To:policedepartment@countycouncil
From:inspector@fagerodistrict.police
Subject:unidentified body
Male, c. 40 years of age, 180 cm, washed up at headland known as Sorrow, c. 1 km north of Söder Karlby, Fagerö. Probably been in water 4–5 days. Clothing: black trousers, shirt and black jacket. Left eye missing, presumably seabirds. Beak marks also visible on forehead, right cheek and right side of neck (see attached photos). The wounds appear to have been inflicted post-mortem. No identification papers found on body. A water-damaged photograph was found in left-hand trouser pocket: passport-sized black-and-white image of young woman with fair hair. Back of photograph has the inscription “Deine Elisaveta”.
Preliminary cause of death assumed to be drowning.
“She has the same name as you, Elisabeth,” Inspector Riggert von Haartman muttered, holding up the photograph with a pair of tweezers and studying the woman’s face through a magnifying glass. It’s a narrow face, serious, high cheekbones, slightly slanting eyes. She appears to be about twenty years old. Fair-haired. A greyish-purple saltwater stain discolours the top right corner.
“Pretty girl. Wonder who she was. His wife? His daughter?”
The clock on the wall in the inspector’s office, an old wind-up clock, has a hard metallic tick. Behind the glass the pendulum swings indefatigably from right to left and left to right. Through the open window he can hear the murmur of the sea and the scream of gulls in the distance. A puff of wind gently lifts the curtain.
The email report of the finding of the corpse is on the screen of his personal computer. Riggert von Haartman carefully places the photograph of the woman called Elisaveta into a sealable plastic envelope, writes the date and reference number on a label and sticks it on the plastic. For a short while he listens to the silence, which is divided into segments by the ticking of the clock. He massages the base of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
“Well, we don’t have a great deal to say about our drowned friend, dear Elisabeth. He probably wasn’t a seaman – I noticed that his hands were well cared for and the nails unbroken. That might not mean much, of course: the modern seaman doesn’t often need to get his hands dirty. My feeling is that he was a civil servant or an academic, and probably a foreigner from somewhere down south. The photo in his pocket points in that direction.”
The inspector straightens a paper clip in the pencil tray on his desk. All the paper clips lie with their pointed ends facing the same way.
“Unless there is some documentation we are not likely to be able to identify him … He’ll go to the grave like our first corpse, with a cross that states ‘name unknown’.”
The inspector glances through the email message once again then moves the cursor to the SEND button and double-clicks. The message vanishes from the screen as if it had never existed. He checks that it actually has gone, closes the email program and logs out of the police intranet. The clock on the wall rattles as if clearing its throat and then strikes five. Inspector von Haartman stands up from his desk. He has removed his uniform jacket, loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He has also unbuttoned his invisible inner uniform. He takes a breath, rotates his shoulders to loosen them up, interlocks his fingers and stretches his arms by pushing his hands forward. Then he does some trunk twists with his fingers on his hips and his elbows pointing straight out.
He tiptoes across the floor in his stockinged feet. The varnished boards shine like amber in the slanting afternoon sun. He stands by the window with his back to the room.
“Don’t you think, Elisabeth, that it’s rather strange that two dead bodies are washed up on the islands with no more than a couple of days between them?” the inspector says. “But the coastguards haven’t been notified of any maritime accidents. There have been no reports of anyone falling overboard from car ferries or other vessels, and there aren’t any yachtsmen or fishermen missing …”
In one corner of the inspector’s office there are two well-padded old armchairs, both covered in cracked leather. They contrast with the rest of the room, which has furniture of the more practical kind as stipulated in the regulations for police offices. The armchairs and the clock on the wall, all of which belonged to one of Riggert von Haartman’s predecessors, have been placed in this room and in this narrative to remind us that Fagerö is in many ways different from the world we mainlanders are accustomed to. The chronology used by the islanders is different to the one followed on the mainland. Out here the clock does not only move in one direction as it does everywhere else: it goes backwards and forwards simultaneously. The past is never very far away on Fagerö. The present is at one with the past: things of the past are never completely erased, they remain and every so often they remind us of their presence. The clock on the wall of the inspector’s office is ticking. Riggert von Haartman goes over to one of the armchairs covered in cracked brown leather and rests his hand on its high back.
And all of a sudden his body feels as heavy as a waterlogged tree trunk and he is adrift in time, fighting against sinking.
