Berglund hesitated. When he went up in smoke, Sven-Arne Persson had been a typical middle-aged man, socially well adapted and successful, but what did one know about his inner thoughts? Berglund had tried to map every inch of the county commissioner’s life but had not found any blights on his, to all appearances, blameless existence. Nonetheless he had drawn the conclusion of suicide.
‘There were not motives for murder, no irregularities and no threats. He simply disappeared.’
‘No body?’
‘No, no body. Not a trace. It was actually completely incomprehensible. No one saw him leave City Hall, no one saw him on the street or at his home. I mean, he was a public person, someone that people recognised.’
‘But he could have fled overseas?’
‘We checked up on everything. His passport was in his desk drawer at home. No money was drawn from his account. You can appreciate that the conclusion was suicide, even though everyone had trouble believing it.’
‘And now he turns up in Bangalore,’ Lindell said.
‘If it’s really him.’
‘The witness is completely sure of himself. And they are former neighbours.’
‘I know,’ Berglund said. ‘I have met Jan Svensk.’
‘What is he like?’
‘Oh, what should I say. A normal guy. Had a somewhat rocky period in his youth but has been fine ever since, at least according to his parents.’
‘How do you know them?’
‘From church,’ Berglund said. ‘And they are Uppsala old-timers. Like Sven-Arne Persson. I remember him from my youth. We were the same age.’
‘Was he sporty?’
‘No. Tall, but not exactly an athlete. He may have been able to handle chess.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes, with Elsa. No kids.’
‘Is Elsa still alive?’
Berglund’s gaze flickered. Through the window he could see that the snowfall had grown heavier.
‘She’s barely sixty, I would guess,’ he said. ‘A teacher.’
‘Remarried?’
‘No, but I have heard rumours of a relationship.’
‘What do you think?’
Berglund looked out the window again. What should he think? Jan Svensk was no hysteric but the story sounded fanciful.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘It sounds strange to say the least. Why India?’
‘We’ll have to keep sniffing around. Svensk returns in about a week or ten days, according to his father.’
Suddenly Berglund made a face, closed his eyes, and put his hands over his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
Lindell got up from her chair and started to reach a hand out to him.
‘Nothing,’ Berglund said. ‘I…’
He slowly turned his head. The look he gave her was one she had never seen before.
‘I’m raw,’ he said finally. ‘I’m just so damned raw inside.’
Lindell could not recall ever hearing Berglund use such emphatic language before.
Is he going to die, she wondered, terrified at the prospect. Was it sadness she saw in his gaze? Berglund was a smart man. Did he sense something that could not be said? Was he being less than honest when he claimed the operation had been a success?
‘Are you anxious?’
That was not really a question she was allowed to ask, Lindell thought.
‘I don’t know what it is,’ Berglund said.
He got to his feet slowly and walked over to the window. Outside the specks of snow were whirling more than ever. Without turning his head he started to talk about the melancholy that had come over him. The feeling had come creeping even before the operation but now it was threatening to take the upper hand.
‘Maybe they have taken something from me, I mean…’
Lindell knew what he was talking about. She wanted to say something comforting, but refrained.
‘Do you want to be left alone?’
‘Maybe we should have a cup of coffee. Like the old days. Do you remember when you started in the Crime division?’
Lindell nodded, glad at the turn in the conversation. When she had been new in the division, she had quickly appointed Berglund her mentor and confidant. They would withdraw over a cup of coffee, sometimes in his office, sometimes at the café, sometimes at the Savoy, the bakery that he had started patronising already in the sixties and that had come to be Lindell’s retreat when she wanted to be alone to think.
‘Let’s do that,’ she said.
She walked over to him, standing quite close, and leant her head on his shoulder. Suddenly it was as if he was the stronger of the two.
‘Maybe he did the right thing in taking off to India,’ Berglund said. ‘Do you know how much I’ve come to hate snow and cold? I used to love winter, we would go cross-country skating, long before it became popular. We would pack our backpacks and set out, to Tämnaren or Funbo Lake, or to the coast during frigid winters. We would park the car on Blid Island or Yxlan and then we could skate all the way to Rödlöga, once even all the way to Fredlarna. We could just make out the Swedish Högar. It feels so long ago. Now I hate winter.’
‘You’ve never told me. I thought you were a snow man.’
Berglund put his arm around her. They stood quietly, watching the snow.
‘At this time of year in Ödeshög there’s just a lot of wind,’ Lindell went on. ‘I don’t remember any good snow winters. My father never ventured out to do more than brush off the front steps.’
‘Was he sick?’
‘No, superfluous maybe. He drove a beverage lorry and became superfluous. He missed the boxes, the clatter of glass, and talking with the shop owners and the kiosk keepers.’
‘Superfluous,’ Berglund said.
‘That’s how he felt. My mother was the one who suffered. Dad got more quiet over the years. And now he is getting senile and you know…’
Lindell felt Berglund stiffen. He let go of her and leant his head against the windowpane.
‘I used to believe in God,’ he blurted out with such sharpness in his voice that Lindell jumped.
‘And you don’t anymore?’
Berglund shook his head. It looked like he was rubbing his head against the glass.
‘What do you believe in?’
‘I don’t know,’ Berglund said. ‘Maybe I just need some fresh air. Yesterday a fellow from my congregation stopped by. We’ve been friends since childhood. He is a good man, a good person, but listening to him I felt wrapped in a haze of indifference. I felt nothing, no joy, you know that sweet feeling of friendship.’
‘And then I barge in.’
Berglund turned his head and looked at her.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I am happy you’re the one who’s here. I wouldn’t be able to take Ottosson. He would just get chipper. Allan would look sad, Sammy nervous, and Haver even shakier.’
‘Do you want to be left in peace?’
‘I guess death is breathing down my neck.’
‘Did these thoughts start with your health problems?’
‘You’re an investigator,’ Berglund said, but did not answer the question.
Lindell started to sense that his misgivings had their root farther back and that the discovery of the brain tumour had forced everything to the surface.
‘Do you want to take a peek at the file?’
‘Which file?’
‘The one on the county commissioner who disappeared?’
‘You want to put me to work? Yes, maybe it would…’
‘Can I do anything?’
Berglund left the window and sat down on the bed. His cheeks were sunken and the dark circles under his eyes made him look somewhat demonic.
‘You could talk to the widow, well, if there is a widow.’
‘Want to go get a cup now?’
‘Another time,’ Berglund said. ‘I’m a little…’
‘You should rest. I’ll talk to Elsa and then I’ll make sure the file is sent to you.’
He nodded absently. Lindell hesitated for a moment before she went over to her colleague and stroked his cheek.
Lindell paused in the hallway. She felt uncomfortable, as if she had done something she was going to regret in the future, as if she had intruded on a private area. She had expected a tired and haggard Berglund, but not this, a man questioning the faith he had followed his entire life.