The Man from Beijing Read Free

Hersjö?”
    “Hesjövallen?”
    The driver nodded. “Yes, he said that.”
    “And what did he mean?”
    “I don’t know. He died.”
    Huddén put his notebook away. He hadn’t written down what the driver said. Half an hour later, when the tow trucks had driven off and another police car had taken the Bosnian driver to the station for more questioning, Huddén got into his car, ready to return to Hudiksvall. He was accompanied by his colleague Leif Ytterström, who was driving.
    “Let’s go via Hesjövallen,” said Huddén out of the blue.
    “Why? Has there been an emergency call?”
    “I just want to check up on something.”
    Erik Huddén was the older of the two officers. He was known for being both uncommunicative and stubborn. Ytterström turned off onto the road to Sörforsa. When they came to Hesjövallen Huddén asked him to drive slowly through the village. He still hadn’t explained to his colleague why they had made this detour.
    “It looks deserted,” said Ytterström as they slowly passed house after house.
    “Hang on. Go back,” said Huddén. “Slowly.”
    Then he told Ytterström to stop. Something lying in the snow by one of the houses had attracted his attention. He got out of the car and went to investigate. He suddenly stopped dead and drew his gun. Ytterström leaped out of the car and drew his own gun.
    “What’s going on?”
    Huddén didn’t reply. He moved cautiously forward. Then he paused again and bent over as if he had suddenly been afflicted by chest pains. When he came back to the car Erik Huddén was white in the face.
    “There’s a dead man lying there,” he said. “He’s been beaten to death. And there’s something missing.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “One of his legs.”
    They stood staring at each other without speaking. Then Huddén got into the car and picked up the radio and asked for Vivi Sundberg, who he knew was on duty that day. She responded immediately.
    “Erik here. I’m out at Hesjövallen.”
    “What’s happened?”
    “I don’t know. But there’s a man lying dead in the snow.”
    “Say that again.”
    “A dead man. In the snow. It looks as if he’s been beaten to death. One of his legs is missing.”
    They knew each other well. Sundberg knew that Erik Huddén would never exaggerate, no matter how incredible what he said seemed to be. “We’ll be there,” said Sundberg. “Get the forensic guys from Gävle.”
    “Who’s with you?”
    “Ytterström.”
    She thought for a moment.
    “Is there any plausible explanation for what’s happened?”
    “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
    He knew she would understand. He had been a police officer for so long that there was no real limit to the suffering and violence he was forced to face up to.
    It was thirty-five minutes before they heard sirens approaching in the distance. Huddén had tried to persuade Ytterström to accompany him to the nearest house so that they could talk to the neighbors, but his colleague refused to move until reinforcements arrived. As Huddén was reluctant to enter the house alone, they stayed by the car. They said nothing while they waited.
    Vivi Sundberg got out of the first car to pull up beside them. She was a powerfully built woman in her fifties. Those who knew her were well aware that despite her cumbersome body, she was very mobile and possessed considerable stamina. Only a few months earlier she had chased and caught two burglars in their twenties. They had laughed at her as they started to run off. They were no longer laughing when she arrested the pair of them after a chase of a few hundred yards.
    Vivi Sundberg had red hair. Four times a year she visited her daughter’s hair salon and had the redness reinforced.
    She was born on a farm just outside of Harmånger and had looked after her parents until they grew old and eventually died. Then she began educating herself, and after a few years applied to the police college. She was amazed to be