He thought he heard pounding from the professor’s house. A window opened and he saw the elderly woman, whom he assumed was domestic help, hook it fast. She must have a lot to do now, he thought, and let his eyes sweep across the façade with all its windows, eighteen in all and those on only the back side of the house.
His mother had written about how laborious it was to clean all the windows in the house, even if there were several who helped out. Three times a year the ritual had to be gone through. Now it was probably less often, he assumed. They looked gray and shabby.
The thoughts of his mother and thereby the Ohler clan made him uneasy. With a little effort he got on his feet, he was getting more and more stiff. He stared at the massive house, tried to imagine his mother there. In her diaries she had laconically yet vividly described the routines, her coworkers, and the gentry. There was also an element of sensationalism when she described the intrigues and gossip that always arose in a big household. But Karsten did not think that was strange, she had been young and inexperienced.
The notes from the first few months were filled with wonder at the life in Carl von Ohler’s home. She described the toilets as if they were marvels and the number of exclamation points when she told how many sheets, crystal glasses, and table settings there were in the house testified to her excitement.
But soon the exclamation points in the diaries would have a different connotation.
Karsten Heller was seized by a desire to see the house from inside. He wanted to walk on the stairs where his mother had walked, see the gigantic bookcases in the library that she so solemnly described, and take a look in the kitchen. But that was impossible. He would never be let in, whatever pretext he resorted to.
He could in principle force his way in, or sneak in. He smiled to himself. Break in but without intention to steal. What could that be classified as? Breaking and entering perhaps?
The woman in the window reminded him of his mother’s fate and also made him aware of the continuity. Even today women served at Ohler’s, exactly like sixty or seventy years ago, and he wondered how many had come and gone over the years. How many there were who had had experiences similar to his mother.
He had not followed the political squabbling about domestic services and maid’s deduction very closely, but after finding his mother’s diaries the debate had a different connotation for him. The books were a unique testimony by a woman in the most subordinate position you can imagine and the feeling that he was the one who had to make the text known was growing ever stronger. It would be a contrasting image to the national Nobel Prize frenzy and bombastic tributes. He readily admitted that there was a large measure of desire for revenge in this wish to expose the Ohler family.
He was returned to reality by a signal from his cell phone. It was Roffe from the nursery he usually used who reported that two flats of wintergreen were now ready for pick up. Would twenty-eight plants be enough? He cast a glance across the surface. Since he made the order he had expanded the flower bed by a couple of square meters. Sure, he thought, I’ll spread them out, they’ll quickly grow together.
It fell into place: the magnolia, perennials, and then the witch alder. He picked up an Ingrid Marie apple and chewed meditatively. He decided to wait for twilight before he went to work.
Twenty
Ann Lindell was on a stroll through her old investigations, that was how she experienced it. She had never seen such a dull period before. The crooks really had taken a fall vacation. She could pick a little absentmindedly at what was now on her desk, including a number of cases that were very well-seasoned. Fortunately the folders were not starting to smell like old cheese; instead they were drying out, shrinking, and sinking deeper and deeper into a dusty forgetfulness. But she had a three-year-old rape in English Park that she could not let go of, even if she realized that the prospects for success were not particularly good.
On the other hand she had a knifing at a bar in the center of town. She ought to do something about that. It looked like a dispute in criminal circles, as the local newspaper called it. The chances of solving the case were moderately good. There was presumably someone out there who would profit from the perpetrator going away for a few years. Perhaps she ought to dig a little more? There was a tip about a Ludwig Ohrman, who should be questioned. She stared at his list of credits. Not a nice guy, she could see that.
She pushed aside his CV and became lost in thoughts about yesterday’s outing to Gräsö. It had left a bad taste in her mouth. She regretted not having said goodbye to Edvard. She had been uncertain whether she could cope with a strained good-bye on the farmyard and instead sneaked off with the thought of calling him later. But that did not seem like a good idea either. She simply could not muster the courage. She was afraid of his judgment. Had he put it all behind him, forgiven her? She was also afraid of her own reaction. She did not want a romantic nostalgia trip back in time to destroy everything she had built up with such effort. Edvard was history. Sure, he still had that magnetic influence over her, she had felt it immediately, but now she had a new life to live. Being thrown back several years was not an alternative.
“That’s that,” she said, and suspected that this was how an old drug abuser must feel when, despite the yearning, he turned down an invitation for a shot. Shaky, but also pleased with himself.
Ludwig Ohrman would have to wait, she decided. It would be Savoy, the café where she had solved a number of troublesome knots, both personal and professional, where she would celebrate with one of their special pastries.
It turned out to be a princess pastry. The marzipan made her smile. Perhaps some experience in childhood. Sometimes when she got to go with her father on his rounds with the beverage truck in the areas around Ödeshög and Vadstena they took a break at some pastry shop. Ann realized in retrospect that what she thought was a generous gesture from her father was not as extravagant as it seemed. They were no doubt treated. He had actually delivered soft drinks in the area for twenty years.
It was unusually peaceful in the café, she was the only customer until an elderly woman laboriously made her way to a table and sat down. After her a teenage girl-a vocational student, Lindell suspected-came with a tray in her hand and set a cup of coffee with a Danish pastry in front of the old woman. There must be at least seventy years between them.
Lindell recognized the old woman. They had met several times at Savoy. She got more and more decrepit every time, but her mind was razor sharp. She had previously related that she had worked as a hydrologist, an uncommon profession for a woman when her career started in the 1940s.
“So now we have a Nobel Prize winner,” the woman said suddenly, pointing with a bony finger at the newspaper spread out in front of her.
“Yes, that’s nice,” said Lindell.
The elderly woman took a bite of her Danish. Flakes rained down on the table.
“Maybe not so nice,” she said. “I knew his father,” she continued after taking another bite. “He operated on me. Age nineteen. He was skillful, very skillful. Surgeon. Burst appendix.”
Lindell nodded. Now she remembered the woman’s abrupt way of communicating.
“Good friend of my father. They were in some kind of society during the war. Papa was Scottish. But the son,” said the woman, striking her hand against the newspaper, “was a real piece of shit. Even then.”
Lindell was a little surprised at her candor and choice of words.
“How is that?”
“It’s past the statute of limitations,” said the old woman, hacking her dentures pleasurably into the center of the Danish.