The Cruel Stars of the Night Read Online Free

time.
    “It was mainly small things,” she said, “things like, well, you know . . . small things. No big thoughts. It could be about that squirrel that disappeared or the firewood he had to get to. He picked mushrooms too. And berries. Could come back with buckets of it. I had to make jam and juice. My legs aren’t so good anymore. For going in the forest, I mean.”
    Beatrice nodded. The clock struck a few peals.
    “Was he worried about anything?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Did he mention anything? Did he have any conflicts? People he didn’t get along with?”
    “Then he would have . . . He didn’t say anything like that.”
    “Did he have any children?”
    Dorotea shook her head. “No,” she said flatly.
    “Did he have many acquaintances?” Beatrice Andersson asked, although she knew the answer.
    “No, maybe in the past. He belonged to the road committee and sometimes he might have gone hunting. But not very often.”
    Dorotea paused, glanced out the window. The begonias on the windowsill were still in full bloom.
    “A long time ago the library bus used to come by,” she continued. “He borrowed a lot. I did, too, for that matter. As long as the Kindblom’s children were still at home it was more lively.”
    She made a movement inside her mouth, produced a smacking sound. She must have repositioned her false teeth.
    “Do you remember him receiving any visitors out of the ordinary the past while?”
    “Like in the ads, you mean, a tanker running aground in his garden?”
    Beatrice laughed at the unexpected comment and could sense a younger woman’s mischievous presence in Dorotea’s eyes.
    “No, he didn’t get many visitors. The postman sometimes stops by. And then Arne, but that got less often.”
    “Who is Arne?”
    “Arne Wiikman. He’s an old friend. Their fathers worked at the mill together. One day Arne simply disappeared.”
    “Really? When was this?”
    “Well that’s a story in itself. He had inherited his father’s temper. A real troublemaker who picked fights with everyone.”
    Dorotea smiled at some recollection and seemed to have collected herself somewhat. Her breathing was calmer.
    “He was a communist. Everyone knew that, of course. But he was good anyway. A hard worker.”
    “Are you talking about Arne’s father?”
    “His name was Nils. Petrus’s father’s name was Karl-Erik, but they called him Blackie. They were always together. He was an edger working the saw. Nils was a lumber hauler. Of course, Petrus also worked at the mill when he was young. And so did Arne. Then he disappeared.”
    “When was this?”
    “I guess it was the midfifties.”
    “But he came back?”
    “Yes, that was about ten years ago. He bought Lindvall’s old house and renovated it.”
    “And Arne and Petrus spent time together?”
    “Yes, that’s how it went. But so different. Petrus was calm, Arne fiery.”
    “Does he still live here?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “Can you think of anyone who would want to take Petrus’s life?”
    “No, no one. He didn’t harm a fly. He had no trouble with anyone.”
    “What was his financial situation?”
    “He managed. He had a pension, of course. He lived frugally.”
    “Did he have any cash in the house?”
    “You mean that someone would have wanted? I don’t think so.”
    “Are you afraid now?”
    Dorotea Svahn sighed.
    “I’m afraid of getting old,” she said. “What will happen if my legs don’t carry me? I’m afraid of the silence. It will be . . .”
    She looked down at the table.
    “What a pity for such a fine man, to end like this.”
    Dorotea wept silently. Beatrice held out her hand and placed it on top of the older woman’s. She looked up.
    “It’s strange that something so terrible is needed to stir things up,” she said.
    “Your son, where is he?”
    “In town, but he travels a lot. Sometimes internationally.”
    “When was he here last?”
    “It was a while ago.”
    “What kind of work does he do?”
    “To be