They went out into the corridor, paved with stone flags. Wetterstedt paused and looked at Lindman.
“Did you say your name was Lindman?”
“Stefan Lindman.”
“If I’m not mistaken, your accent suggests you come from Västergötland?”
“I was born in Kinna, not far from Borås.”
Wetterstedt nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never been to Kinna,” he said. “I’ve been through Borås. But I feel most at home on Öland or in Kalmar. I’ve never understood why folks want to travel around so much.” Wetterstedt tapped his walking stick hard on the floor.
It occurred to Lindman that only a few days earlier he’d heard another old man, Björn Wigren, say something similar about not wanting to travel. They kept walking until they came to a room with no furniture at all. There was a curtain on one of the walls. Wetterstedt moved it to one side with his walking stick. Behind it were three oil paintings in gilded oval frames. The one in the middle was of Hitler, in profile. On the left was a portrait of Goering, and on the right one of a woman.
“This is where I keep my gods,” Wetterstedt said. “I painted this one of Hitler in 1944, when everybody, including his generals, had started to turn their backs on him. This is the only portrait I’ve ever painted exclusively from photographs.”
“So you actually met Goering?”
“In Sweden and in Berlin as well. For some time in the interwar years he was married to a Swede by the name of Karin. I met him then. In May 1941 I was called by the German Legation in Stockholm. Goering wanted to have his portrait painted, and I’d been chosen to do it. That was a great honor. I’d painted Karin, and he’d been pleased with that. So I went to Berlin and did a portrait of him. He was very kind. On one occasion it was the intention that I should meet Hitler at some reception, but something cropped up and got in the way. That is the biggest regret of my life. I was so close, but in fact I never got near enough to shake his hand.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“My wife. Teresa. I painted her portrait the year we married, 1943. If you have eyes to see, you’ll appreciate that the picture is full of love. We had ten years together. She died of an inflamed heart muscle. If that had happened today, she’d have survived.”
Wetterstedt signaled to the boy, who drew the curtain shut. They returned to the studio.
“Now you know who I am,” Wetterstedt said, having settled in the armchair again and had the blanket spread over his knees. The boy had resumed his position behind the old man.
“You must have had some reaction to the news that Herbert Molin was dead. A retired police officer, murdered in the forests of Härjedalen. You must have wondered what happened?”
“I thought it had to be the work of a madman, obviously. Perhaps one of the many criminals who enter Sweden and commit crimes they are never punished for.”
Lindman was getting impatient with the views that Wetterstedt kept expressing.
“It was no madman. The murder was carefully planned.”
“Then I really don’t know.”
The answer came quickly and firmly. A little too quickly, Lindman thought. Too quickly and too firmly. He continued his line of questioning, cautiously.
“Something might have happened a long time in the past, something that took place during the war.”
“Such as?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Herbert Molin was a soldier. That’s it. He would have told me if anything exceptional had happened. But he never did.”
“Did you meet often?”
“We haven’t met at all for the last thirty years. We kept in touch through letters. He wrote letters, and I replied with postcards. I’ve never liked letters. Neither receiving them nor writing them.”
“Did he ever mention that he was scared?”
Wetterstedt drummed his fingers in irritation on his armrest.
“Of course he was scared. Just as I’m scared. Scared at what’s happening to this country of ours.”
“But there wasn’t anything else he was frightened of? Something that had to do with him personally?”
“What could that have been? He chose to conceal his political identity. I can understand that, but I don’t think he was afraid of being exposed. He wasn’t fearful of papers winding up in the wrong hands.”
The boy coughed and Wetterstedt shut up immediately. He’s said too much, Lindman thought. The boy is his watcher.
“What papers are you referring to?”
Wetterstedt shook his head in vexation. “There are so many papers in the world nowadays,” he said, avoiding the question. Lindman waited for more, but nothing came. Wetterstedt started drumming his fingers on the armrest again.
“I’m an old man. Conversations tire me. I live in an extended twilight zone. I don’t expect anything. I’d like you to leave now, and leave me in peace.”
The boy behind the chair grinned cheekily. It was clear to Lindman that most of the questions he had would be left unanswered. The audience Wetterstedt had granted him was at an end.
“Magnus will see you out,” Wetterstedt said. “You don’t need to shake hands. I’m more frightened of bacteria than I am of people.”
The boy whose name was Magnus opened the front door. The thick layer of fog was still enveloping the landscape.
“How far is it to the sea?” Lindman said, as they walked to the car.
“That’s not a question I’m required to answer, is it?”
Lindman stopped in his tracks. He could feel the anger rising inside him.
“I always thought that little Swedish Nazis had shaven heads and Doc Martens boots. I now realize they can look exactly like normal people. You, for example.”
The boy smiled. “Emil has taught me how to deal with provocation.”
“Just what are your fantasies? That there’s a future for Nazism in Sweden? Are you going to hunt down every immigrant who sets foot in Sweden? That would mean kicking out several million Swedes. Nazism is dead; it died with Hitler. Just what do you think you’re doing? Kissing an old man’s ass? A man who had the doubtful privilege of shaking Goering by the hand? What do you think he can teach you?”
They had come to the car and the motorcycle. Lindman was so angry, he’d broken out into a sweat.
“What do you think he can teach you?” he asked again.
“Not to make the same mistake they made. Not to lose faith. Now get out.”
Lindman turned his car and drove away. In his rearview mirror he saw the boy watching him.
He drove slowly back to the bridge, thinking over what Wetterstedt had said. He could be dismissed as a political idiot. His views were not dangerous anymore. They were but vague memories of a terrible time that was history. He was an old man who’d chosen never to understand, just like Molin and Berggren. The boy Magnus was something else. He plainly believed that Nazi doctrines were still very much alive.
Lindman reached the bridge. He was about to cross it when his cell phone rang. He pulled onto the side, switched on his hazard lights, and answered.
“Giuseppe here. Are you back in Borås yet?”
Lindman wondered if he should say something about his meeting with Wetterstedt, but decided to say nothing for the time being.
“I’m almost there. The weather’s been pretty awful.”
“I wanted to phone you to say that we’ve found the dog.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we’d never have guessed.”
“Where?”
“Guess.”
Lindman tried to think. But he couldn’t raise a thought.
“I don’t know.”
“In Molin’s dog pen.”
“Are you saying it was dead?”
“No, as lively as they come. Hungry, though.”
Larsson laughed merrily at the other end of the line. “Somebody takes Andersson’s dog during the night, and our men on duty are so tired they don’t notice anything. Then whoever was responsible for kidnapping this dog dumps the animal in Molin’s pen. Of course, it wasn’t tied to the line. What do you have to say about that?”