Free The Hand that Trembles by Kjell Eriksson

recalled what he had thought that time: How young she is, what is a girl like her going to be able to do around here? Riis said something stupid as usual, while Ottosson laid it on thick like always. He had bought a cake to celebrate the ‘new recruit’ as if she, like a professional football player, had been recruited to team ‘Homicide’.
    ‘Well, hello,’ he said, clearing his throat.
    Ann Lindell remained standing by the door, observing him for several seconds before walking over and gently giving him a hug. He knew she was as emotional as he was, and that she was also doing everything she could to conceal it.
    He pulled away from her, shuffled over to the bed, and sat down.
    ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘Moving right along,’ he said, but felt the vertigo return at that moment.
    He wanted to lie down and close his eyes, but forced himself to look at Lindell.
    ‘Otto said you could have visitors.’
    He nodded. She looked at him in silence as if to check if the intrusion was affecting him.
    ‘And how do things look?’
    ‘A foot has washed ashore outside Öregrund,’ she replied. ‘Apart from that, everything is fine.’
    She had misunderstood his question.
    ‘A foot?’
    ‘Yes, just the foot.’
    ‘A foot can float?’
    ‘It was in a boot.’
    He chuckled.
    ‘You’re just the same,’ he said. ‘Are you going to—’
    ‘No, not Öregrund,’ she said quickly.
    He sensed why not, and left the subject.
    ‘But tell me,’ she said, ‘how does it feel? You should know that we have been … worried.’
    ‘I feel fine,’ he said, smiling. ‘A bit boring to lie in bed flat as a pancake.’
    ‘Are you tired?’
    He nodded. ‘Tired and a bit dizzy, but that will go away, they say.’
    ‘Will you have … I mean …’
    ‘Any permanent damage?’ he helped her along. ‘No, not really. It may be difficult at first, according to the doctor, but I don’t know. They don’t tell you everything. But I’m counting on getting back to normal.’
    Berglund was not being quite honest. Ever since he woke up from his operation he had toyed with the idea of taking early retirement. No one would blame him. He had served on the Uppsala police force for forty years.
    Again, he was overcome with an unexpected wave of sentimentality. He had to make an effort to appear, if not carefree, then at least somewhat relaxed and content with his situation. The feeling of ingratitude, as he now arose from his sickbed after an illness that had caused many others the loss of well-being or even life, was also irritatingly strong. His childhood faith – be humble and thankful for the time you have received – was not strong enough to battle the thought that life had treated him unfairly. What had he done to deserve this? Berglund knew it was a ridiculous thought, but the passive waiting in his sickbed had transformed him into a teary and disobliging old man.
    The insight struck him with full force; he was afraid. Afraid to grow old, afraid to die. Afraid not to be counted among the active and living, those who meant something.
    The sight of Ann Lindell only strengthened this feeling. She was still young. She even smelt of life. A faint but unmistakable scent of snow, fresh air, and soap had been brought into the room.
    ‘We received a call,’ Lindell said, ‘that I think may interest you, if you aren’t too tired, that is.’
    He gestured for her to continue.
    ‘An old acquaintance to you called. Rune Svensk. He had been called by his son, who is in India on some kind of business. He had observed something.’
    Berglund grinned. ‘If you travel to India you can bet you’re going to make some observations.’
    Lindell looked surprised but also relieved. It was as if his comment confirmed that he was the old Berglund, who for the moment was dressed in some loose-fitting hospital-issue trousers and shirt, but was definitely back and, in a way, on duty.
    ‘Whatever,’ she said with feigned irritation. ‘The son saw a man who