That is all. The diary is far from full. The book Molin bought in a stationer’s in Oslo in June, 1942, has been with him for the rest of his life, but is incomplete. If a diary can ever be finished. When he started writing he was young, a convinced Nazi, on his way from Norway to Germany and the war. He eats ice creams and is embarrassed when Norwegian girls look him in the eye. Fifty-seven years later he writes about the death of a jigsaw puzzle maker in Barcelona. Six months later, he is dead himself.
Lindman closed the book. It was almost pitch dark outside. Is the solution in this diary or elsewhere? he asked himself. I can’t answer that question. I don’t know what he left out, only what he wrote. But I now know a few things about Molin that I didn’t know before. He was a Nazi, he fought for Hitler’s Germany in the Second World War. He also travelled to Scotland and went for a lot of long walks with somebody he called “M.”.
Lindman packed the letters, photographs and the diary into the raincoat again. He left the house the same way as he’d come in, through the window. Just before opening the car door he paused. A vague feeling of sorrow had come over him. About the life Herbert Molin had led. But he realised that some of the sorrow was directed at himself. He was 37 years of age, childless, and was carrying an illness that could send him to his grave before he made 40.
He drove back to Sveg. There was little traffic on the roads. Shortly before Linsell he was overtaken by a police car heading for Sveg, then another. What had occurred the previous night seemed strangely distant and unreal. Yet it was less than 24 hours since he’d made the horrific discovery. Molin had made no mention of Abraham Andersson in his diary. Nor Elsa Berggren. His two wives and two children he mentioned only in passing, briefly and factually.
Reception was deserted when he entered the hotel. He leaned over the desk and took his key. When he came up to his room he examined his suitcase. Nobody had touched it. He must have imagined it.
He went down to the dining room shortly after seven. Larsson still hadn’t phoned. The girl emerged from the swing doors and smiled as she produced the menu.
“I saw you’d taken your key,” she said. Then she became serious. “I hear something else has happened. That another old man has been killed somewhere near Glöte.”
“That’s right.”
“This is awful. What’s going on?”
She shook her head in resignation, not expecting an answer, and gave him the menu.
“We’ve changed today,” she said. “I wouldn’t recommend the veal cutlets.”
Lindman chose elk fillet with Béarnaise sauce and boiled potatoes. He had just finished eating when the girl came through the swing doors and announced that he was wanted on the phone. He went up the steps to reception. It was Larsson.
“I’ll be staying overnight, at the hotel,” he said.
“How’s it going?”
“Nothing tangible to go on.”
“The dogs?”
“They haven’t found a thing. I expect to be there in an hour. Will you keep me company while I have supper?”
Lindman said he would.
At least I’ve something I can give him, he thought when the call was finished. I’ve no idea what the relationship was between Molin and Andersson, but I can open a door for Larsson even so. In Berggren’s house there was a Nazi uniform. And Molin had been very careful to withhold his past from the world. There is a possibility, Lindman thought, that the uniform in Berggren’s wardrobe belonged to Molin. Even if he had exchanged his uniform for civilian clothes to escape from the burning ruins of Berlin.
CHAPTER 15
Larsson was exhausted by the time he arrived at the hotel. Even so he happily laughed as he sat down at the dining-room table. The kitchen would be closing shortly. The girl who alternated between the dining room and reception was setting tables for breakfast. There was only one other guest, a man at a table next to the wall. Lindman supposed he must be one of the test drivers, although he looked rather old to be test-driving cars in hostile conditions.
“When I was younger, I often used to go out for meals,” Larsson said, by way of explanation for his laughter. “Now it only happens when I’m forced to spend the night away from home. When there’s some violent crime or something similarly unpleasant to sort out.”
As he ate, he told Lindman what had happened during the day. What he had to say could be summed up in a single word. Nothing.
“We’re marking time,” he said. “We can find no tracks. Nobody saw anything, although we’ve traced four or five people who drove past that evening. What Rundström and I are wondering now is if there really is a link between Andersson and Molin. And if there is, what could it be?”
When he’d finished eating he ordered a pot of tea. Lindman ordered coffee. Then he told Larsson about his visit to Berggren’s, how he’d got into her house, and his discovery of the diary in Molin’s shed. He moved his coffee cup to one side and set out the letters, the photographs and the diary for Larsson to see.
“You’ve really overstepped the mark,” Larsson said, clearly irritated. “I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t continue poking your nose in.”
“I can only say I’m sorry.”
“What do you think would have happened if Berggren had caught you?”
Lindman had no answer to that.
