She turned around in order to try to understand what it was on Ringgatan that had triggered this sudden impulse of unease and incompleteness. But she saw nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of teenagers who laughingly teased each other. The back of an older woman with a grocery bag. She closed her eyes and tried to grab hold of the fleeting feeling again. She had experienced this before, that creeping feeling of apprehension mixed with excitement, which could sometimes feel nightmarish with panic lurking, when realisation about a missed opportunity that would never come again grew stronger. Perhaps it was something at Savoy that had set this off? She stared back in the direction of the café and replayed the scene: the mothers and children, a couple of older men in the corner whom she had seen countless times at that exact table, and a couple of school kids drinking sodas. The rest of the customers were shadows.
Was it the bun the child had been chewing? Frisk worked at a bakery. Was it a smell? Was it about drinking coffee? At her first visit to Bultudden she had had coffee with Torsten Andersson. Had he made some comment then that had not appeared strange at the time but that now unconsciously had awakened her anxiety? Or perhaps it was Marksson who had said something as they sat in Frisk’s kitchen?
Lindell drew a breath and resumed her walk, now at a considerably calmer tempo. In her thoughts she followed the road to Bultudden and finally arrived at Lisen Morell’s, but there was nothing along the Avenue that spoke to her.
She picked up her phone and called Bosse Marksson.
‘I think there’s something wrong,’ she said at once.
‘What do you mean wrong?’ Marksson sounded tired.
‘Something wrong in the investigation. With our thinking. We’ve missed something.’
Her colleague said nothing. And what should he say, Lindell thought.
‘I mean, you know that feeling you get sometimes.’
Marksson grunted. She recalled his concerns when they were out in Bultudden. He had also questioned the series of events without being able to point to something concrete that strengthened the sense that they were wrong, but eventually they had laid down their weapons before the indisputable facts: the traces of Patima in Frisk’s house, the traces of blood on the chainsaw, and finally the connection in Sorsele.
‘We have to meet,’ Lindell went on. ‘Can I come out tomorrow?’
‘First thing in the morning, in that case. I’m going to spend the afternoon in Öregrund.’
‘I’ll be there at half past eight.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘I want to confess to a murder.’
The policeman lifted his gaze from the paper where he had just written the day’s date and Sven-Arne Persson’s name, but said nothing.
‘It happened many years ago.’
‘Go on,’ Sammy Nilsson said after a long pause.
‘I killed a man in the autumn of 1993. He was called Nils Dufva. It happened in Kungsgärdet. Then I travelled to India and remained there. That’s all. How long have you worked in Uppsala?’
‘Almost twenty years,’ Sammy Nilsson said.
‘Then you must remember Dufva.’
Sammy nodded. He remembered it very well, the affair with the wheelchair-bound old man who had been clubbed to death, even though he was on street patrol at the time and did not have any direct involvement in the investigation. It was Berglund’s case, he knew that much. Berglund’s unsolved mystery. It struck him that he should immediately get in touch with him. He would certainly be pleased, if not overjoyed.
‘Can you tell me what happened? You understand of course that I am recording our discussion.’
Persson nodded.
‘Were you already acquainted with Dufva?’
‘No, I can’t say that I was.’
‘You just walked in and struck down an old man completely unknown to you in his own home?’
‘Not exactly unknown to me.’
‘Were you intoxicated?’
‘No, completely sober.’
Sammy Nilsson sat without saying anything. The tape deck rolled on.
‘Could I have a sandwich or something? I haven’t eaten in a long time.’
Sammy Nilsson immediately called Allan Fredriksson and asked him to order a thermos of coffee and a couple of sandwiches, and then join him for the session.
He glanced at Persson.
‘It’s regarding the Dufva murder,’ he added.
Persson suddenly stood up and walked over to the window. Nilsson hung up and observed him. He did not look like a killer.
‘Food is on its way,’ he said, ‘but we can start chatting a bit, if you’d like to have a seat.’
‘Of course,’ Persson said, and returned to his chair.
‘How did you get yourself to India?’
‘I flew.’
Sammy Nilsson smiled.
‘I had arranged to get a new passport. Bertil Grönlund, if you remember him, assisted me. I can say that now because I know he’s beyond any punishment now.’
Bertil Grönlund, often called ‘Gävle-Berra’, had been a regular with the Uppsala police for many years, mostly because of his predilection for forging cheques. No violent sort, just a notorious scoundrel, not particularly successful. He was put away for a year now and then, came out and was soon caught again, something he took even-handedly. Sammy Nilsson himself had arrested him once in the early nineties, and recalled a thin, middle-aged man, timid in his manner and never reluctant to admit to what he had been accused of.
‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ Nilsson said distractedly. ‘How did you know him?’
‘I was his parole mentor.’
Sammy Nilsson chuckled and shook his head. Persson sensed that he thought the story was sounding more and more fanciful.
‘Did you have any connection to India?’
‘No, none, but it was as good a place as any. I liked it.’
‘And why have you returned now?’
‘I wanted to get this over with.’
‘Nils Dufva?’
Persson nodded. At that moment the door opened. Allan Fredriksson put a tray down on the table, stretched out his hand, and introduced himself.
‘Wonderful,’ Persson said. ‘I mean, I’m glad I’m dealing with experienced officers and not a pair of newbies.’
‘Let’s dig in,’ Fredriksson said, and poured out the coffee from a stainless steel thermos. The initials AF were written in large letters on the cap.
‘Sven-Arne Persson here has just confessed to a murder,’ Sammy Nilsson explained to his colleague, and managed to make it sound very mundane. ‘Do you want to tell him, Sven-Arne?’
‘One thing,’ Allan Fredriksson said. ‘Before we start, I have to ask if you are Sven-Arne Persson the county commissioner?’
‘One and the same.’
‘I thought I recognised you. But you didn’t have a beard back then, did you?’
The former county commissioner helped himself to a ham sandwich, took a large bite out of it, and chewed thoroughly before answering.
‘I was another person back then. Without a beard.’
‘You are the county commissioner who disappeared?’
Sammy Nilsson stared in amazement at Persson.
‘Should we get this over with?’ Persson asked.
Nilsson nodded. ‘You told me that you killed Nils Dufva.’
‘I beat him over the head with some crutches.’
‘Crutches? Were there some in the house?’ Sammy Nilsson asked.
He couldn’t remember any details of the murder, other than that Nils Dufva was handicapped.
‘No, they were in the car and I brought them in. They were my uncle’s. I wanted to have something to defend myself with, in case of trouble.’
‘What kind of car were you driving?’