“I must tell you, by the way, Elisabeth, that the person who found our friend in the bay last night was Celia Karström. Do you remember her? No … probably not. Well, Celia has been rather strange for many years; they say she had a son who disappeared at sea. When she found this corpse she went completely to pieces and kept screaming the whole time for someone called Albert. She refused to let go the corpse’s arm. It was quite impossible, of course, to question her properly and she had to be taken to hospital on the mainland.”
The inspector falls silent. He slaps the back of the armchair lightly with his open hand. He is upset by Celia’s break-down. He needs to talk about it, out loud. He slaps the back of the armchair again. His wife Elisabeth used to sit in this armchair when he had to work late and she came to the office to keep him company. They were newly married then and still as happy as a couple of schoolchildren on the first day of the summer holidays. He would sit at his desk with indictments and statements, drafts and open law books while she would sit in the creaking embrace of the leather chair, her long legs drawn up under her. She would be knitting, concentration making a little furrow in her brow and her needles clicking softly. Every now and again he would look up from his reports and books and steal a quick look at her round forehead catching the light from the lamp on the ceiling, her white neck, her narrow waist, her legs. He would grant himself a short respite from the dryness of the law, he would summon up what little imagination he had and dream that she was pregnant. He tried to visualise her sitting in that chair with a swelling belly. She certainly wouldn’t be able to sit with her legs drawn up as she was sitting now. Her breasts would be heavier. He thought she would be very beautiful when she became pregnant. His happiness would be so intense that his throat muscles ached with the tension.
His wife noticed that he was watching her. She looked up and smiled “her Elisabeth smile”, as he called it, a quick curve of the lips and slightly lowered eyelids. He loved Elisabeth’s “Elisabeth smile”.
The inspector’s mobile starts playing an electronic mazurka, repeats it a second time and has started the third rendering before his hand reaches the leather telephone holster on his belt.
“Von Haartman,” he answers, his voice still elsewhere.
Unfortunately we can only overhear the inspector’s end of the conversation. But as well as listening to what he says we can study his facial expressions and observe his gestures and thus attempt to work out what is being said on the other end.
Riggert von Haartman listens with furrowed brow. “Are you telling me that another body has been found, Skogster?” A weak rasping noise can be heard from his mobile and von Haartman walks over to the desk with the telephone still to his ear, picks up a pen from the tray and takes out a sheet of paper. “She was found at Klåvharun, is that what you said?” There is a resolute look on his face as he makes a note on the paper. “Yes, I think I know where it is. Are you in Tunnhamn just now? Have you got the boat there?” He obviously receives answers to his questions. “Good. Wait there. I’ll come to you.” He listens again and glances at the clock. “No, I’ll take my own car. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He takes the mobile from his ear and ends the call.
As quickly as possible he buttons up his uniforms, both the inner and the outer, and puts on his shoes.
The police station is empty and silent. Axelina on the front desk has finished for the day. Skogster and Juslin who have the evening shift are both down in Tunnhamn.
Riggert von Haartman runs his fingers gently across the back of the brown armchair, almost as if he is caressing the dry cracked leather. He straightens his tie and hurries out of the office.
To:policedepartment@countycouncil
From:inspector@fagerodistrict.police
Subject:unidentified body
Female, c. 25 years of age, 154 cm, found on a skerry called Klåvuharun in the Aspskärsfjärden, south-west of Fagerö. The corpse was wearing a summer dress made of printed cotton patterned with large yellow sunflowers and torn at the left shoulder. Also wearing a bra, cotton panties and sandals with straps. She has many thin silver rings hanging from her ears, a silver ring of c. 1 cm diameter in her right eyebrow, and her tongue is pierced with a small pearl.
Injuries are present on her face, her chest and her back (see attached photograph). These were probably caused by birds and by the corpse being washed against rocks. There are no identity papers.
You have to be grateful for everyday life, don’t you?
