Outside the theater was a group of actors and actresses in costumes and wigs being photographed. They were all young, and laughing very loudly. Lindman had never set foot inside the Borås theater. When he heard the players laughing, he quickened his pace.
He went into the library and proceeded to the newspaper room. An old man was perusing a newspaper with Russian characters. Lindman got a motorcycle magazine before sitting at one of the tables. He used it to hide behind. Stared at a picture of a motorcycle while trying to make up his mind.
The doctor had said he wasn’t going to die. Not yet, at least. There was a risk that the tumor would grow and the cancer might start to spread. It would be a head-to-head battle: he’d either win or lose. There was no possibility of a draw.
He stared at the motorcycle and it struck him that for the first time in years he missed his mother. He would have been able to discuss things with her, but now he had nobody he could talk to. The very idea of taking Elena into his confidence was unthinkable. Why? He didn’t understand. If there was anybody he should be able to talk to and who could give him the support he needed, it was Elena. Even so he couldn’t bring himself to call her. It was as if he were ashamed of having to tell her that he did have cancer. He hadn’t even told her about his hospital appointment.
He leafed through all the pages with pictures of bikes. Leafed his way to a conclusion.
Half an hour later he knew what he was going to do. He would talk to his boss, Superintendent Olausson, who’d just gotten back from vacation — he’d been shooting elk. He would tell him he’d been given a medical certificate without mentioning why. He would just say he had to undergo a thorough examination because of the pains he was having in his throat. Nothing serious, no doubt. He could hand the doctor’s certificate in to the personnel office himself: that would give him at least a week before Olausson knew the reason for his absence.
Then he would go home, call Elena, and tell her he was going away for a few days. Maybe to Helsinki to see his sister. He’d done that before. That wouldn’t arouse her suspicions. Next, he would go to the wine shop and buy a few bottles. During the course of the evening and the night, he would make all the other necessary decisions, the main one being whether or not he thought he could cope with fighting a cancer that might turn out to be life-threatening. Or whether he should simply give up.
He put the magazine back on its shelf, continued through the reading room, and paused at a shelf with medical reference books. He took down one about cancer. Then he put it back again without opening it.
Superintendent Olausson of the Borås police was a man who laughed his way through life. His door was always open. It was midday when Lindman entered his office. He was just finishing a telephone call, and Lindman waited. Olausson slammed down the receiver, produced a handkerchief, and blew his nose.
“They want me to give a lecture,” he said, with a laugh. “Rotary. They wanted me to talk about the Russian Mafia, but there is no Russian Mafia in Borås. We don’t have any Mafia at all. So I turned ’em down.” He gestured to Lindman that he should sit down.
“I just wanted to let you know that my doctor’s certificate has been extended.”
Olausson stared at him in surprise. “But you’re never sick?”
“I am now. I have pains in my throat. I’ll be out for another month. At least.”
Olausson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “A month sounds like a long time for a sore throat, don’t you think?”
“It was the doctor who signed the certificate, not me.”
Olausson nodded. “Police officers do catch cold in the autumn,” he said. “But I get the impression that the criminal classes never get the flu. Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe they have better immune systems?”
“That could be. Perhaps that’s something we should let the commissioner know about.”
Olausson didn’t like the national commissioner. Nor did he think much of the justice minister. He didn’t like any superiors, for that matter. It was a standing joke in the Borås police force that some years ago a Social Democratic justice minister had visited the town to open the new district court, and at the dinner afterwards had gotten so drunk that Olausson had to carry him up to his hotel room.
Lindman stood up to leave. “I read that Herbert Molin was murdered the other day.”
Olausson stared at him in surprise. “Molin? Murdered?”
“In Härjedalen. He lived up there, it seems. I saw it in one of the evening papers.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember which one.”
Olausson accompanied him out into the corridor. The evening papers were piled up in reception. Olausson found the article and read what they’d written.
“I wonder what happened,” Lindman said.
“I’ll find out. I’ll call our colleagues in Östersund.”
Lindman left the police station. The drizzle seemed determined to keep falling forever. He waited in line at the wine shop and eventually took home two bottles of an expensive Italian wine. Before he’d even taken off his jacket he opened one of the bottles and filled a glass that he proceeded to empty in one gulp. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over a kitchen chair. The telephone answering machine in the hall was blinking. It was Elena, wondering if he would like to come by for dinner. He took his glass and the bottle of wine with him into the bedroom. The traffic outside was reduced to a faint buzz. He lay down on the bed with the bottle in his hand. There was a stain on the ceiling. He’d lain in bed the night before staring at it. It looked different by day. After another glass of wine he rolled over onto his side and fell asleep without further ado.
It was nearly midnight when he woke up. He’d slept for nearly eleven hours. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He stared into the darkness. The curtains kept out any light there was in the street.
His first thought was that he was going to die.
Then he decided that he would fight it. After the next set of tests he would have three weeks in which to do whatever he liked. He’d spend that time finding out all there was to find out about cancer. And he’d prepare for the fight he was going to put up.
He got out of bed, took off his shirt, and tossed it into the laundry basket in the bathroom. Then he stood at the window overlooking Allégatan. Outside the Varvaren Hotel garage a few drunken men were arguing. The street was shiny with rain. He thought about Molin. A vague thought had been nagging at him since he’d read the report in the paper at the hospital. Now it came back to him.
Once they had been chasing an escaped murderer through the woods north of Borås. It was late autumn, like now. Lindman and Molin had somehow become separated among the trees, and when Lindman eventually found him he’d approached so quietly that he surprised Molin, who turned to stare at him with terror-stricken eyes.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Lindman said.
Molin just shrugged.
“I thought it was somebody else,” he said.
That was all. I thought it was somebody else.
Lindman remained standing at the window. The drunks had dispersed. He ran his tongue over his top teeth. There was death in that tongue of his, but somewhere there was also Herbert Molin. I thought it was somebody else.
It dawned on Lindman that he’d known all the time. Molin had been scared stiff. All those years they had worked together his fear had always been there. Molin had usually managed to hide it, but not always.
Lindman frowned.
Molin had been murdered in the depths of the northern forests, having always been frightened. The question was: of whom?