comment on that, but instead made an attempt to wait him out, but in vain. Bertil Efraimsson kept quiet, hummed a little, and swung the bag of fish, as if he were a thoughtless child.
“I’m going over to Gösta, but do you think your sister is interested in herring?” Ann had shamefully forgotten her name.
“I would think so,” said Bertil.
* * *
Her name was on the mailbox: Astrid Svensson. They hadn’t had that much contact, talked a little about everyday things when Ann passed on her way to and from work. She opened the gate, which was taken from an old railroad car. Ann knew that her husband had been a railroad worker. She was considerably older than her brother, but gave a livelier impression.
Ann hadn’t taken more than a few steps on the gravel path before Astrid opened the front door. “You’re coming with a bucket,” she observed. “It’s too early for cherries and not the season for potatoes or mushrooms.”
“Herring,” said Ann. “I got a lot, so now I’m going around and sharing.”
“That was a nice thought, but shouldn’t I pay something?”
Ann shook her head. After she had tipped over a couple of kilos into a bowl, they remained standing awhile. Ann was fishing for information; perhaps Bertil had spoken with his sister? But she seemed completely uncomprehending when Ann mentioned that evidently there were witnesses who had seen someone set fire to the school.
“Lord have mercy,” Astrid exclaimed. “Is it the police who are saying that?”
“No, there’s talk about it in the village,” said Ann, feeling like a real gossip going around with loose rumors.
“You were over at Bertil’s too, I saw. He loves herring. When he was young he could tuck in twenty at a time. He loved to eat.
“You should know,” the woman said at last, as Ann was preparing to continue her herring tour. “There’s been a lot of talk. There are those who say that it’s folks from outside who set it. There’s talk of foreigners, gypsies.”
This was the most imaginative Ann had heard till now, but she wasn’t particularly surprised.
“And what do you think?”
“You can say a lot about those beggars, but they don’t burn down schools. No, I think it was Mattsson’s boys. They’ve never had any sense. Like their father.”
“You mean the farmer?”
“Waldemar, yes.”
Ann had met him just once, when she had stopped by to see Gösta. Mattsson drove up, stopped and parked a little carelessly by the side of the road, and got out. A sturdy fellow, the archetype for a successful farmer with a kingdom of his own, limited to be sure, but nonetheless a self-appointed local chieftain. He had waved Gösta to him. “I’ll wait here,” said Ann. They had been talking about payment for his work on the storeroom. It took a while, Gösta had a hard time squeezing out how much it would cost, but she insisted on paying, and for that reason stayed put.
The two men had talked for several minutes, Mattsson leaning back against the car, a pickup striped with clay and dust. Gösta stood with his hands hanging along his sides, seemingly taciturn, as the farmer was doing most of the talking, gesturing in the air with one hand like a one-armed conductor.
She didn’t know much about the Hamra farm, the farmer, and his family. She had no concept at all about his sons.
“I knew his mother well, we were good friends you might well say. She was shy, a bit delicate, if you understand, and had difficulty with Albin, her husband. He was too big for her, if I’m going to be frank. They’re gone now, so it can be said.”