“At the back of the house. By one of the gables. Under a tree. Something may have happened to Berggren.”
“You said you disturbed someone leaving the place, is that right?”
“I think so.”
Lindman waited for a long silence.
“Let’s keep the line open,” Larsson said at last. “Ring her doorbell and stay at the door. If there’s no sign of her, wait until Erik gets there.”
Lindman walked around to the front of the house and rang the bell. The outside light was on. He held the phone to his ear the whole time.
“What’s happening?” Larsson said.
“I’ve rung. Twice. Nothing.”
“Ring again. Knock.”
Lindman tried the door handle. It was locked. He knocked loudly. Every time he rapped on the door he felt pain in the back of his neck. Then he heard footsteps.
“Someone’s coming now.”
“You can’t be certain it’s her. Be careful.”
Lindman took a couple of paces back from the door. The door opened. It was Elsa Berggren. She was still dressed. Lindman could see from her face that she was scared.
“She’s opened the door,” Lindman said into the telephone.
“Ask her if anything’s happened.”
Lindman asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been attacked. I just called Inspector Johansson. He said he’d come.”
Lindman reported what she’d said to Larsson.
“But she’s not injured?”
“Not as far as I can see, at least.”
“Who attacked her?”
“Who was it that attacked you?”
“He was wearing a hood. When I pulled it off him I caught sight of his face. I’ve never seen him before.”
Lindman passed this on.
“It sounds very strange. A masked man? What do you make of it?”
Lindman looked her in the eye as he replied.
“I think she’s telling the truth. Even if the truth sounds incredible.”
“Wait there with her until Erik comes. I’ll get dressed and drive over. Ask Erik to call me when he shows up. Okay, roger and out.”
Lindman stumbled as he walked through the door. He felt dizzy and was forced to sit down. Then he saw that he had blood on one of his hands. He told her what had happened. She went to the kitchen and came back with a wet cloth.
“Turn around. I can stand the sight of blood.”
She pressed the cloth gently against the back of his neck.
“That’s enough, thank you,” he said, getting slowly to his feet.
A clock somewhere struck the quarter hour. They went into the living room. A chair was lying on its back, and a glass dish had shattered. She wanted to tell him what had happened, but he told her to wait.
“Inspector Johansson’s the one who should listen to what you’ve got to say. Not me.”
Johansson arrived just as the invisible clock was striking the next quarter hour.
“What happened?” he said.
Then he turned to Lindman.
“I didn’t even know you were still here.”
“I came back. But that’s irrelevant. This story didn’t start with me, it started in here.”
“That may be so,” Johansson said, “but to make things easier perhaps you can explain how you came to be involved.”
“I was out walking, and thought I saw somebody acting suspiciously in the garden. I went to investigate and was knocked down. Almost strangled, for that matter.”
Johansson leaned over Lindman.
“You’ve got bruises on your neck. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
“Quite sure.”
Johansson sat down, gingerly, as if frightened that the chair might collapse under him.
“How many times in a row is this?” he said. “That you’ve taken a walk past Mrs. Berggren’s house, I mean. The second? Third?”
“Is that important now?”
Johansson’s ponderous approach was beginning to irritate Lindman.
“How do I know what’s important? But let’s hear what Mrs. Berggren has to say.”
Berggren was sitting on the edge of the sofa. Her voice was different; she could no longer conceal her fear. Lindman noticed that she was trying to do so, nevertheless.
“I had just left the kitchen and was on my way up to bed when there was a knock on the door. I thought that was odd, because I rarely, if ever, have visitors. When I opened the door, I had the chain on — but he threw himself at it so violently that it gave way. He told me to be quiet. I couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a sort of hood. A woollen hat with holes in it for his eyes. He dragged me into the living room and threatened me with an axe, and started asking me who’d killed Abraham Andersson. I tried to keep calm. I was sitting here, on the sofa. I could see that he was getting nervous. He raised his axe, and so I ran at him. That was when the chair fell over. I pulled the hood off him, and he ran out of the house. I had just called you when there was pounding on the door. I looked out of the window and saw that it was you,” she said, turning to Lindman.
“Did he speak Swedish?” Lindman said.
Johansson growled. “I’m the one asking questions here. I thought Rundström had made that clear to you. But answer anyway. Did he speak Swedish?”
“Broken English.”
“Was it a Swede pretending to be a foreigner?”
She thought before answering. “No,” she said. “Not Swedish. I think he might have been an Italian. Or a southern European, in any case.”
“Can you describe what he looked like? How old was he?”
“It all happened very quickly. But he was old, not what I had expected. Graying hair, going bald, brown eyes.”
“And you’ve never seen him before?”
Her fear was starting to turn to anger. “I don’t associate with that sort of person. You ought to know that.”
“I do know that, Elsa, but I have to ask you. How tall was he? Was he thin or fat? What was he wearing, what did his hands look like?”
“Dark jacket, dark pants, I didn’t notice his shoes. No rings on his fingers.” She stood up and walked to the door. “I’d say he was about this height, neither fat nor thin.” She marked a place on the frame with her hand.
“One eighty,” Johansson said, turning to Lindman. “What do you think?”
“All I saw was a moving shadow.”
Berggren sat down again.
“He threatened you,” Johansson said. “How exactly?”
“He asked questions about Abraham Andersson.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Only one, I suppose. Who killed Andersson?”
“Nothing else? Nothing about Molin?”
“No.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“ ‘Who killed Abraham?’ Or ‘Who killed Andersson?’ ”
“You said he threatened you.”
“He said he wanted the truth. Otherwise there’d be trouble. ‘Who killed Abraham?’ That’s all. I told him I didn’t know.”
Johansson shook his head and looked at Lindman. “What do you make of all this?”
“I am surprised that he didn’t ask about the motive. Why was Abraham Andersson murdered?”
“But he didn’t. He only asked who had done it. He obviously thought I knew. Then I realized he was actually implying something different. That was when I got really scared. He thought that I had killed him.”
Lindman felt his dizziness coming and going in waves. He tried to concentrate. He could see that Berggren’s account of the attack was crucial. The important thing was not what the man had asked her, but what he hadn’t asked her. There was only one explanation: he knew the answer. Lindman had broken into a sweat. The man in the shadows who’d tried to strangle him, either to kill him or just to render him unconscious, could be playing the central role in the drama that started with Molin’s murder.