“So you’re suggesting that after all those years she came here to exact vengeance?”
“That must be what happened.”
Lindman shook his head. It seemed to him grossly improbable. In his diary Molin had described the Scotland trip in a way that didn’t fit in at all with what he’d just heard.
“You have to tell the police about your theory. They’ll look into it. As for myself, I can’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“It simply doesn’t sound credible.”
“Aren’t most violent crimes incredible?”
Someone walked past in the corridor. They waited until all was quiet again.
“I have a question that you have to answer,” Lindman said. “Why don’t you want to tell this to Inspector Larsson?”
“I want to and I shall tell him, but I wanted your advice first.”
“Why me?”
“Because I have confidence in you.”
“What kind of advice do you think I can give you?”
“How can I prevent the truth about my father from coming out? That he was a Nazi?”
“If it has nothing to do with the murder, there’s no reason for the police or the prosecution to make any such information public.”
“I’m frightened of reporters. They’ve chased me before and I never want to go through that again. I was involved in the complicated merger of two banks in Singapore and England. Something went wrong. The reporters came after me because they knew that I was one of those most involved.”
“I don’t think you need to worry. That said, I don’t agree with you.”
“About what?”
“That the truth shouldn’t be told about your father. The old form of Nazism is dead. And yet it’s still alive, and growing, in new forms. If you turn over the right rocks, they come teeming out. Racists, ‘supermen.’ All the creatures who look for inspiration from the garbage dumps of history.”
“Can I at least prevent the diary from being published?”
“Presumably. But there may be others who decide to dig deeper.”
“What do you mean, others?”
“Me, perhaps.”
She leaned back in her chair. Her face disappeared in the shadows. Lindman regretted what he’d said.
“But I won’t be digging into it. I’m a police officer, not a journalist. You don’t need to worry about that.”
She stood up. “You made a long journey for my sake,” she said. “And I am afraid it wasn’t necessary. I could have asked you over the telephone. The trouble is that for once, I’ve lost a little of my usual presence of mind. My work is sensitive. My employers might abandon me if I were tainted by rumors. After all, the man lying dead in the forest was my father. My belief is that the woman called M. is behind it all. I have no idea who would have killed the other man.”
Lindman gestured to the phone. “You should call Inspector Larsson.”
He stood up.
“When are you leaving?” she said.
“Tomorrow.”
“Can’t we have dinner together? That’s the least I can do for you.”
“I only hope they’ve changed the menu.”
“7:30?”
“That suits me fine.”
She was reserved and distant during dinner. Lindman could feel himself getting testy. Partly because she had persuaded him to make this absurdly unnecessary journey on account of her exaggerated anxiety, and partly because he couldn’t avoid being attracted to her.
They said goodbye in the lobby, with hardly a word exchanged. She said she would send a check to his office in Borås to cover his costs, and went to her room. Lindman fetched his jacket and went out. He’d asked if she’d called Larsson. She said she had but that she couldn’t get through, and would try again.
As he walked through the deserted town, he thought about what she’d said. The story about the woman in Scotland could conceivably be true, but he refused to believe that after all those years she’d come to Sweden to take her revenge. It didn’t make sense.
Without realizing it, he’d reached the old railroad bridge. He thought it was time to return to the hotel, but something made him keep walking. He crossed the bridge and turned onto Berggren’s street. There were lights in two of the ground-floor windows. He was about to walk past when he thought he noticed a shadowy figure disappearing rapidly around one of the gable walls. He frowned. Stood still, peering into the darkness. Then he opened the gate and approached the house. He stopped to listen. Not a sound. He pressed himself against the wall and peered around the corner. Nobody there. He must have been imagining things. He crept around to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows. Nobody there either.
He never heard the footsteps behind him. Something struck the back of his neck. He was on the ground and the last thing he felt was a pair of hands tightening around his throat. Then nothing. Only darkness.
Part Three
The Woodlice
November 1999
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lindman opened his eyes. He knew immediately where he was. He sat up slowly, took a deep breath and looked around in the darkness. Nothing to be seen, nor was there a sound. He felt the back of his neck. There was some blood, and it hurt when he swallowed. Still, he was alive. He couldn’t say how long he’d been unconscious. He raised himself up, clinging onto the drainpipe on the house wall. He was thinking clearly again, despite the pain in his throat and at the back of his neck. So his eyes hadn’t deceived him. There had been somebody moving in the shadows at the back of the house, somebody who’d seen him, and tried to kill him.
Something must have happened. Why was he still alive? Whoever had tried to strangle him must have been disturbed and been forced to let go. Of course, there was another possibility. His attacker might have intended to stop him, but not to kill him. He let go of the drainpipe and listened. Still not a sound.
A faint light reached him from one of the windows. Something must have happened in that house, he thought. Just as something happened in Molin’s house, and later in Andersson’s. Now I’m standing outside my third house. He wondered what to do, and had no problem making up his mind. He took out his cell phone and called Larsson’s number. His hand was shaking, and he pressed the wrong buttons twice. When he did get through, a girl answered.
“This is Daddy’s telephone.”
“Can I speak to Giuseppe, please?”
“Good grief, he went to bed ages ago. Do you know what time it is?”
“I have to talk to him.”
“Who are you?”
“Stefan.”
“Are you the one from Borås?”
“Yes. You must wake him up. This is important.”
“I’ll give him the telephone.”
While he waited, Lindman moved a few paces from the house and stood in the shadow of a tree. Then he heard Larsson’s voice, and was able to explain briefly what had happened.
“Are you hurt?” Larsson said.
“The back of my neck is bleeding and it hurts a lot when I swallow; otherwise it’s okay.”
“I’ll try to get hold of Johansson. Where exactly are you?”