Free The Hand that Trembles by Kjell Eriksson Page A

had disappeared from Uppsala. A former county commissioner whom everyone believes is dead. He went missing many years ago.’
    ‘Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson. 1993.’
    ‘You remember?’
    ‘Of course. I worked on the disappearance for several months. There were those who spoke of murder.’
    ‘What did you think?’
    ‘Suicide,’ Berglund replied without hesitation. ‘There was nothing to support homicide. Absolutely nothing.’
    ‘Was he depressed?’
    ‘No, not that we could find. He was … how can I put this?’
    Berglund hesitated. When he went up in smoke, Sven-Arne Persson had been a typical middle-aged man, socially well adapted and successful, but what did one know about his inner thoughts? Berglund had tried to map every inch of the county commissioner’s life but had not found any blights on his, to all appearances, blameless existence. Nonetheless he had drawn the conclusion of suicide.
    ‘There were not motives for murder, no irregularities and no threats. He simply disappeared.’
    ‘No body?’
    ‘No, no body. Not a trace. It was actually completely incomprehensible. No one saw him leave City Hall, no one saw him on the street or at his home. I mean, he was a public person, someone that people recognised.’
    ‘But he could have fled overseas?’
    ‘We checked up on everything. His passport was in his desk drawer at home. No money was drawn from his account. You can appreciate that the conclusion was suicide, even though everyone had trouble believing it.’
    ‘And now he turns up in Bangalore,’ Lindell said.
    ‘If it’s really him.’
    ‘The witness is completely sure of himself. And they are former neighbours.’
    ‘I know,’ Berglund said. ‘I have met Jan Svensk.’
    ‘What is he like?’
    ‘Oh, what should I say. A normal guy. Had a somewhat rocky period in his youth but has been fine ever since, at least according to his parents.’
    ‘How do you know them?’
    ‘From church,’ Berglund said. ‘And they are Uppsala old-timers. Like Sven-Arne Persson. I remember him from my youth. We were the same age.’
    ‘Was he sporty?’
    ‘No. Tall, but not exactly an athlete. He may have been able to handle chess.’
    ‘Married?’
    ‘Yes, with Elsa. No kids.’
    ‘Is Elsa still alive?’
    Berglund’s gaze flickered. Through the window he could see that the snowfall had grown heavier.
    ‘She’s barely sixty, I would guess,’ he said. ‘A teacher.’
    ‘Remarried?’
    ‘No, but I have heard rumours of a relationship.’
    ‘What do you think?’
    Berglund looked out the window again. What should he think? Jan Svensk was no hysteric but the story sounded fanciful.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘It sounds strange to say the least. Why India?’
    ‘We’ll have to keep sniffing around. Svensk returns in about a week or ten days, according to his father.’
    Suddenly Berglund made a face, closed his eyes, and put his hands over his face.
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    Lindell got up from her chair and started to reach a hand out to him.
    ‘Nothing,’ Berglund said. ‘I …’
    He slowly turned his head. The look he gave her was one she had never seen before.
    ‘I’m raw,’ he said finally. ‘I’m just so damned raw inside.’
    Lindell could not recall ever hearing Berglund use such emphatic language before.
    Is he going to die, she wondered, terrified at the prospect. Was it sadness she saw in his gaze? Berglund was a smart man. Did he sense something that could not be said? Was he being less than honest when he claimed the operation had been a success?
    ‘Are you anxious?’
    That was not really a question she was allowed to ask, Lindell thought.
    ‘I don’t know what it is,’ Berglund said.
    He got to his feet slowly and walked over to the window. Outside the specks of snow were whirling more than ever. Without turning his head he started to talk about the melancholy that had come over him. The feeling had come creeping even before the operation but now it