“I hope nothing valuable was stolen from Wetterstedt’s place.”
Olausson picked up the fax. “According to this, nothing at all was stolen. Which seems rather remarkable, given that Wetterstedt claims there was quite a bit of valuable art in the apartment.”
“Not many junkies are au fait with the art market. Prices, and which artists are in demand by the collectors and fences, that’s a little out of their league.”
Olausson continued reading. “There was evidently a fair amount of jewelry and cash lying around. The kind of stuff that would interest your usual burglar. But none of it was taken.”
“Maybe they were frightened?”
“Assuming there was more than one. The way the door was forced suggests a thief who knew what he was doing. Not an amateur.” Olausson leaned back in his chair. “I’ll call Kalmar and tell them I’ve spoken to you. I’ll tell them you couldn’t think of anything that might be of use to them.”
Olausson stood up and opened the window. Until then Lindman hadn’t noticed how stuffy it was in the room.
“There’s something wrong with the ventilation all over the police station,” Olausson said. “Officers are complaining about allergy attacks. Down in the cells they are moaning about headaches. Nothing gets done, though, because there’s no money.”
Olausson sat down again. Lindman noticed that he’d put on weight. His stomach was hanging out over his pants.
“I’ve never been to Kalmar,” Olausson said. “Nor Öland. They say it’s beautiful around there.”
“If you hadn’t asked me to come in, I’d have called you anyway. There was a reason why I went to see Wetterstedt. It had to do with Herbert Molin.”
“What exactly?”
“Herbert Molin was a Nazi.”
Olausson stared at him in astonishment. “A Nazi?”
“Long before he joined the police, when he was a young man, he fought as a volunteer in Hitler’s army. And he never abandoned those opinions. Wetterstedt had known him when he was young, and they stayed in touch. Wetterstedt was a very unpleasant person.”
“You mean to say you went to Kalmar to speak to him about Herbert?”
“It’s not forbidden, is it?”
“No, but I’m pretty surprised to hear it.”
“Did you know anything about Molin’s past? Or his views?”
“Not a thing. I’m flabbergasted.”
Olausson leaned forward over his desk. “Does that have anything to do with his murder?”
“It could.”
“What about the other man, the second person who was murdered up there? The violinist?”
“There’s no apparent connection. At least, there wasn’t when I left. Molin moved to Härjedalen because he knew a woman up there. She helped him buy a house. She’s also a Nazi. Her name’s Elsa Berggren.”
Olausson shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. Lindman could tell that Kalmar was forgotten now. If Olausson had vaguely suspected Lindman of being responsible for the break-in, he’d forgotten all about it.
“The whole thing sounds incredible.”
“I couldn’t agree more. There’s no doubt about it, though: we had an out-and-out Nazi working for the police here in Borås for years.”
“He was a good policeman, all the same, irrespective of his politics.”
Olausson stood up to signal that the interview was at an end. He accompanied Lindman as far as the elevator.
“Needless to say, I wonder how you are. Health-wise.”
“I’m due back at the hospital on the 19th. Then we’ll find out.”
The elevator door slid open.
“I’ll talk to Kalmar,” Olausson said.
Lindman got into the elevator. “I suppose you didn’t know that Molin was a passionate dancer either?”
“Good Lord no. What kind of dancing?”
“Preferably the tango.”
“There’s obviously a lot that I didn’t know about Herbert Molin.”
“I suppose that’s true of all of us. None of us know much more than we find on the surface.”
The elevator door closed. Olausson had no time to comment. Lindman left the police station. When he emerged onto the street, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Kalmar wasn’t going to be a problem. Not unless somebody had seen him that night. That was hardly likely.
He stopped, unable to make up his mind what to do next. For some reason, his reaction was annoyance, and he swore out loud. A woman walking past gave him a wide berth.
Lindman went back to his apartment and changed his shirt. He looked at his face in the mirror. As a child he’d always looked like his mother. The older he became, the more he began to resemble his father. Somebody must know, he thought. Somebody must be able to tell me about my father and his politics. I must get in touch with my sisters. But there’s somebody else who must know. My father’s friend, the lawyer who drew up his will. He didn’t even know if the lawyer was still alive. Hans Jacobi, that was his name. It sounded Jewish, but Lindman recalled that Jacobi was fair-haired, tall, and burly, a tennis player. He looked him up in the phone book. Sure enough, there he was. Jacobi & Brandell, Attorneys.
He dialed the number. A woman answered, reciting the name of the firm.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Hans Jacobi.”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“My name is Stefan Lindman.”
“Mr. Jacobi has retired.”
“He was a good friend of my father’s.”
“Yes, I remember. But Mr. Jacobi’s an old man now. He retired over five years ago.”
“I called mainly to find out if he is still alive.”
“He’s not well.”
“Does he still live in Kinna?”
“His daughter’s looking after him, at her home near Varberg.”
“I’d like to get in touch with him.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to tell you his address or telephone number. Mr. Jacobi has asked that callers be advised that he wishes to be left in peace. When he finished here, he did exactly what one should do.”
“Which was what?”
“He passed all his work on to his younger colleagues. Mainly to his nephew, Lennart Jacobi. He’s a partner.”
Lindman thanked the woman and hung up. It wouldn’t be difficult to track down the address in Varberg. But was he really justified in pestering an old, ailing man with questions about the past? He couldn’t make up his mind and decided to wait until tomorrow. Right now there was something else that needed doing. Something more important.
Shortly after 7 P.M. he parked outside the block of apartments in Norrby where Elena lived. He looked up at her window. Without Elena, I am nothing at the moment, he thought. Nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
Something had disturbed Silberstein during the night. At one point he’d been woken by the sound of the dog rubbing against the side of the tent. He’d hissed at it, and it stopped. Then he’d fallen asleep again and dreamed about La Cãbana and Höllner. It was still dark when he woke up next. He lay motionless, listening. The watch he’d hung from one of the tent poles said 4:45. He wondered what had disturbed him, if it was something inside himself, or whether there was something out there in the autumn night. Although there was a long time to go before dawn he couldn’t lie there in his sleeping bag any longer. The darkness was full of questions.
If things turned out badly for him and he was tried for the murder of Herbert Molin, he would be found guilty. He had no intention of denying what he had done. If all had gone according to his original plan, he would have returned to Buenos Aires and would never have been traced. The murder would have been filed away in the Swedish police archives and never solved.