Irrespective of what happens out in the world, everyday life makes its demands. Work calls every morning and it’s a blessing that it does, for as long as your hands are busy your thoughts are effectively kept in check and prevented from wandering off in forbidden directions. Long before the clock radio goes off in the early morning your own inner alarm clock wakes you. The clock inherited from parents and from innumerable earlier generations. It’s the housewife’s alarm clock, the mother’s alarm clock, which never stops and always keeps good time. However tired you are you tumble out of bed, go to the bathroom, have a pee, splash some water on your face, go into the kitchen, put water in the coffee maker, measure out the coffee and turn on the radio. It’s all instinctive. You drink your first cup of coffee with your backside leaning on the edge of the draining board while listening to the weather forecast. You pull on your pants, do up your bra, dress in an old flannel shirt and jeans, tie your hair up in a kerchief and go to check that the wee one is still asleep. Then you tiptoe out to the scullery, shove your feet into your rubber boots and go outside. The bright daylight hits you straight in the face. The cows are mooing.
Thank heavens Stig is the kind of husband who does his share in the byre before going to work. Thank heavens for the milking machine and the storage tank and the weekly collection.
Once the cows have been milked and let out to pasture and the sheep have been seen to it’s time for the children to have breakfast. Stig leaves for work – they are putting new roofing felt on a couple of Pettersson’s holiday cabins today. Viktor and Sara help to clear away the breakfast things before Stig’s mum comes to collect them. They still do more or less everything they are told to do. No doubt that will change – you only have to remember what you were like yourself. You make sure they have their boots and life jackets on before you let them out. In the summer you are constantly worried about adders and slippery rocks along the shore. Then you have time to play with Jenni for a while. You empty the dishwasher and fill the washing machine. You set aside some wheat dough to rise. You notice that you’re running out of margarine so you put Jenni in her pram and walk to the store. By the time you get back Janne has been with the post: the papers, a bill for concentrated feed from the co-op. You make lunch for you and for Jenni.
And so the day goes by. Just like other days.
You go from one everyday task to the next. There is no end to it.
And there’s a sort of consolation in the fact that everyday life makes its demands on us. Irrespective of what happens.
Busy hands deserve an honest rest. While Jenni has her midday nap and another tray of home-made bread is in the oven, you have time to sit down with a cup of coffee and read the paper. The timer on the stove is ticking away and a fly is buzzing around, but apart from that the house is silent. Through the open kitchen window you can hear a bird twittering in one of the birch trees in the yard and you wonder vaguely what kind of bird it might be.
You leaf through the paper, glancing at the headlines and the leads: lack of money is leading to the summer closure of hospital wards; one person has been killed in a serious collision between a car and a long-distance truck; miners are feared trapped after an explosion in a coal mine; the UN is warning of a new refugee crisis.
You try not to think about refugee children. Those big eyes in emaciated faces, bloated bellies, flies crawling into the corners of their mouths.
You thank God that you live here on Fagerö, safe and sure. You thank God that you have Stig and the children.
You sip at your coffee, take a quick look at the stove and turn to the next page. A headline in the local news catches your eye:
And then Elna is at the back door.
Elna has a superhuman ability to sniff out freshly brewed coffee. She makes her excuses – I just happened to be passing … I popped in to remind you of the keep-fit class at the Health Centre tomorrow … no, I won’t have any coffee …
In spite of which she doesn’t take much coaxing to sit down … well, if the pot’s hot … just half a cup, mind …
After two cups and a top-up – you’ve had to make a fresh pot – and some general gossip Elna is at last ready to come to the point of her visit. After looking round quickly as if checking to ensure that no one is eavesdropping she leans across the table.
“You know they’ve found another one, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you say. “Stig told me when he came home last night and I’ve just seen it in the paper. A young woman.”
Elna shakes her head vigorously.
“No, no, not that one. They’ve found another one again. Just this morning, near Tunnshamn. A man. I heard it from Axelina at the inspector’s office. The police are there now, dealing with the body.”
Your coffee suddenly tastes vile and bitter. You feel your heart shrivelling. You hear your own voice say in a helpless whisper: “Another one?”
“Yes. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
Yes, it’s awful. It’s so awful that you don’t know what to think – like with those refugee children a moment ago. You want to turn your back on it, curl up, make yourself as small as possible. What you don’t see and don’t hear doesn’t exist!
Your mouth says something of its own accord, so to speak, says what is expected of it: “It’s awful, isn’t it? Who’d have believed that here on Fagerö …”
You sigh.
Meanwhile you can’t stop wondering whether you ought to keep Viktor and Sara in. Just to be on the safe side.
You think: I suppose I’d better ring Stig’s mum at once.
You think: if only Stig was at home.
The kitchen has gone silent, completely silent. You can’t even hear the sound of the birds through the open window.
But then everyday life steps in and saves you.
