“It might be a macabre joke.”
“Could be. But the folks up here aren’t all that inclined to partake in what you call macabre jokes. People are really upset and indignant. That’s obvious when we knock on doors and talk to people. They really are eager to help.”
“It’s very strange that nobody seems to have seen anything.”
“We’ve had a few vague reports, a car that somebody might have seen, that sort of thing. Nothing definite. Nothing to give us a clear lead.”
“What about Berggren?”
“Rundström took her to Östersund. Spent a whole day questioning her. She stuck to the same story. The same disgusting opinions, but very clear on key matters. She has no idea who might have killed Molin. She’d only met Andersson once, very briefly, when she was visiting Molin and Andersson happened to stop by. We’ve even given her house the once-over to see if she had any weapons. Nothing. I think she’d tell us if she was frightened of somebody coming after her as well.”
There was a grating noise in the telephone. Lindman shouted “Hello” several times before Larsson’s voice returned.
“I start to think that this is going to take time. I’m worried.”
“Have you found any link between Andersson and Molin?” Lindman asked.
“We’re digging away. According to Andersson’s widow, he only ever mentioned Molin as a neighbor, one of several. We have no reason to suspect that isn’t true. That’s about as far as we’ve got.”
“What about the diary?”
“What about it precisely?”
“His journey to Scotland. The person referred to as ‘M.’ ”
“I can’t see why we should give that priority.”
“I just wondered.”
Larsson sneezed comprehensively. Lindman held his cell phone at arm’s length, as if the germs might fly through the ether and attack him.
“Sorry about that. The usual autumn cold. I always catch one about now.”
Lindman took a deep breath, then told him about his experiences in Kalmar and on Öland. He said nothing about the break-in, but he stressed Wetterstedt’s Nazi views. When he’d finished there was so long a silence at the other end, he started to wonder if he’d been cut off.
“I’ll suggest to Rundström that we should bring in the national criminal investigation department,” Larsson eventually said. “They have a section that specializes in terrorists and neo-Nazis. I can’t believe that what we’re up against here can be traced back to a few skinheads, but you never know.”
Lindman said he thought it was a sensible move, and then he finished up the call. He felt hungry. He drove into Varberg and found a restaurant. When he got back to the car he found it had been burgled. Instinctively he felt in his jacket pocket. His cell phone was still there. But the car radio had been stolen. And the central locking system was broken. He cursed as he climbed into the driving seat. He should report it to the police, but he knew the thief would not be caught and that the police would devote no more than a strictly rationed portion of time to the case. The police were overworked everywhere. He also knew that the excess on his insurance policy was such that he might just as well buy a new radio. There was the problem of the central locking system, but he had a friend who helped the police with car repairs on the side.
He started for Borås. He could feel the wind buffeting the car. The countryside looked gray and desolate. Autumn is setting in, winter is approaching, he thought. And November 19 was approaching too. If only time could be cut off, and he could advance to the day after the beginning of his treatment.
He had just driven into Borås when his phone rang. He wondered if he should answer. It was bound to be Elena. Then again, he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. One of these days she’d get fed up with the way he was forever running away, always putting his own needs before hers. He pulled onto the side and answered.
It was Veronica Molin.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you. Where are you?”
“In Borås. You’re not disturbing me.”
“Have you got time?”
“I have time. Where are you?”
“In Sveg.”
“Waiting for the funeral?”
Her reply seemed hesitant. “Not only that. I got your number from Inspector Larsson. The policeman who claims to be investigating the murder of my father.”
She made no attempt to conceal her contempt. That made him angry.
“Larsson is one of the best police officers I’ve ever met.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to come here.”
Her response had been swift and definite.
“Why?”
“I think I know what happened, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to me. You should call Larsson. I have nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Just at the moment you are the only person I know who can possibly help me. I’ll pay for your flight here and all the rest of your costs. But I want you to come. As soon as possible.”
“Are you saying you know who killed your father?”
“I think so.”
“And Andersson?”
“That has to have been somebody else. But there’s another reason why I want you to come. I’m frightened.”
“Why are you frightened?”
“I don’t want to talk about that on the phone either. I want you to come here. I’ll be in touch again in a couple of hours.”
The phone went dead. Lindman drove home and went back to his apartment. He still hadn’t called Elena. He thought over what Veronica Molin had said. Why didn’t she want to talk to Larsson? And what could she possibly be frightened of?
He waited in his apartment. Two hours later, the phone rang again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lindman landed at Östersund Airport at 10:25 A.M. the following day. When Veronica Molin called him the second time he’d been determined to say no. He was not going to come back to Härjedalen and there was nothing he could do to help her. He was also going to inform her tersely and clearly that it was her obligation to talk to the local police, if not to Giuseppe Larsson then to someone else, Rundström perhaps.
When the call came, however, nothing went according to plan. She came straight to the point, asking him if he wanted to go or not. He said yes. Then when he’d started asking his various questions, she’d been evasive and said she didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone. She hung up after they had agreed to meet in Sveg the following day. He had asked her to book a room for him, preferably No. 3 as before.
He went to the window and looked out at the street. He wondered what was making him act the way he did. The fear digging at him, the illness he was trying to keep at bay? Or was it Elena that he couldn’t deal with? He didn’t know. The day he heard he had cancer, everything had been put out of joint. On top of everything else he was thinking about his father all the time. It’s not Molin’s past that I’m tracking down, he told himself. It’s my own past, the truth about something I didn’t know until I broke into Wetterstedt’s apartment in Kalmar.
He’d called Landvetter Airport, checked flight times, and booked a ticket. Then he’d called Elena, who was subdued and noncommittal. He went to her apartment at 7:15 and stayed until the next morning, when he’d been forced to go home, throw some clothes into a bag, and then drive the 40 kilometers to Landvetter. They had made love during the night, but it was as if he hadn’t really been there. Perhaps she had not noticed; she hadn’t said anything. Nor had she asked why he suddenly had to go back to Härjedalen. When they said goodbye in her hall, he could feel her trying to envelop him in her love. He’d tried to suppress his worries, but as he drove back to Allégatan through the deserted streets he didn’t feel that he’d succeeded. Something was happening inside him, like a cloud of mist creeping up on him and threatening to choke him. He was in a panic, afraid that he was losing Elena, forcing her to desert him for her own sake.