Under the letter D, after Karl-Evert Danielsson, the same hand as had written on the first page had noted: “Now deceased. Pledged an annual subscription for 30 years.” Annual subscription to what? Lindman wondered. There was no reference to the title of an organization, just this list of names. He could see that many had died. In some places there was a handwritten note that future subscriptions had been specified in a will, in others that “the estate will pay” or “paid by the son or daughter, no name given.” He turned back to the letter B. There she was, Berggren, Elsa. He turned to the letter M. Sure enough, there was Molin, Herbert. He returned to the beginning. The letter A. No Andersson, Abraham. He moved on to the end. The last name was Oxe, Hans, numbered 1,430.
Lindman closed the file and replaced it in the drawer. Were these the papers Wetterstedt had referred to? A Nazi old comrades association, or a political organization? He tried to work out what he had stumbled upon. Somebody should take a look at this, he thought. It should be published. But I can’t take the file with me because there would be no way I could have gotten it without having broken into this apartment. He turned off the desk lamp and sat in the dark. The air was heavy with the disgust he was feeling. What stank was not the old carpets or the curtains — it was the list of names. All these living and dead individuals paying their subscriptions, in person or via their trustees, their sons or daughters — to some organization that declined to reveal its name — 1,430 persons still adhering to a doctrine that should have been dismissed once and for all. But that wasn’t the way it was. Standing behind Wetterstedt had been a boy, a reminder that everything was still very much alive.
He sat there in the dark, making up his mind that it was time for him to head home. But something held him back. He took out the file once more, opened it, and turned to the letter L. At the bottom of a page was the name “Lennartsson, David. Subscription paid by the wife.” He turned the page.
It was like being on the receiving end of a punch, he reflected afterwards, on his way to Borås, driving far too fast through the darkness. He had been totally unprepared. It was as if somebody had crept up on him from behind. But there was no room for doubt. It was his father’s name there at the top of the page: “Lindman, Evert, deceased, subscriptions pledged for 25 years.” There was also the date of his father’s death seven years ago, and there was something else that removed any possible doubt. He recalled as clear as day sitting with one of his father’s friends, a lawyer, going through the estate. There had been a gift written into the will a year or so before his father died. It was not a large sum, but striking nevertheless. He had left 15,000 kronor to something calling itself the Strong Sweden Foundation. There was a bank transfer number, but no name, no address. Lindman had wondered about that donation, and what kind of a foundation it was. The lawyer assured him that there was no ambiguity, his father had been very firm on this point; Lindman had been devastated by the death of his father, and lacked the strength to think any more about it.
Now, in Wetterstedt’s stuffy apartment, that donation had caught up with him. He couldn’t close his eyes to facts. His father had been a Nazi. One of those who kept quiet about it, didn’t speak openly about their political opinions. It was incomprehensible, but true nevertheless. Lindman now realized why Wetterstedt had asked about his name, and where he came from. He knew something Lindman didn’t know: that his own father was among those Wetterstedt admired above all others. Lindman’s father had been like Molin and Berggren.
He closed the drawer, pushed back the desk lamp, and noticed that his hand was shaking. Then he checked everything meticulously before leaving the room. It was 1:45 A.M. He needed to get away fast, away from what was hidden in Wetterstedt’s desk. He paused in the hall, and listened. Then he opened the door and went out, shutting it behind him as tightly as he could.
At that very moment there came the sound of the front door opening or closing. He stood motionless in the darkness, holding his breath and keeping his ears pricked. No sound of footsteps on the stairs. Someone might be standing down there, hidden in the dark, he thought. He kept on listening, and also checked to make sure he’d remembered to take everything with him. The flashlight, the screwdriver, the jimmy. All present and correct. He went down one floor tentatively. The lunacy of the whole undertaking had now hit him like an ice-cold shower. Not only had he committed a pointless break-in, he’d also unearthed a secret he’d infinitely preferred never to have discovered.
He paused, listened, and then switched on the lights in the staircase. He walked down the last two flights to the front door. He looked around when he emerged onto the street. No one. He hugged the wall of the block of apartments to the end, then crossed the street. When he reached his car he looked around again, but could see no sign of anybody having followed him. Nevertheless, he was quite sure. He wasn’t imagining things. Someone had left the building as he was closing the damaged door to the apartment.
He turned on the engine and backed out of his parking spot. He didn’t see the man in the shadows writing down his registration number.
He drove out of Kalmar, on the Västervik road. There was an all-night diner there. A semi was parked outside. When he went into the café, he noticed the driver immediately, sitting with his head against the wall, sleeping with his mouth open. Nobody here will wake you up, he thought. An all-night diner is not like a library.
The woman behind the counter gave him a smile. She had a nametag: she was called Erika. He poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Are you a truck driver?” she said.
“Afraid not.”
“Professional drivers don’t need to pay for coffee during the night.”
“Maybe I should change jobs,” he said.
She declined his offer to pay. He took a good look at her and decided she had a pretty face, in spite of the stark light from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
When he sat down, he realized how exhausted he was. He still couldn’t come to terms with what he’d found in Wetterstedt’s desk drawer. He would have to face up to that later, but not now.
He drank his coffee, decided against a refill. He was in Borås by 9, by way of Jönköping. He’d stopped twice and taken a nap. On both occasions he’d been woken by headlights in his face.
He undressed and stretched out on the bed. I got away with it, he thought. Nobody will be able to prove that I broke into Wetterstedt’s apartment. Nobody saw me. Before going to sleep, he tried to work out how many days he’d been away. He couldn’t make it add up. Nothing added up.
He closed his eyes and thought about the woman who hadn’t charged him for his coffee. He had already forgotten her name.
Chapter Twenty
He had disposed of the tools on the road home, but when he woke up after a few hours of restless sleep, he began to wonder if he’d only imagined it. The first thing he did was to go through his pockets. No sign of the tools. Somewhere not far from Jönköping, at the coldest and darkest time of the night, he had stopped to sleep. Before driving away from the rest stop, he’d buried the jimmy and the screwdriver under the moss. He remembered exactly what he’d done, but even so, he couldn’t help wondering. He seemed to be unsure of everything now.