“It mustn’t happen again,” Larsson said after a while. “But it’s better if we don’t say anything to Rundström about your evening visit to the lady in question. He tends to be a bit touchy about things like that. He wants everything to go by the book. And as you have already seen, he is not best pleased when outsiders start interfering in his investigations. I say ‘his investigations’ because he insists on regarding cases of violent crime as his own personal business.”
“Johansson might tell him about it? Even though he said he would keep it to himself?”
Larsson shook his head. “Erik’s not all that keen on Rundström,” he said. “One should never underestimate antagonisms between individuals and also between provinces. Being junior to big brother Jämtland doesn’t go down well in Härjedalen. That kind of problem afflicts the police force as well.”
He poured himself another cup of tea from the pot, and examined the photographs.
“What you have uncovered makes for a very mysterious story,” he said. “So Molin belonged to the Nazi party and went to fight for Hitler. Unterscharführer? What on earth was that? Was he mixed up with the Gestapo? Concentration camps? What was it they put over the entrance to Auschwitz? ‘Arbeit macht frei.’ Horrific stuff.”
“I don’t know much about Nazism,” Lindman said, “but I imagine that if you were a Hitler supporter you didn’t shout it from the rooftops. Molin changed his name. This might tell us why. He was covering his tracks.”
Larsson had asked for his bill, and paid it. He took out a pen and wrote MOLIN on the back of it.
“I think better when I write things down,” he said. “August Mattson-Herzén becomes Herbert Molin. You’ve spoken of his fear. It could be that he was scared that something in his past would catch up with him. You talked to his daughter, I suppose?”
“She said nothing about her father having been a Nazi. But then, I didn’t ask her about that, of course.”
“It’s like having a criminal in the family. You’d rather not talk about them.”
“That was my thinking. Do you wonder if Andersson was another one with a past?”
“Let’s see what we find in his house,” Larsson said, writing down ANDERSSON. “The forensic unit were going to take a few hours’ rest, then carry on through the night.”
Larsson drew an arrow with two tips between the two names, Andersson and Molin. Then he drew a swastika followed by a question mark next to Andersson’s name.
“We’ll have a serious chat with fröken Berggren first thing tomorrow morning,” he said, writing her name and drawing an arrow between it and the other two. Then he crumpled the bill up and put it in the ashtray.
&n
bsp; “We?”
“We can say that you are in attendance as my extremely private assistant, unauthorised.” Larsson laughed aloud, then turned serious again. “We have two horrific murders to deal with,” he said. “I couldn’t care less about Rundström. Nor do I care whether everything goes by the book. I want you to be there. Two people listen better than one.”
They left the dining room. The man was still sitting at his table. They parted in reception, agreeing to meet the next morning at 7.30.
That night Lindman slept like a log. When he woke he realised he’d been dreaming about his father. They’d been looking for each other in the woods. When the young Stefan finally found him in his dream, he’d felt boundlessly relieved and happy.
Larsson had slept badly, however. He’d got up as early as 4 a.m. and by the time he wished Lindman good morning in reception, he’d already been to Andersson’s house. Nothing had changed. They had no clues to point to who had killed Andersson, and perhaps also Molin.
As they were about to leave the hotel Larsson turned to the girl in reception and asked if she’d seen his bill from last night’s dinner. It was only when he’d got to bed that he’d realised he’d need it for his expenses claim. She said she hadn’t seen it.
“Didn’t I leave it on the table?” Larsson said.
“You crumpled it up and put it in the ashtray,” Lindman said.
Larsson shrugged. They decided to walk to Berggren’s house. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and the clouds had melted away. It was still dark as they walked to the bridge that would take them over the river to Ulvkälla. Larsson pointed to the white-painted district court-house.
“There was a nasty incident here a few years ago that wasn’t widely reported. A violent assault. Two of those found guilty boasted of being neo-Nazis. I can’t remember what they said their organisation was called. ‘Keep Sweden Swedish’, something like that. Maybe it doesn’t exist any longer?”
“Nowadays they call themselves ‘WAR’,” Lindman said.
“What does that stand for?”
“White Aryan Resistance.”
Larsson grimaced. “Very nasty stuff. I suppose we thought we’d buried Nazism once and for all, but apparently it’s alive and kicking, even if most of ’em are shaven-headed urchins running wild in the streets.”
They crossed over the bridge.
“There used to be trains here when I was little,” Larsson said. “The Inland Railway. You could get from Östersund to Orsa via Sveg. You changed there. Or was it Mora? I did that trip with Grandma when I was little. Nowadays the train only runs in the summer. The Italian singer Mum saw in the People’s Park came here on that train. No planes or limousines in those days. She was at the station to wave goodbye to him. She even has a picture of it. Blurred and wobbly. Taken with a common or garden box camera. She guards it like the crown jewels. She must have been madly in love with him.”
