Before the Frost
- Автор: Манкелль Хеннинг
- Серия: Linda Wallander #1
- Год: 2004
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Harvill Press
- ISBN: 978-1-84343-113-8
- Переводчик: Ebba Segerberg
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «Before the Frost». Краткое содержание книги:
Margareta looked at her.
“Has something happened?”
Linda shook her head.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But you’re worried?”
“Yes.”
Margareta got up.
“Anna Westin’s God will protect her. At least that’s what she always brags about. Her God and some earthly angel named Gabriel. I think it was an angel. I can’t remember exactly. But with that kind of protection she should be fine.”
She stretched out her hand.
“I have to go now. Are you also a student?”
“I’m a police officer. Or will be soon, that is.”
Margareta took a closer look at her.
“I’m sure you will, as many questions as you’ve been asking.”
Linda realized she had one more.
“Do you know anyone called Mirre? She left a message on Anna’s answering machine.”
“No. But I can ask the others.”
Linda gave her her phone number and left the house. She was still vaguely envious of Margareta Olsson’s poise, her self-confidence. What did she have that Linda didn’t?
The following morning, Monday, Linda was awakened by the sound of the front door slamming shut. She sat up in bed. It was six o’clock. She lay down and tried to fall back asleep. Raindrops were spattering against the windowsill. It was a sound she remembered from childhood. Raindrops, Mona’s shuffling slippered gait, and her father’s firm footsteps. Once upon a time these sounds had been her greatest source of security. She shook off her thoughts and got up. Her father had forgotten to turn the stove off, and he hadn’t finished his coffee. He’s nervous and he left in a hurry, she thought.
She pulled the paper toward her and leafed through it until she saw an article about the latest developments in the Rannesholm case. There was a short interview with her dad. It was early, he had said, and although there were almost no clues, they thought they had some leads, but he was not free to comment further for the time being. She put the paper away and thought about Anna. If Margareta Olsson was right — and she had no reason to doubt she was telling the truth — Anna had turned into a very different person. But why was she staying away, and why did she claim to have seen her father? Why wasn’t Henrietta telling the truth? And that man that Linda had seen walk past the front of the church — why was she convinced it was Anna’s father?
And the other crucial question: what was the connection between Anna and Birgitta Medberg?
Linda had trouble separating all these thoughts. She heated up the coffee and wrote everything down on a piece of paper. Then she crumpled it up and threw it away. I have to talk to Zeba, she thought. I’ll tell her everything. She’s smart. She never loses touch with reality. She’ll give me some good ideas. Linda showered, put her clothes on, and then called Zeba. Her answering machine picked up. Linda tried her cell phone but it was out of range. Since it was raining, she could hardly have taken her boy out for a walk. Maybe she was with her cousin.
Linda was impatient and irritated. She thought about calling her father, possibly even her mother, just to have someone to talk to. She decided she didn’t want to interrupt her father. And a conversation with Mona could drag on forever. She didn’t need that. She pulled on her boots and a rain jacket and walked down to the car. She was getting used to having a car. That was dangerous. When Anna came back, Linda would have to start walking places again. When she couldn’t borrow her dad’s car. She drove out of the city and stopped at a gas station. A man at the next pump nodded to her. She recognized his face without being able to place him until she was standing in line at the cashier’s window. It was Sten Widén, her father’s friend who had cancer.
“It’s Linda, isn’t it?”
His voice was hoarse and weak.
“Yes. Sten, right?”
He laughed, something that seemed to cost him an effort.
“I remember you as a little girl. And suddenly you’re all grown. A police officer no less.”
“How are the horses?”
He didn’t answer until she had finished paying and they were walking back to their cars.
“Your dad has probably told you what’s going on,” Widén said. “I have cancer and I’m going to die soon. I’m selling the last of the horses next week. That’s how it is. Good luck with your life.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just got into his muddy Volvo and drove away. Linda watched him leave and could only think one thing: how grateful she was that she wasn’t the one selling her last horse.
She drove to Lestarp and parked by the church. Someone must know, she thought. If Anna isn’t here, where is she? Linda pulled up the hood of her yellow rain jacket and hurried down the road behind the church. The yard to the house was deserted. The old tractor was wet and shiny from the rain. She banged on the front door and it swung open. But no one had opened it; it hadn’t been properly closed. She called out, but no one answered. The house was empty, abandoned. Nothing was left. She saw that they had taken the black cross on the wall. It felt as if the house had been empty for a long time.
Linda stood in the middle of the room. The man in the sun, she thought. The one I saw yesterday and thought was Anna’s father. He came here, and today everyone is gone.
She left the house and drove to Rannesholm. There she was told that Wallander was up at the manor, conducting a meeting with his closest associates. She walked over in the rain and settled down to wait for him in the big hall. She thought about the last thing Margareta Olsson had said, something about Anna Westin not having to worry about her safety because she had God and an earthly guardian angel named Gabriel for protectors. It seemed important. She just couldn’t think how.
25
Linda never stopped being surprised by her father, by his rapid mood changes, that is. When she saw him come through a door in the large hall at Rannesholm manor she expected him to be tired, anxious, and downcast. But he was in good spirits. He sat down next to her and launched into a long-winded story about a time he had a left a pair of gloves at a restaurant and been offered a broken umbrella instead. Is he going crazy? she thought. Then he left to go to the bathroom and Martinsson stopped briefly on his way out. He told her that her father had been in a relatively good mood ever since she had moved back to town. Martinsson hurried on when Wallander returned. He sat down so heavily on the old sofa that the springs groaned. She told him about running into Sten Widén at the gas station.
“He’s remarkably stoic about his fate,” Wallander said. “He reminds me of Rydberg, who had the same calm attitude. I hope that will turn out to be true for me one day, that I’ll be stronger than I think.”
Some officers carrying cases of equipment walked by. Then the room was silent.
“Are you making progress?” Linda asked.
“Not really, or slowly, I should say. The worse the crime, the more impatient one becomes about solving it, even though in these cases patience is critical. I once knew an officer in Malmö — Birch — who used to compare our investigative work to that of a surgeon facing a complicated operation. The calm, time, and patience needed for such procedures are key ingredients even for us. Birch is dead now, as it happens. He drowned in a little lake. He went swimming, must have suffered a cramp, no one heard him. He should have known better, of course, but now he’s dead. I feel as if people are dying all around me, although I know it’s irrational. Births and deaths are going on all around us all the time. But the dying seems more pronounced when you reach the front of the line. Now that my father is dead there’s no one ahead of me anymore.”