was worried about Linda. Irene did not mention that Linda had been found dead. She decided it would be best to tell her in person.
SIV PERSSON LIVED on the fourth floor. The building had no elevator. After trudging up three flights, Irene rang the doorbell next to the teak door. It was a while before they heard noises inside. Irene put on a friendly expression, knowing they were being scrutinized through the peephole. When the door finally opened a few inches, Irene was reminded of a little mouse peeping from its hole. Nurse Siv was wearing the same gray woolen poncho she’d worn the first time Irene met her. Her hair seemed to be made from the same skein of the yarn. Underneath was a beige-brown dress. Even the most charitable person would not be able to say the dress was attractive. The only touch of color came in the light blue frames of her glasses, and even they looked faded.
“Good day, Nurse Siv. I’m Inspector Irene Huss. I just phoned you. And this is Inspector Tommy Persson.”
“Good day.” Nurse Siv opened the door and invited them in.
The hallway was so tiny that Nurse Siv had to back into the kitchen to give Tommy and Irene enough room to take off their coats. From her spot in the miniature kitchen, she said, “I remember you, Detective Huss, from that horrible morning after … the murder. But I’m sorry to say I do not remember Inspector Persson. There was so much going on. Please, though, let’s not stand on formalities. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks, I’d love some. That is, if you were going to make some for yourself,” Irene added quickly.
Siv Persson smiled weakly and turned on her coffee machine. She’d obviously prepared everything needed for a proper coffee hour. The living room’s well-polished coffee table was set neatly with coffee cups and chocolate- filled cookies.
“I’m sorry, I have no coffee cake and didn’t have time to run out and buy some.”
“This is fine.” Tommy smiled. “We’re used to simple spreads with our coffee.”
Siv Persson seemed pleased and tripped along to the kitchen. She returned with a sugar bowl and a creamer.
The moss green sofa with its beige armchairs—all straight lines and shining polished armrests—brought Irene back to her childhood living room. The low oval table matched the wood on the arms of the furniture. The pile on the shag carpet was red and green. The entire living room breathed the fifties. It wouldn’t have surprised Irene for a second if Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” suddenly blared from the speakers.
The art on the walls shattered that impression. The pieces could be measured in square yards and all seemed to be painted by the same artist. The color scale was strong and saturated, gorgeous landscapes with bluish mountains and lush green valleys.
The late-model TV had the largest screen Irene had ever seen. On both sides of the screen were huge speakers.
“My brother painted them.” Siv nodded proudly at the artwork.
“They’re wonderful. Was he abroad when he painted them?”
“Yes, he lived in Provence during the last twenty years of his life. He died ten years ago.”
Was there a colorful person behind Siv Persson’s gray exterior? When she sank her thin body into the beige armchair, it seemed as if she melted into it and disappeared. Only the light blue frames of her glasses remained floating in midair. Irene shook the image from her brain and decided it was time to get down to reality.
“As you probably figured out, we’re here for something more concrete about what you saw the night of the murder,” she began.
“I’ve told my story several times,” Siv Persson said. There was a hint of worry in her voice.
“Of course. But now a week has gone by. Perhaps some things have gotten clearer to you or some new detail came to mind?”
The nurse pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly. Irene did not let herself be dismissed.
“Have you heard about the garden-shed arson?”
“Yes, it was in the paper … but that can’t have anything to do with Marianne’s murder, can it? Or Linda’s disappearance? I didn’t even know there was a garden shed back there.”
“I assume that you know about the murder of the homeless woman.”
“Yes, that was also in the paper. What is going on at Lowander Hospital?”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out. And we need your help.” Irene let her last sentence sink in. Then she said emphatically, “The murdered homeless woman lived in that shed.”
Siv Persson’s expressions ranged from suspicion to surprise. She wrinkled her forehead. “That can’t be possible, can it? Living in a garden shed during the middle of winter?”
“She was probably grateful to have a roof over her head. Have you ever seen her around the hospital grounds?”
“What did she look like?”
“She was short and very thin. She wore a large man’s coat held together by a piece of rope. Pink knitted cap.”
“No. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that. I certainly would remember it if I had,” Siv Persson said firmly.
“Back to the fire on Saturday night. It was arson. The homeless woman had a bed of blankets and a sleeping bag. The arsonist set fire to everything after he’d put a black wool nurse’s uniform on top. We also found a nurse’s brooch among the remains. It belonged to a nurse who graduated from the Sophia nursing school. I remembered you had a brooch that matched.”
Without saying a word, Siv Persson stood up and disappeared behind a closed door that Irene guessed concealed her bedroom. Tommy and Irene exchanged looks. They could hear the nurse rummaging around. A few minutes later, Siv Persson came back. Somehow she reentered the room as a different person, straighter, with an air of authority. She’d transformed into a nurse right to the ends of her fingertips.
She wore a white hat with a wide black band; on the edge of the band was a narrow, crisp ruffle. The blindingly white dress collar had at its center the shining silver nurse’s brooch. The black dress itself had puffed, capped sleeves lined with buttons. The bodice was short, a tight row of more black buttons running down to the waist. The pleated skirt came to the middle of the calf, revealing black stockings and shoes. Over one arm she had a neatly folded apron.
“This is how she was dressed,” declared the nurse. She turned slowly so that the police officers could see the uniform from all angles. “But one thing was missing.”
“Missing?” echoed the officers.
“Yes, missing. The apron was gone. This is how it’s supposed to look.”
Siv Persson shook open the crackling, starched apron so they could get a closer look. It had a gentle golden tinge, an indication of its age. “At home you always wear the apron.”
“At home?”
“If you are working on a ward, you are at home in that ward. Then you wear the apron but not the belt.”
“So when you’re away from your department, you take off the apron and put on the belt? Do I understand you correctly?”
“That’s right.”
Irene and Tommy both got to their feet to inspect the dress more closely.
“It’s not black. More like dark blue,” Tommy said.
“But it wouldn’t be practical to work in that uniform, would it? Hard to wash.”
Nurse Siv snorted. “We certainly didn’t work in this uniform! This is a dress uniform for important events. The daily uniform was a light blue cotton one. No puffed sleeves or all these buttons.”
“And the person you saw the night of the murder was dressed just as you are now?”
“That’s right. Tekla was also a Sophia graduate. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, it has been the tradition at Lowander to have nurses trained at the Sophia nursing school.”
“But isn’t Sophia in Stockholm?”
“Yes, but it was always the most prestigious school. Plenty of Goteborg girls applied to Sophia for their training. I did. Many of them wanted to return to Goteborg after graduation, and Lowander Hospital was happy to hire them. In those days working at Lowander brought status. Dr. Lowander’s mother was also a Sophia nurse.”
“You mean the younger doctor?”