“Lord Jesus! I’ve got bread in the oven!”
And you leap from your chair and rush to the stove. Thank God for everyday life!
Meanwhile on the island of Aspskär, Judit’s girl is sitting right out at the end of the landing stage. She sits folded like a metre rule, her knees pulled up to her chin, her calves pressed against the underside of her thighs, the tops of her thighs pressed against her upper body, her arms wrapped around her legs. A little human package is what she is, wrapped in her own arms. And she is afraid.
She has been afraid for as long as she can remember.
Judit’s girl is one of those people who are born into the world with a heart that is transparent and with skin that is far too thin. She would have been called a bastard in the old days when people expressed themselves more directly, more crudely. The rules of confidentiality that apply to social work cases prevent the scribe from describing in detail the girl’s childhood and joyless progress from one foster home and institution to the next, in the process of which she frequently suffered abuse. The girl was fourteen years old when Judit applied to be her carer and brought her to Aspskär from the mainland.
The girl is taciturn and almost pathologically shy. The moment visitors come out to Aspskär she runs away and hides. But she is utterly devoted to Judit and sticks as close to her as a lamb to its mother. When Judit is out at sea, the girl will sit on the landing stage and wait there motionless for hours, not bothered by the cold or the wind or the rain. And when Judit comes ashore the girl rushes down to the boat and throws her arms around her, and Judit holds her tight and the girl buries her face in Judit’s neck, and they cling fast to one another for a while with the white foam of the waves washing Judit’s boots and the wind ruffling her hair. Judit has unlimited patience with the girl, that much is obvious to everyone.
Judit is at sea just now and the girl is sitting curled up on the landing stage. She is close to tears.
She is breathing in short shallow breaths, afraid both for herself and for Judit. It’s always like that when Judit is out at sea.
Judit often says to her, “You shouldn’t be afraid, do you hear me?”
And Judit strokes her cheek with her rough hard fingers – almost as rough and hard as a man’s. But the girl does not flinch from Judit’s hands and Judit reassures her, “I shall come back.”
Judit smiles at her. It doesn’t help, though, and she is still afraid.
Just now the girl can see Judit all the time. That just makes everything worse.
Judit and the girl do their usual evening round of the little island. On the north side they salvage a couple of broken planks for firewood and a bottle made of thick green glass with a round body and a long neck. That’s for the girl. She has a small collection of washed-up bottles of odd shapes and many different colours on a windowsill in the glass veranda up at the house. She likes the feel of the roundness of the bottles in her hands, studies the little bubbles of air in the glass and looks at the way the light refracts as it passes through the thick bottoms. When she blows across the neck of a bottle it sounds exactly like the foghorn at Lågskär lighthouse on a misty winter’s night.
Judit had been standing for a long time up on the hillock behind the house with her binoculars focussed on a reef a couple of hundred metres out from the southernmost point of Aspskär. Bird droppings stained the reef with white patches like paint on an artist’s jeans. Gulls hung on the wind above the reef and waves broke foaming over it. That was all the girl could see with the naked eye.
Judit lowered her binoculars and watched the circling seabirds. She sucked her lower lip in beneath her front teeth and made a slight whistling noise. She said, “I’ll have to take the boat out for a while.”
“Where are you going?” the girl asked.
Judit did not answer. She began walking towards the harbour with the girl at her heels.
“Are you going fishing? Can I come?” Judit had sometimes allowed the girl to accompany her when she was setting out perch nets in inshore waters. She had taught her how to row and let her try driving the outboard.
“No,” Judit said.
The girl could tell from her tone that there was no point in arguing.
Judit fetched a nylon rope from the boathouse and threw it on the rear thwart of the small yellow-painted fibreglass boat. She pushed the boat out and stepped in, then said to the girl, “Best for you to go in.”
The girl waited until Judit had poled the boat out far enough to start the outboard before going and sitting on the landing stage.
The girl sees Judit draw alongside the reef with the birds. She sees Judit go to the middle of the boat and lean over the side. The girl has sharp eyes and she thinks Judit has the coil of orange-coloured nylon rope in her hand.
Judit does something with the rope.
The girl can’t see what she has done, because Judit’s weight tilts the boat and blocks her view.
The gulls are circling above the reef, screaming.
