“He was planning to go to Stockholm, as I recall. To the university. But sure, maybe it makes sense that he ended up staying. He’d just lost his best friend.”
“And you don’t think he had anything to do with the murder of Mikael Söderström? After all, if that shoeprint was his, that places him on the scene. Or with Killian’s death?”
She jiggled her foot while she thought.
“In Mikael’s case, I honestly don’t know. But Killian’s? No. He did seem to blame himself pretty harshly the few times I talked to him afterwards, though. I think something happened between them toward the end, but I don’t know what it was.”
“Is it true he got together with Felicia Grenberg? Someone mentioned that.”
“Oh, yes, right. He did. They even lived together for a year or two. Haven’t you talked to him?”
“Yes—last night, in fact.”
He rested a hand on the binder. At the back was his summary of the conversation with Sander.
“I can guess what you’ve got there, and I don’t want to see it. Thatwasn’t part of our agreement. You were going to leave once you’d asked your questions, and it seems like you’ve asked. And I answered.” She rose from her chair. “So if youaredone, I have work to do.”
Vidar stood up as well, his chair creaking pleasantly. He held out the binder.
“I assumed it would be easier to drop this off rather than convince you to come pick it up. I’ll come back tomorrow, if we don’t talk in the meantime. You don’t have to take a look, but you’re welcome to do so and let me know what you think.”
She stared at the binder like it was a threat. Vidar set it down on her chair.
“Was it Skavböke that made you quit?” he asked without looking at her.
“No. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. It was time for something new.”
She said this so frankly and simply that at first glance it had to be true. But no. He didn’t think this was quite accurate. Vidar could tell there was more to it, but he feared it was buried too deep to uncover.
“Please go now,” she said. “My husband will be home with the kids in about an hour, and I need to get some work done.”
69
Isidor had just stopped by the independent-living complex in Oskarström to see Hasse Ek. The old man still ranted about shadowy figures who showed up to irradiate him, but after a bad fall on the stairs a couple years ago, he could no longer take care of himself. In the co-op where he lived now, staff were just a corridor away, twenty-four hours a day. It wasn’t so bad, Hasse said, since he had a lovely window in his room, the food was good, and his bed was comfortable. Besides, he claimed there was less radiation here. To be sure, a summer temp once tried to install a microwave oven, but Hasse put a stop to it right quick. And it was nice that the priest himself dropped by once in a while.
Filip Söderström’s mother, Lillemor, had a room just a few doors down in the same co-op. As Isidor passed it today, the door was ajar and he glimpsed a woman by her side. Felicia Grenberg.
How peculiar, that the body sometimes ceases to understand, that it no longer remembers how to function. Lillemor had a very hard time moving her body; some days she couldn’t speak, either. Her eyes were clear and she was obviously conscious, but it was hard to hear what she said. As if the words were too big for her mouth, demanding of her lips and tongue effort they could no longer manage.
Isidor stopped by the door and cleared his throat. Felicia turned around.
“Hello,” Isidor said kindly. “I just wanted to see how you’re both doing.”
“It’s…” Felicia said slowly, turning to Lillemor. “It is what it is.”
Isidor nodded. He’d already been by to offer his condolences to Lillemor once, and he didn’t know what to say next.
“Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
That would have to suffice. Neither of the women responded.
Felicia went back to the crossword she was holding: “ ‘Vegas landmark that doesn’t exist?’ One, two, three…six letters. The next-to-last letter is ag.”
Lillemor blinked. Made a sound.
“What was that?”
Lillemor repeated herself, louder this time.
