Ove shooed it away.
“Rage … almost derangement and a fair bit of strength,” said Gustav.
“Depends a bit on the tool, too,” said Fredrik.
“The tool?”
“Well, it’s not very usual for people to run around with swords, so unless the killer is a maniac with a cutlass, it ought to be some kind of a tool.”
Suddenly there was something that disturbed their concentration: a voice that was speaking far too loudly and footsteps that were moving far too quickly to fit in with the ordinary activities of a crime scene investigation. All three of them reacted, by turning toward the hall and looking at the front door as someone tugged at the handle.
* * *
“YOU LET GO of me! Let go!”
It took two young, strapping police officers to keep the man, who looked like he was a bit over seventy, away from the door. He braced his feet against the ground and pushed his way forward with his shabby-looking suede jacket pulled inside out down over his shoulders.
“You’ve got to let me inside.”
His wild eyes were fixed on the farmhouse, seeing nothing but the door that Ove had just shut behind him. His face was white with small red splotches down around his throat, his breathing was labored and gasping.
Ove, Gustav, and Fredrik hurried over to their uniformed colleagues who were struggling with the man. Fredrik tried to catch the man’s eyes, stood right in his way, but the man stared right through him.
“Why do you want to go in here?” asked Fredrik, but the hoary old man didn’t respond.
“You’d better answer the question,” Gustav continued.
“We’ve tried,” panted one of the officers who was trying to keep the man still.
The white-haired man started to nod over to his side, toward the two cars parked in the driveway.
“That’s his car. His car’s standing right there, don’t you understand? If he’s in there I’m going to kill the bastard, I’m gonna kill him!”
He had a powerful voice and he was shouting at the top of it, but it also sounded like his voice could seize up at any moment in despair.
Ove made a tired expression.
“Put him in a car and let him sit there till he’s calmed down.”
The officers gave a strained nod and struggled to drag the obstreperous, wriggling man toward the patrol car. Using gentle force, they managed to stow him in the backseat. Gustav followed after him and opened the front door on the passenger side. He leaned in through the opening.
“Who is it you think is in there?” he asked him softly, almost whispering.
“My son. That’s his car. That’s his car standing there.”
The man’s voice suddenly sounded pleading, as if he desperately wanted the five policemen gathered around him to contradict him, to convince him that he was mistaken, put him in a car and drive him away.
Fredrik and Ove stood silently off to the side, didn’t want to disturb right when Gustav seemed to be making some kind of contact.
“And your son, who is he?” asked Gustav.
It took a while for the man to answer, as if he hadn’t quite understood that he was expected to provide a name. His voice was dampened by the upholstery. Gustav only caught “Traneus” and leaned in further.
“Arvid Traneus?” he asked.
It was like flipping a switch. The man threw himself at the door and tried to get out. When he noticed that the door was locked he tried to scramble out between the front seats, but was stopped by the uniformed officer in the car.
“Arvid! If that’s my son in there, if that’s Anders lying dead in there, then it’s him. Then Arvid’s the one who did it. If that’s my son, then he’s the one. He’s capable of anything…”
Gustav looked at Fredrik and Ove, but there was nothing in their expressions to suggest that they had understood anything more of what the man had said than he had himself.
“So you’re not Arvid Traneus’s father?” he asked.
“Me?” the man bellowed and spat on the floor.
Gustav recoiled.
“This is
“Rage … almost derangement and a fair bit of strength,” said Gustav.
“Depends a bit on the tool, too,” said Fredrik.
“The tool?”
“Well, it’s not very usual for people to run around with swords, so unless the killer is a maniac with a cutlass, it ought to be some kind of a tool.”
Suddenly there was something that disturbed their concentration: a voice that was speaking far too loudly and footsteps that were moving far too quickly to fit in with the ordinary activities of a crime scene investigation. All three of them reacted, by turning toward the hall and looking at the front door as someone tugged at the handle.
* * *
“YOU LET GO of me! Let go!”
It took two young, strapping police officers to keep the man, who looked like he was a bit over seventy, away from the door. He braced his feet against the ground and pushed his way forward with his shabby-looking suede jacket pulled inside out down over his shoulders.
“You’ve got to let me inside.”
His wild eyes were fixed on the farmhouse, seeing nothing but the door that Ove had just shut behind him. His face was white with small red splotches down around his throat, his breathing was labored and gasping.
Ove, Gustav, and Fredrik hurried over to their uniformed colleagues who were struggling with the man. Fredrik tried to catch the man’s eyes, stood right in his way, but the man stared right through him.
“Why do you want to go in here?” asked Fredrik, but the hoary old man didn’t respond.
“You’d better answer the question,” Gustav continued.
“We’ve tried,” panted one of the officers who was trying to keep the man still.
The white-haired man started to nod over to his side, toward the two cars parked in the driveway.
“That’s his car. His car’s standing right there, don’t you understand? If he’s in there I’m going to kill the bastard, I’m gonna kill him!”
He had a powerful voice and he was shouting at the top of it, but it also sounded like his voice could seize up at any moment in despair.
Ove made a tired expression.
“Put him in a car and let him sit there till he’s calmed down.”
The officers gave a strained nod and struggled to drag the obstreperous, wriggling man toward the patrol car. Using gentle force, they managed to stow him in the backseat. Gustav followed after him and opened the front door on the passenger side. He leaned in through the opening.
“Who is it you think is in there?” he asked him softly, almost whispering.
“My son. That’s his car. That’s his car standing there.”
The man’s voice suddenly sounded pleading, as if he desperately wanted the five policemen gathered around him to contradict him, to convince him that he was mistaken, put him in a car and drive him away.
Fredrik and Ove stood silently off to the side, didn’t want to disturb right when Gustav seemed to be making some kind of contact.
“And your son, who is he?” asked Gustav.
It took a while for the man to answer, as if he hadn’t quite understood that he was expected to provide a name. His voice was dampened by the upholstery. Gustav only caught “Traneus” and leaned in further.
“Arvid Traneus?” he asked.
It was like flipping a switch. The man threw himself at the door and tried to get out. When he noticed that the door was locked he tried to scramble out between the front seats, but was stopped by the uniformed officer in the car.
“Arvid! If that’s my son in there, if that’s Anders lying dead in there, then it’s him. Then Arvid’s the one who did it. If that’s my son, then he’s the one. He’s capable of anything…”
Gustav looked at Fredrik and Ove, but there was nothing in their expressions to suggest that they had understood anything more of what the man had said than he had himself.
“So you’re not Arvid Traneus’s father?” he asked.
“Me?” the man bellowed and spat on the floor.
Gustav recoiled.
“This is
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