The forests of Härjedalen were already a part of his own past. All that mattered now was himself, his illness, and the thirteen days remaining until he was due to start his therapy. Nothing else had any importance. Stefan Lindman’s thirteen days in November. How will I look back on them ten or twenty years from now, always assuming I live that long? He tried to avoid answering the question, and wandered back towards town, leaving the water and the fog behind him. He found a café, went in, ordered a cup of coffee, and borrowed a telephone directory.
There was only one Wetterstedt in the Kalmar district. Emil Wetterstedt, artist. He lived in Lagmansgatan. Lindman turned the pages until he found a map of the area: he located the street straight away. In the center of town, only a couple of blocks from the café. He took out his cell phone — then he remembered that it didn’t work. If I can get hold of a new battery, I should be able to use it again, he thought. Or I could go to his apartment. Ring the doorbell. But what would I say? That I was a friend of Herbert Molin’s? That would be a lie: we were never friends. We worked together at the same police station in the same police district. We once went looking for a murderer together. That’s all. He gave me some useful advice now and then, but whether that advice really was as good as I’m claiming it to be, I can’t possibly say. I can hardly arrive and announce that I’ve come to have my portrait painted. Another thing: Wetterstedt is no doubt an old man, about the same age as Molin. An old man who doesn’t much care about the world any longer.
He kept sipping his coffee. When he’d finished working his way through his ideas one by one, he’d ring Wetterstedt’s doorbell, say that he was a policeman, and say that he would like to talk to him about Herbert Molin. What happened next would depend on how Wetterstedt reacted.
He drained his cup and left the café. The air felt different from the air he’d been breathing in Härjedalen. It had felt dry up there, whereas the air he was breathing now was damp. All the shops were still closed, but as he walked to the house where Wetterstedt lived, he saw one that sold cell phones. Perhaps the old portrait painter was a late riser.
The block of apartments in Lagmansgatan was three stories high, with a gray façade. No balconies. The front door was unlocked. From the names next to the bells, he saw that Wetterstedt lived on the top floor. There was no elevator. The old man must have strong legs, he thought. A door slammed somewhere. It echoed through the stairwell. By the time he reached the top of the three flights he was out of breath. He was surprised that his condition seemed to have deteriorated so much.
He rang the bell and silently counted to twenty. Then he rang again. He couldn’t hear any ringing noise inside the flat. He rang a third time. Still no reply. He knocked on the door, waited, then hammered on it really hard. The door behind him opened. In the doorway was an elderly man in a dressing gown.
“I’m looking for Mr. Wetterstedt,” Lindman said. “It seems he’s not at home.”
“He spends the autumn at his summer place. That’s when he takes his vacation.”
The man in the doorway looked at Lindman with an expression of utter contempt. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to take a vacation in November. And that an old man on a pension still had a job to take a vacation from.
“Where is his summer place?”
“Who are you? We like to keep an eye on people who come sauntering around this building. Are you going to commission a portrait?”
“I want to speak to him about an urgent matter.”
The man eyed Lindman up and down.
“Emil’s summer place is on Öland. In the south of the island. When you’ve gone past Alvaret you see a sign that says Lavender. And another sign informing you that it’s a private road. That’s where he lives.”
“Is that the name of the house? Lavender?”
“Emil talks about a shade of blue tending towards lavender. In his opinion it’s the most beautiful shade of blue there is. Impossible for a painter to reproduce. Only nature can create it.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
Lindman started for the stairs, but stopped.
“Just one more thing. How old is Mr. Wetterstedt?”
“He’s eighty-eight, but he’s pretty spry.”
The man closed his door. Lindman walked slowly down the stairs. So I have a reason to cross over the bridge into the fog, he thought. I too am on a sort of involuntary vacation, with no aim other than filling in time until November 19.
He went back the way he’d come. The shop selling cell phones was open. A young man yawned and diffidently produced a battery that fitted Lindman’s cell phone. He paid, and even as he did so the phone beeped to indicate that he had messages. Before leaving Kalmar, he sat in his car and listened to them. Elena had called three times, sounding increasingly resigned and curt. There was a message from his dentist, reminding him it was time for his annual checkup. That was all. Larsson hadn’t phoned. Lindman hadn’t really expected him to, although he’d hoped he would. None of his colleagues had tried to contact him, but he hadn’t expected that either. He had virtually no close friends.
He put the phone on the passenger seat, drove out of the parking lot, and started looking for a road leading to the bridge. The fog was thick as he drove over the water. Perhaps this is what it’s like to die, he thought. In the old days people imagined a ferryman coming with a boat to row you over the river Styx. Now it might be a bridge you have to cross, into the fog, and then oblivion.
He came to Öland, turned right, passed some sort of zoo, and continued southwards. He drove slowly. Very few cars were coming in the opposite direction. He could see no countryside, only fog. At one point he stopped in a rest area and got out. He heard a foghorn sounding in the distance and what may have been the sound of waves. Apart from that, it was silent. It felt as if the fog had seeped into his head and blanketed his mind. He held one hand in front of his face. It too was white.
He drove on, and almost missed the sign for “Lavender 2.” It reminded him of another sign he’d been looking for recently, “Dunkärret 2.” Sweden is a country where people live two kilometers from the main road, he thought.
The dirt road he turned onto was full of potholes and evidently little-used. It was absolutely straight, and disappeared into the fog. Eventually he came to a closed gate. On the other side was an ancient Volvo 444 and a motorcycle. Lindman switched off his engine and clambered out. The bike was a Harley-Davidson. Lindman knew a little about motorcycles, thanks to the time he’d chauffeured the motocross buff around Sweden. This wasn’t one of the standard Harley-Davidson models. It was homemade and unique, a valuable specimen. But did a man aged eighty-eight really ride around on a Harley-Davidson? He’d have to be very fit to manage that. Lindman opened the gate and continued along the path. There was still no sign of a house. A figure emerged from the mist, walking towards him. A young man with close-cropped hair, nattily dressed in a leather jacket and a light-blue open-necked shirt. Obviously he had been working out.
“What are you doing here?” The voice was shrill, almost a shriek.
“I’m looking for Emil Wetterstedt.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to him.”