Lindell nodded and felt like a teenager.

"You have to take care of yourself," Beatrice said. "You have only one body and one life."

"I know," Lindell said hoa.r.s.ely.

They parted and Lindell got in her car with mixed emotions. She wanted to keep talking, but at the same time she wanted to be alone. She watched Beatrice put up her hand in greeting, drive out of the garage, and disappear.

They following day they conducted new interrogations with a pale Mortensen. He denied all knowledge of human experimentation and also all knowledge of the doc.u.ments that had been found in his home.

"I've never seen this," he stubbornly maintained during the first two hours, finally he become completely silent.

He repeated his confession that he had killed Gabriella but refused to cooperate in any other way. He had been a.s.signed an attorney, but the latter mainly sat quietly as if he had trouble understanding why his client was involved in such serious crimes. The last thing Mortensen said was that he did not wish to have any visitors.

After lunch Moya called.

"We discussed everything this morning," he began, speaking in the same tired voice as he had on the day before. "It has been decided that we will not proceed further."

"What are you talking about?" Lindell asked breathlessly.

"We are going to intensify our search for Urbano, but we will do nothing about the Dominican Republic."

"But why?"

"I can't comment further," Moya said. "Since this matter is in regard to another country, it is out of my jurisdiction."

"That's unbelievable," Lindell said. "That means that the whole thing will be buried in silence."

"That may not be true," Moya said, but she heard in his voice that he shared her opinion.

"I am very sorry," he added. "But there is nothing I can do. At least no one has died."

They concluded the call in a formal way. Lindell promised to send translated copies of the interrogations with Mortensen, information that the Spanish police could use in their investigations, and for his part, Moya promised to be in touch if there were any new developments.

Lindell went in to Ottosson's office and told him about the conversation with Moya. After a moment of silence, he called the chief of police.

Three hours later there was a fax from the National Police Board. It was full of superfluous words as usual, but the gist of it was that the Spanish police had the formal responsibility for the investigation in the Dominican Republic. Any illegal activities that might have taken place had been undertaken by a Spanish company. The doc.u.ment was signed by Chief Superintendent Morgan at the National Police Board.

Lindell tried to get ahold of Adrian Mrd but was unsuccessful and subsequently left the police station without talking to anyone. It had started to rain. The temperature hovered at around ten degrees Celsius.

In Graso, Edvard Risberg sat leaning against the chicken coop, his legs outstretched. Viola was harvesting the first new potatoes. Out across the sea of the archipelago, a strong nor'easter was brewing. He could already feel the first raindrops on his face.

Thirty-three.

The chickens were peacefully pecking at the ground under the mango tree. Half dozing, Julio Pieda watched them. His daughter-in-law had placed him in the shade under the trees. Two of his grandchildren were playing noisily. Julio thought they were helping to pour out honey into bottles.

The Swede was dead. He knew that now. The police had come around and told him. The project of a house for the affected had fallen by the wayside. But it no longer mattered in his case. Death would soon be paying him a visit. He had already started to smell, he felt. His limbs no longer obeyed him, and he had trouble making himself understood. His grandchildren watched him with wide eyes when he tried to speak.

Death will be here soon, he thought, now without fear, but it would have been nice to have had a few more years. Now that the trees were yielding a proper harvest and they had gathered enough building materials to erect the little stand by the road where the tourists could stop to buy fresh fruit and honey.

He had been planning to walk around among the trees, telling the amazed Europeans, j.a.panese, and Americans about his plants, showing them how to crack and peel a coconut. An old man with worn trousers and a stained shirt, but with a machete in his hand. The grandchildren were to have followed him, helped him, and then asked for money.

Now others would have to take over. He had been paid to partic.i.p.ate. They had given him almost half a year's salary. Hauled it out as if it were change left on a bar counter. They had bought Julio and eleven other villagers. Now the Swede was dead and Julio would soon follow. Perhaps they would meet on the other side. There everyone was equal. Perhaps there were also mangoes, papayas, and bananas.

Or was it more like the land of the Swede: cold and sterile?.

Also by Kjell Eriksson.

The Hand That Trembles.

The Demon of Dakar.

The Cruel Stars of the Night.

The Princess of Burundi.

Black Lies, Red Blood.

Open Grave.

Abouth the Author.

KJELL ERIKSSON is the author of the internationally acclaimed The Princess of Burundi, The Cruel Stars of the Night, The Demon of Dakar, The Hand that Trembles, and Black Lies, Red Blood. His series debut won Best First Novel 1999 by the Swedish Crime Academy, an accomplishment he later followed up by winning Best Swedish Crime Novel 2002 for The Princess of Burundi. He lives in Sweden and France. You can sign up for email updates here.

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