‘That’s a long way to come. How can I be of service?’ he said lightly, although there was a guarded edge to his voice.
‘Are you Ragnar Lissander?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘We’d like to come inside and have a few words with you. Preferably with your wife as well, if she’s at home,’ said Patrik. Even though he spoke politely, it was clear that he wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer.
The man seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he stepped aside and let them in.
‘My wife is a bit under the weather, so she’s having a rest. I’ll go and find out if she can come downstairs for a moment.’
‘That would be good,’ said Patrik, uncertain whether Ragnar Lissander expected them to stand in the front hall while he went upstairs.
‘Go in and sit down. I’ll be right back,’ he said then, as if in answer to Patrik’s unspoken question.
Patrik and Paula looked in the direction the man was pointing and then entered a living room on the left. They had a look around as they listened to Mr Lissander climbing the stairs.
‘Not exactly a cosy place, is it?’ whispered Paula.
Patrik had to agree. The living room looked more like a display in a furniture store than a room that was actually used. Everything gleamed with polish, and the occupants seemed to have a certain fondness for decorative items. The sofa was brown leather, and in front of it stood the obligatory glass coffee table. Not a fingerprint was visible on the glass, and Patrik shuddered at the thought of how it would look if the table was in his own home, with Maja’s sticky fingers nearby.
The most striking thing was that there were no personal possessions in the room. No photographs, no drawings from grandchildren, no postcards with greetings from family members or friends.
He cautiously sat down on the sofa, and Paula sat down next to him. They could hear voices upstairs, a heated exchange, although they weren’t able to make out any of the words. After a few more minutes they heard footsteps on the stairs, this time from two people.
Ragnar Lissander appeared in the doorway. He truly personifies the term ‘little old man’, thought Patrik. Grey, stooped, and invisible. The woman behind him was a whole different story. She didn’t merely walk towards them – she strode forward, wearing a dressing gown that seemed to consist of a plethora of apricot-coloured flounces. She emitted a deep sigh as she shook hands with Patrik.
‘I certainly hope this is important, since you’re interrupting my nap.’
Patrik felt as if he’d landed in a silent film from the nineteen twenties.
‘We just have a few questions,’ he said, sitting down again.
Irene Lissander took a seat on the armchair across from him. She hadn’t bothered to say hello to Paula.
‘So, Ragnar says that you’re from…’ She turned to her husband. ‘Was it Tanumshede, you said?’
He mumbled affirmatively, sitting down at the far end of the sofa. His hands hung between his knees, and he fixed his eyes on the shiny glass table.
‘I don’t understand what you could possibly want with us,’ the woman said haughtily.
Patrik couldn’t help casting a glance in Paula’s direction. She discreetly rolled her eyes.
‘We’re investigating a murder,’ he said. ‘And we’ve found some information that points back in time, to an event that occurred here in Trollhattan thirty-seven years ago.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Patrik saw Ragnar give a start.
‘You took in a foster child at that time, is that right?’
‘Christian,’ said Irene, bobbing one foot up and down. She was wearing high-heeled slippers with open toes. Her toenails were exquisitely painted a fiery red that clashed with the colour of her dressing gown.
‘Exactly. Christian Thydell, who was then given your surname. Lissander.’
‘He changed his name back later on,’ said Ragnar quietly, receiving a murderous look from his wife. He fell silent, his whole body slumping forward again.
‘Did you adopt him?’ asked Paula.
‘No, absolutely not.’ Irene pushed a lock of her dark hair, obviously dyed, out of her face. ‘He just lived with us. He was allowed to use our last name for… the sake of convenience.’
Patrik was dumbfounded. How many years had Christian spent in this home, treated like some lowly lodger, judging by the coldness with which his foster mother spoke of him?
‘I see. And precisely how long did Christian live with you?’ He could hear the disapproval in his own voice, but Irene Lissander didn’t seem to notice.
‘Hmm, how long was it, Ragnar? How long was the boy here?’ Her husband didn’t reply, so she turned back to Patrik. She still hadn’t deigned to give Paula a single glance. Patrik had the feeling that other women didn’t exist in Irene’s world.
‘It should be easy to work out. He was about three when he came to us. And how old was he when he left, Ragnar? He must have been eighteen.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘He wanted to seek his fortune elsewhere. And since then we’ve never heard a word from him. Isn’t that right, Ragnar?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Ragnar Lissander quietly. ‘He simply… disappeared.’
Patrik felt sorry for the little man. Had he always been like this? Browbeaten and cowed? Or was it the years that he’d spent with Irene that had stripped him of all virility?
‘So you don’t know where he went?’
‘No idea. We have absolutely no idea.’ Irene’s foot was bobbing up and down again.
‘Why are you asking us these questions?’ said Ragnar. ‘How is Christian involved in a murder investigation?’
Patrik hesitated. ‘Unfortunately, I have to tell you that he was found dead this morning.’
Ragnar couldn’t hide his shock. He at least had cared about Christian and hadn’t just thought of him as a lodger.
‘How did he die?’ Ragnar asked, his voice unsteady.
‘He was found hanged. That’s all we know at the moment.’
‘Did he have a family?’
‘Yes, two fine sons and a wife named Sanna. He’s been living in Fjallbacka, working as a librarian. Last week his first novel was published. It’s called
‘So that was him,’ said Ragnar. ‘I read about the book in the newspaper because the title caught my attention. But the picture of him was nothing like the Christian who used to live with us.’
‘Who would have thought it possible? That a boy like that could make something of himself,’ said Irene, her expression as hard as stone.
Patrik bit his tongue so as not to say something negative to her. He needed to be professional and keep his eye on the objective. He could feel that he had started to sweat again, and he tugged at his shirt to get some air.
‘Christian had a rough start. Was that something you could see in his behaviour?’
‘He was so young. Children forget those sorts of things very quickly,’ said Irene, waving her hand dismissively.
‘Sometimes he had nightmares,’ said Ragnar.
‘But all children do. No, we didn’t notice anything. He was rather an odd child, but with his background, well…’
‘What do you know about his biological mother?’
‘A slut. Lower class. And not quite right in the head.’ Irene tapped her finger against her temple and sighed. ‘But I really don’t understand what you think we might be able to tell you. So if there’s nothing more, I’d like to go back upstairs and lie down. I’m not feeling well.’
‘Just a few more questions,’ said Patrik. ‘Is there anything else about his childhood that you’d like to mention? We’re looking for a person, most likely a woman, who issued threats towards Christian, and others.’
‘Well, back then the girls weren’t exactly swarming around him,’ said Irene, indifferently.
‘I’m not just thinking of love affairs. Were there any other women who were close to him?’
‘No. Who would that be? We were all he had.’
Patrik was just about to end the conversation when Paula interjected a question:
