After another ten minutes of discussion, they concluded the session. Everyone left in a hurry. Lindell lingered, as she usually did. Ottosson and she had a habit of exchanging a couple of words on their own.
‘I’ve been thinking about Östhammar,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought of something. Or think I have, at any rate.’
Ottosson nodded absently while he gathered up his notes.
‘If the weather improves, I’ll head out there this afternoon. Is that all right?’
‘Of course,’ Ottosson said. ‘You should do that. Is it anything in particular?’
‘Just a thought,’ Lindell said.
Ottosson looked up.
‘You don’t believe that baker story, do you?’ he observed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How are you? You seem a little tired.’
‘I just want to tumble around a little,’ she said, and left the room.
The snow stopped falling mid-morning and at eleven o’clock a pale sun shone over Uppsala. Ann Lindell called Bosse Marksson. The weather had stabilised even at the coast. About fifty centimetres of snow had fallen during the night and morning but no significant traffic issues or accidents had been reported. Lindell decided to drive out to the coast.
They arranged to meet at two o’clock at the police station in Östhammar. If things were still calm at that point, Marksson would come with her.
FIFTY
All morning Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson had sat across the table from a sullen Ante Persson. The old man had not protested when they fetched him from Ramund. In fact he had been unexpectedly cooperative. He had put a great deal of care into how he should dress and had finally settled on a pair of grey trousers, a knitted cardigan, and a sport coat over that. One of the nursing home staff members, who had looked at Allan Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson with ill-disguised contempt, had helped him dress while the two police officers waited outside.
He appeared in the corridor, a smile on his lips, pushing the walker in front of him and refusing any offers of assistance.
Later, when they had transported Ante Persson to the police station and installed themselves in an interrogation chamber, his mood had changed completely. Ante was visibly distressed and gave brief, curt answers to the policemen’s questions.
His nephew’s letters, that touched on the events in Kungsgärdet in 1993, he did not so much as comment on other than calling it a ‘family matter.’ He insisted on speaking with Sven-Arne.
After a break, after Ante complained of being hungry – he wanted oatmeal and sandwiches with egg and roe spread – the session was resumed and Allan Fredriksson again turned to the political angle.
‘You have many times claimed that Nils Dufva was a war criminal. Could you elaborate on that a little?’
‘It is simple,’ Ante Persson said. ‘He was a registered Nazi. And you let him be! You even gave him a job.’
‘We’re not discussing his employment. A war criminal – what do you mean by that?’
‘I feel as though I’m going through it all again,’ Ante said, and gestured with one hand. ‘I’ve seen this all before, and I am not afraid.’
Sammy Nilsson noted that Ante had spilt some oatmeal on a lapel.
‘Nor should you be,’ he said. ‘We are simply trying to establish the truth and surely that can’t hurt? You say you have fought for justice and I can respect that, but we also work for justice.’
‘What do you know about dreams?’ the old man went on, as if he had not heard the policeman’s comment. ‘I will go to my grave soon enough and I know there’s nothing on the other side. It just ends. Now the final analysis must be made and surely my voice should carry as much weight as any other? I remember too much, and sometimes I wish I had developed hardened arteries and become forgetful, just to get some peace. Why should I trust you? I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You have pursued me and my comrades in all ages. Yes, I killed a Fascist but that was a matter between me and him and my friends. He deserved it. You believe in justice, you say, and what is more just than sending someone like him into the darkness? He was a man of darkness, and I caught up with him. He thought everyone had forgotten, but I don’t forget. I caught up with him.’
‘What had he done?’ Allan Fredriksson asked after a moment’s silence.
‘That is between him and me,’ Ante said, tired.
‘How did you do it?’
‘It’s not important,’ Ante answered. ‘Completely irrelevant. He is dead, that is what matters. And now I am going to die. Sven-Arne had nothing to do with this. He is a bewildered coward.’
‘It isn’t cowardly to confess to a murder you didn’t commit,’ Fredriksson objected.
Ante smiled.
‘Maybe that is the definition of cowardice,’ he said.
‘Did he help you?’
Ante shook his head.
‘Sven-Arne was never inside the house. How many times do you want me to repeat it? But now I want to go home. I am tired. Or else you’ll have to lock me up and throw away the key.’
After a consultation with the DA, Ottosson allowed Ante Persson to return to Ramund. It was an unusual decision but they assessed the risk of his escape to be minimal since he had the artificial leg, and they also hoped he would remain more alert in his familiar surroundings.
Ante Persson was formally charged with the murder of Nils Dufva, then he was taken home.
Although an old crime appeared to have been solved, Ottosson was not satisfied. He wanted to understand. He wanted facts about how, when, and why. The only question that had been answered was ‘when.’
‘I don’t understand this,’ he said for a second time to Sammy Nilsson, who had returned from Ramund and reported that Ante Persson had been returned to his home and that he had immediately laid down on his bed to rest. On the night table next to the bed there had been a Christmas arrangement of hyacinths and a red tulip, a singular greeting from one of the staff members at the nursing home.
‘A murderer who gets flowers,’ said Beatrice, who had just joined them.
‘I want the two of you to go see Dufva’s relatives in Kungsgärdet. The woman still lives there. Inform her of what has happened. I don’t want her to hear it through the news media. Beatrice – did you reach her?’
‘No, but I talked to her husband. She is apparently sick. He preferred that we leave her alone.’
‘Does she have the flu?’
‘No, she seemed… Her husband said something about her having worked too hard, being burnt out, you know.’
Sammy Nilsson shook his head.
‘Let’s go down there,’ he said. ‘I’m curious to see what it looks like, I mean the crime scene.’
The small streets of Kungsgärdet were impressively thoroughly ploughed, but apparently the snow crews had had problems with where to put all the snow that had fallen, for at every street corner there were gigantic mounds. All of the cars parked on the street were covered in snow and also sealed behind snowy dykes. On Arosgatan there was an elderly man who was desperately trying to uncover his Volvo.
As Sammy Nilsson and Beatrice passed, he shrugged helplessly. Nilsson slowed down and considered stopping to help him, but drove on.
‘I hope the snow stays for Christmas,’ Beatrice said.
I hope winter ends tomorrow, Sammy Nilsson thought.
‘It lights up everything,’ Beatrice went on, ‘and it’s more fun for the kids.’
‘One more platitude and you’ll have to head back,’ Sammy Nilsson said grimly.