They’d often discussed music at home — but nothing that might fuel his father’s furious outbursts, which were rare, but real. While Lindman grew up, he was constantly worried about the possibility of his father exploding into a fit of rage.
When they went to Borås to buy the bicycle, his father had expressed an opinion that went a long way beyond deploring the stupidity of listening to pathetic pop music. What he said had to do with people and their right to exist. “We should throw them all out.” The memory grew in Lindman’s consciousness as he recalled the incident.
And there was an epilogue.
He’d been sitting in the passenger seat. In the side mirror, he could see the bike handlebars sticking out from the roof.
“Why do gypsies have to be thrown out?” he’d said.
“Because they’re inadequate as people,” his father had told him. “They’re inferior. They’re not like us. If we don’t keep Sweden for the Swedes, everything will fall apart.”
He could still hear those words, as clear as a bell. He also remembered feeling worried about what his father had said. Not about what might happen to the gypsies if they didn’t have the sense to flee the country on their own. It had more to do with himself. If his father was right, he was destined to think the same thing, that the gypsies ought to be thrown out.
His memories drifted away. There was nothing left of the rest of the journey. It was only when they got back home and his mother came out to admire the new bicycle that his memory started to work again.
The telephone rang. He gave a start, put the album down, and answered.
“Olausson here. How are you?”
He’d expected to hear Elena’s voice. He was instantly on his guard. “I don’t know how I am. I just go through the motions, waiting for the treatment.”
“Can you come to the station? Are you up to it?”
“What about?”
“A minor matter. When can you be here?”
“Five minutes from now.”
“Let’s say half an hour, then. Come straight up to my office.”
Lindman hung up. Olausson hadn’t laughed. Kalmar has caught up with me already, he thought. The forced door, the police in Kalmar asking questions, another policeman, a colleague from Borås paying an unexpected visit. Does he know anything about the break-in? Let’s call our colleagues in Borås and ask.
That’s what must have happened. It was nearly 2 P.M. That meant the police in Kalmar would have had time to search the apartment and talk to Wetterstedt. He was sweating. He was sure there was nothing to link him to the affair, but he’d have to talk to Olausson without being able to mention anything about the contents of the brown leather file box in the desk drawer.
The telephone rang again. This time it was Elena.
“I thought you were going to come here?”
“I have a few things to take care of. Then I’ll come.”
“What sort of things?”
He was tempted to hang up the phone.
“I have to go to the police station. We can talk later. Bye.”
He hadn’t the energy to deal with questions just now. It would be hard enough inventing something plausible enough to convince Olausson.
He stood in the window and rehearsed the story he’d made up about his activities the previous day. Then he put on his jacket and headed for the police station.
He paused to greet the receptionists. Nobody asked him how he was. That convinced him that everybody in the building knew he had cancer. The duty officer, Corneliusson, also came out to the desk for a brief chat. No questions, no cancer, nothing. Lindman took the elevator up to Olausson’s floor. The door to his office was ajar. He knocked. Olausson shouted, “Come in!” Every time Lindman entered his room, he wondered what tie he would have to face. Olausson was notorious for ties with strange patterns and odd color combinations. Today, however, it was an unremarkable dark blue. Lindman sat down. Olausson burst out laughing.
“We caught a burglar this morning. He must be one of the dumbest people alive. You know that stereo shop in Österlånggatan, next to the square? He’d broken in through the back door, but he must have been so sweaty that he took off his coat and hung it up. And he forgot it when he left. In one of the pockets was a wallet with his driver’s license and some business cards. The bastard had his own business cards! ‘Consultant,’ goddammit. All we had to do was go to his address and take him in. He was in bed asleep. Forgotten all about his coat.”
Lindman thought he’d better take the initiative when Olausson said nothing more.
“What did you want?”
Olausson picked up some faxes from his desk.
“Just a trifle. We received this earlier from our colleagues in Kalmar.”
“I’ve just come from there, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“Precisely. I gather you went to see somebody called Wetterstedt on Öland. I seem to recognize that name, incidentally.”
“His brother, one-time Minister of Justice, was murdered several years ago in Skåne.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. What happened?”
“The murderer was a teenager. I remember reading in the paper about a year ago that he committed suicide.”
Olausson looked thoughtful.
“Has something happened?” Lindman said.
“Apparently there’s been a burglary at Wetterstedt’s apartment in Kalmar. During the night. One of the neighbors claims you were there yesterday. His description of you corresponds closely to the one Wetterstedt gave the police.”
“I was there yesterday morning, trying to find Wetterstedt. An old man in the apartment next door told me he was at his summer place on Öland.”
Olausson put the fax down. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That there’d be a straightforward explanation.”
“Explanation of what? Is somebody suggesting I committed the break-in? I found Wetterstedt and spoke to him at his summer cottage.”
“They were just asking what you were doing there. That’s all.”
“Is that all, then?”
“More or less.”
“Am I under suspicion?”
“Not at all. You were looking for Wetterstedt, and he wasn’t there. Is that it?”
“I thought maybe the doorbell wasn’t working, so I hammered on the door. I also wondered if Wetterstedt might be hard of hearing. He’s well over eighty, after all. The neighbor heard me rapping on the door.”
“And then you went to Öland?”
“Yes.”
“Then you drove home.”
“Not right away. I didn’t leave until that evening. I spent a few hours in the library, then I stopped for an hour or two near Jönköping to get some sleep in the car. Let’s face it, if I’d intended going back that night and breaking into the apartment, I’d hardly have attracted attention to myself by banging on the door, would I?”
“I imagine not.”
Olausson was retreating now. Lindman had managed to steer the conversation his way. Nevertheless, he was worried. Someone might have seen his car. And there was that business with the front door opening as he was about to leave the apartment.
“Obviously, nobody thinks for a minute that you broke into the apartment. We want to answer our colleagues’ questions as soon as possible, that’s all.”
“Well, I’ve answered them.”
“You didn’t notice anything that might give them a lead?”
“Such as what?”
Olausson burst out laughing. “I have no idea.”
“Neither have I.”
Lindman could see that Olausson believed him. He was amazed at how easy it had been to lie. Now it was time to steer the conversation in another direction.