Judit straightens up, takes an oar and pushes off. She fits both oars into the rowlocks, turns the boat and begins rowing. She takes long powerful strokes, raises the oars, moves them through the air and brings them back into the water all in one smooth unbroken movement. Her body rocks back and forth in time with the strokes. Judit rowing is a beautiful sight.
The people on the Gunnarsholmar islands call it a choppy sea when the waves are short and abrupt but not high enough to break. The water is metallic and the sky to the south is a wall of blue-black clouds.
When Judit is a short distance from the reef she ships the oars, goes to the stern, bending low to counter the tilt of the boat, and starts the outboard. She drives slowly, sitting sideways on the rear thwart so that she can keep an eye on the wash behind the boat.
The girl can tell that Judit is towing something.
Judit steers a course farther and farther out into the firth. The girl follows her, screwing up her eyes to see better. She can feel her heart pounding fast and hard within her ribcage.
Now Judit is far out. The boat has shrunk to a small yellow smudge out on the grey waters and the buzz of the outboard can’t be heard above the deep murmur of the waves.
A little while later the boat can be seen on its way back to Aspskär. Judit is driving at full speed and there is a high bow wave foaming at the front.
When Judit steps out of the boat the girl does not rush up to her as she usually does. Instead she stands a little higher up the shore with her arms hanging loosely at her side, like someone who doesn’t know what to do.
“Aren’t you going to come and help me pull the boat up?” Judit asks gently.
The girl hesitates for a moment, then she goes slowly down to Judit. Without saying anything she catches hold of the side of the boat and they both heave. The fibreglass hull glides over the launching ramp rollers.
The girl doesn’t look at Judit.
Judit had thought about telling the girl what she was doing out by the reef. She had thought she might say, “It was just a dead seal washed up on the reef. I thought it best to get rid of it.”
But the lie remains unspoken. She thinks about reaching out a hand and stroking the girl’s cheek, but that doesn’t happen either.
Judit detaches the fuel line from the outboard and picks up the fuel tank and the wet nylon rope. She walks to the boathouse. The girl follows her, silently, head bent, like someone grieving.
(The following text should be read aloud to create the illusion of a radio broadcast.)
Here is the regional news, with Patrick Wölin in the studio. Good afternoon. Another body has come ashore near Fagerö in the Gunnarsholmar islands. It was discovered yesterday morning and according to preliminary reports it is that of a male of about thirty years of age. It was found washed up on an uninhabited skerry roughly two nautical miles south-east of Fagerö. The driver of a passing boat made the discovery and immediately alerted the emergency services by radio. Ghita Saarinen reports live from Fagerö:
I am in Tunnhamn on the island of Fagerö. Just a short time ago the body of an unidentified man was brought ashore here. The body was discovered on the tiny island of Kummelpiken out in the Aspskärsfjärden and has now been removed to the identification centre the police have set up by the harbour to facilitate further investigations. The body was found just after ten o’clock this morning by a fisherman on his way back to Fagerö from checking his salmon traps. This brings the number of bodies, all assumed to have died by drowning, found on the islands to a total of nine in the course of little more than a week. The police have initiated enquiries but do not yet appear to have any clear leads. And as yet it has proved impossible to identify any of the bodies.
Inspector Riggert von Haartman is with me here on the quay in Tunnhamn. The inspector is in charge of the police investigation into the tragic finds. Inspector, do the police have any theories as to what may be behind these events? Can you give us any details about them?
At this stage it would be best for us to avoid speculation.
Can you say why?
A preliminary investigation is under way and any comments made at this stage could possibly threaten confidential aspects of the enquiry.
I see. Are we to assume, then, that you haven’t excluded the possibility of criminal activity?
I’d rather not comment on that.
But it really is rather remarkable, isn’t it … that … that … nine bodies have been discovered and, according to reports, not one of them has been identified. The police must surely have some idea, must have some line of enquiry?
The police are not following a specific line of enquiry at this stage.
But these people … where did they come from? How did they end up in the sea? What has happened here?
The police are making enquiries and we shall, of course, hold a press conference at an appropriate stage. Thank you.
Thank you. That was Inspector Riggert von Haartman, who is in charge of the investigation.
The bodies have caused an atmosphere of concern and sadness out here on Fagerö. The people in this idyllic little island community far from the mainland are asking themselves what disaster can have caused nine bodies to have been washed up on their shores. There is no official explanation available as yet and, as we have just heard, the police are being very reticent on the issue. The only thing certain at the moment is that there has been no major disaster at sea recently that could account for these events.
