A faint knock on the door made her jump. Ottosson poked his head in.
‘I’m driving out to the coast tomorrow,’ Lindell said as a way of anticipating his question. ‘And I’m supposed to tell you Berglund says hello. He is a bit tired and I don’t think he wants people to come visit, but he does want to get the files from an old case from the nineties. The county commissioner who disappeared, Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson, has surfaced in India.’
Ottosson stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and sat down.
‘I know,’ Ottosson said, ‘but Berglund has changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at that case anymore. He called and told me he didn’t want it.’
‘He wanted another case?’
Ottosson nodded.
‘An old homicide where Berglund was the investigative lead. It was at least ten years ago. He didn’t manage to crack it. It was an old guy who was killed at Kungsgärdet. You know, in one of those little houses, the sugar cubes, as people called them when I was growing up. Despite prints and a couple of witnesses we drew a blank.’
‘He’s never talked about it.’
‘I think he might feel some shame,’ Ottosson said. ‘Maybe not shame exactly, but you know…’
‘Yes,’ Lindell said. ‘I’ll go check out the foot tomorrow. We’ll see.’
‘That Marksson they have out there is a good sort, but his voice takes some getting used to. His dad sounded just like him. He was also a police officer. He was an extra in BathingDevils, if you remember that film. I’m an Ernst Günther fan.’
Lindell had a little smile on her face long after Ottosson had shut the door behind him. He knew how to handle her.
She logged in and discovered to her surprise that the ‘good sort’ had already sent her a report on the foot. She printed the document and started to read.
‘A foot, female,’ she muttered.
ELEVEN
Jan Svensk knew he was paying too much, but nonetheless gave the rickshaw driver a smile, which the driver replied to with a vague shake of the head.
Bangalore’s botanical garden was impressive, at least the main entrance. The ticket seller explained that he had no change for the twenty-rupee note that the Swede handed over, which was a blatant lie since the next visitor received a ten-rupee note. But Jan Svensk took it in stride. Normally he would have stood his ground but today he felt generous. Why argue about a couple of pennies, he thought, and walked into the garden. It was easy to be magnanimous in India.
He immediately encountered a man in a wheelchair who offered to take his picture, a memory for life, and then, when Jan Svensk declined the offer, declared he was the best guide in the garden, even authorised. He held up a wrinkled piece of paper.
‘No, thank you,’ Svensk said, and continued farther into the park before changing his mind and walking back.
‘Could you tell me where the staff area is?’
‘Do you mean the office?’
‘Yes, that is…’
He did not quite know how to express himself.
‘Do you know if there is a foreigner working here, a European?’
The man came closer, so close that a wheel touched Svensk’s pant leg, looked swiftly around, bent to the side and spit, before he answered.
‘Englishmen,’ he said, and made a sweeping gesture with one hand toward the garden. ‘Without the English we would not have had a garden.’
The man smelt of sweat and onion, the bushy eyebrows partly concealed his eyes, and his hands were large with swollen bluish purple veins. Even though he was confined to the wheelchair he emanated strength.
‘Guide?’
Jan Svensk chuckled but shook his head.
‘No, I am looking for a Swede. I am not interested in flowers.’
He considered offering some money for information, but the man beat him to it by telling him that there was a white man who had worked in the horticulture division for many years.
Jan Svensk took out his wallet and fished out several notes.
‘I don’t know his name,’ the man said.
He took no notice of the money.
‘But I do,’ Svensk said.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, not at all.’
He put the money in his hand.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Go to the little nursery.’ He pointed in the right direction.
‘It is strange,’ the guide said. ‘I greeted that man when he came here the first time. I remember it so well, he did not look happy.’
‘When was this?’
‘Many years ago.’
‘Is he happier now?’
‘Are you going to make him unhappy?’
Jan Svensk smiled and assured the man he did not wish him ill.
‘His name is John.’
‘John?’
The guide grabbed at Svensk. ‘Don’t tell him that I…’
Jan Svensk was suddenly infuriated by the man in the wheelchair. He wanted to get away from his stinking breath, the overly intimate hands, and the professional greed that could not be concealed. He was prepared to betray a man for a couple of hundred rupees.
‘Goodbye,’ said Jan Svensk, and set off at a pace that he did not think the guide could match.
He found the nursery immediately and walked in after a moment of hesitation. Masses of potted plants were placed around both sides of a wide gravel path, shaded by large trees. Even though Svensk was not the least bit interested in plants he found it a convivial sight. There was something peaceful in the arrangements. People moved more calmly. Here there was nothing of the noise and stress of the street, quite the opposite. There was something static about it.
Perhaps it was the collection of everything green that was so refreshing, that caused everyone to move so slowly. A couple of men helped to load earthenware pots on a large cart. Between loads they paused and talked with each other, joking. A woman in a green sari spoke with a man who Svensk believed to be a staff member. He walked closer. They glanced briefly at him. The woman in green smiled.
He walked around for a couple of minutes, following the paths in the various areas, reading the signs, and to his astonishment he recognised many of the plants from his childhood home. No one addressed him or wanted to sell him anything. To him it was a moment of freedom and he temporarily forgot why he had come to the garden.
Sven-Arne Persson worked here, in this oasis in the middle of a clamouring metropolis? Well, why not, Jan Svensk thought. If one is interested in plants this must be a paradise. No rush and a calm, green colour that was soothing for the eyes, for the entire body.
After a couple of circles he walked over to a woman and asked for ‘John.’
‘You mean John Mailer? I thought I just saw him. Check with Lester,’ she said, and pointed to one of the men who was loading pots.
‘I mean the Swede.’
‘There is only one European here, and that is John. I did not know he was from Sweden. I thought he was English.’
The man with the pots – Lester – took on a stressed expression as Jan Svensk approached. He said something to his companion, who immediately left them alone. Svensk had the impression that Lester was preparing himself. He turned and looked back at the shop that lay at one end of the nursery. Svensk followed his gaze.
‘May I help you?’
‘I am looking for a mutual acquaintance: John.’
‘He is not here.’
Lester bent down and grabbed hold of a box, but it was a job for two – the boxes were too heavy – and so he immediately let go.
‘But you know him, this Swede?’
Lester’s pained smile when he realised the uselessness in trying to appear otherwise occupied, and the fact that his eyes flitted to a spot somewhere next to Svensk, spoke clearly that Lester was a man who had a hard time telling lies.
He scratched himself in the crotch and did not reply.
‘His real name isn’t John, you know that, don’t you? It is Sven-Arne.’
Lester looked up, surprised.