The people of Fagerö are also asking – understandably – whether there will be more corpses in coming days. And if so, how much more stress will this community and its inhabitants be expected to endure as a result?
This is Ghita Saarinen reporting live from Fagerö. Back to Patrick in the newsroom.
Efraim Lökström, the assistant pastor, was in the pulpit at last.
The pulpit in the little church on Fagerö is not unlike the barrel that is used for the crow’s nest of a sailing ship. It is reached by a steep narrow ladder, which means that anyone mounting the pulpit should be neither too big nor too fat since the joiners who built it were thrifty islanders not given to being generous with valuable timber. Fortunately Rev. Lökström is not a big man, not physically anyway. There is room for him in the pulpit. He doesn’t have a particularly big voice either, but it’s sufficient to the modest size of the church.
On most ordinary Sundays the size of the congregation that comes to hear the Rev. Lökström preach the gospel is not large. The secularisation of society is noticeable even out here on Fagerö and, apart from Christmastime, the pastor usually finds himself preaching to half-empty pews. But this Sunday, the first after Whitsun, was a notable exception.
When the pastor stood in the narrow pulpit, he could survey the upturned faces of a full congregation. He took a firm grip on the handrail. The bright light of summer filled the church and from his elevated position the pastor, looking out through the windows at the east end of the church, could see a strip of blue sea, as blue as chicory in flower. A votive ship was suspended above the central aisle of the church, a model of the three-masted barque Oihonna under full sail. The votive ship was believed to have the ability to predict the wind – the wind would blow in whichever direction the barque was pointing. At the moment the bowsprit of the Oihonna was pointing north-west, as it had done for the last week.
The pastor was delighted to see that so many of his flock had come to the morning service. He understood their motives and was ready to provide his parishioners with comfort and consolation in this time of affliction. He had chosen to open his sermon with the Old Testament account of Jonah and the whale, or to be more precise, with the verses Jonah 2:5-7 in which Jonah utters a prayer from the belly of the whale:
The waters closed in over me to take my life;
the deep surrounded me;
weeds were wrapped about my head
at the roots of the mountains.
I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me forever;
yet you brought up my life from the pit,
O LORD my God.
He was planning to say the following: “The deep surrounded poor Jonah and weeds wrapped around his head. But God led his soul up from the grave just as he will raise all these poor drowned souls from their watery graves in the sea.”
It could well have been a beautiful sermon, perhaps the best that the Rev. Lökström had ever preached.
He looked at the upturned faces. He saw his wife in the first pew, and K-D Mattsson and Mrs Councillor, and Abrahamsson from Busö and Backas Isaksson and their wives, and Birger from the store and Pettersson from Lassfols. There were many people there and they were seeking comfort in this difficult time.
They waited for the pastor’s words. Someone coughed and the sound echoed back from the ceiling.
In the organ loft the bald head of Lindman the organist gleamed in the sunlight that entered through the rose window at the gable end of the nave. It’s relevant to mention at this point that the Rev. Lökström had never got on well with Lindman the organist. A ridiculous thought suddenly entered the pastor’s head as he stood there in the pulpit, his mouth already opening to begin his sermon: Why in the name of all that is holy does Our Lord allow his light to shine upon such a hopeless fool as Börje Lindman, the organist?
“… hopeless fool …” To his horror the Rev. Lökström heard the echo of his words return to him from the church.
The rather abbreviated service was over. The congregation hung around the car park for a short time greeting one another and chatting before getting into their cars and driving home for a late Sunday breakfast or for coffee.
Early summer had now arrived in the islands in earnest. The downy birch trees around the church had unfurled their leaves and the foliage was tender and translucent as it is in the few short weeks before midsummer. The bird cherry behind the caretaker’s tool shed was blooming as white as a giant’s bride. A white wagtail with a rubbery earthworm dangling from its beak scuttled across the sandy car park on its quick thin legs. Swifts swooped and screeched around the bell tower, their long curved wings like black boomerangs.
K-D Mattsson opened the driver’s door of his Opel Kadett, dug around in his trouser pocket for the ignition key and said: “Lökström is obviously stressed by this awful business.” He broke off and looked at his car key as if he didn’t really know what it was for. “It can prey on anyone’s mind though, I have to admit that,” he added.
K-D got into the car, where his wife was already sitting, shut the driver’s door and started the engine.