They had reached Berggren’s house.
“Did you warn her that we were coming?” Lindman said.
“I thought we’d give her a surprise.”
They went through the gate. Larsson rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting them.
“Giuseppe Larsson, Östersund CID. I think you’ve already met Lindman. We have quite a few questions to ask you. It’s to do with the investigation into the death of Herbert Molin. You knew him, I believe?”
We, indeed, Lindman thought. I don’t intend asking any questions. He looked at Larsson, who winked at him as they stepped into the hall.
“I suppose this must be important, since you’ve come so early in the morning?”
“It certainly is,” Larsson said. “Where can we sit down? This is going to take quite a while.”
Lindman noticed that Larsson was much more brusque than he’d expected. He wondered what his own approach would have been, if he’d been the one asking the questions. They went into the living room. Berggren didn’t ask them if they’d like coffee. Larsson proved to be a man who didn’t beat about the bush.
“You have a Nazi uniform in one of your wardrobes,” he said as an opening gambit.
Berggren stiffened. Then she looked at Lindman. Her eyes were cold. Lindman could see that she’d immediately suspected him, without being able to understand how he’d managed to get into her bedroom.
“I don’t know if it’s against the law to possess a Nazi uniform,” Larsson said. “I am pretty sure it’s illegal to appear in public wearing it. Can you fetch it for us?”
“How do you know that I have a uniform in my wardrobe?”
“That’s a question I have no intention of answering, but you must understand that it’s of relevance to two current murder investigations.”
She looked at them in astonishment. It seemed to Lindman that her surprised expression was genuine. He could see that she knew nothing about the murder at Glöte. He was surprised by this. Almost two days had passed, but still she knew nothing about it. She can’t have been watching television, he thought. Or listening to the radio. Such people do exist, I suppose, although there aren’t many of them.
“Who else has been killed – besides Herbert Molin?”
“Abraham Andersson. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes, he lived not far from Herbert. What has happened?”
“All I can tell you so far is that he’s been murdered.”
She stood up and left the room.
“No harm in being direct,” Larsson said, softly. “But she obviously didn’t know that Andersson was dead.”
“The news was released long ago, surely?”
“I don’t think she’s making it up.”
She came back with the uniform and cap. She put them down on the sofa. Larsson leaned forward to examine them.
“Who do they belong to?”
“Me.”
“But I hardly think you were the one who wore them?”
“I don’t think I need answer that question. Not merely because it’s idiotic.”
“Not just at the moment, but we could take you to Östersund for a quite different kind of questioning. It’s up to you.”
She thought for a while before answering. “It belonged to my father. Karl-Evert Berggren. He’s been dead for many years now.”
“So he fought in the Second World War, in the German army, is that right?”
“He was a member of the volunteer corps known as the Swedish Company. He was awarded two medals for bravery. I can show them to you if you wish.”
Larsson shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I take it you know that Molin was also a Nazi in his youth, and was a volunteer in the Waffen-SS during the war?”
She sat up straight, but she didn’t ask how they knew that. “Not ‘used to be’. Herbert was just as convinced a National Socialist the day he died as he was as a young man. He and my father fought side by side. Even if my father was much older than Herbert, they remained good friends all their lives.”
“And you?”
“I don’t think I need to answer that question. There is no law that requires one to declare one’s political persuasion.”
“If that persuasion, as you call it, involves an association with a group that can be linked with violence and a crime known as racial agitation, it is a question that can be justified.”
“I am not a member of any organisation,” she said, obviously angered. “What would it be? That band of idiots who run around the streets with shaven heads and desecrate the Hitler salute?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Were you of the same political views as Herbert Molin?”
Her reply came with no hesitation. “Of course. I grew up in a family well aware of race. My father was one of the founders of the National Socialist Workers’ Party in 1933. Sven-Olof Lindholm, our leader, often came to visit us. My father was a doctor and an officer in the territorial army. We lived in Stockholm in those days. I still remember my mother taking me with her on demonstrations in suppo
rt of the National Socialist women’s organisations. I have been giving the Hitler salute since I was ten. My parents could see what was happening. Jews flocking into the country, degeneration, moral decay. And the threat of Communism. Nothing has changed. Now Sweden is being undermined by indiscriminate immigration. The very thought of mosques being built on Swedish soil makes me feel sick. Sweden is a society that is rotting away. And nobody is doing anything about it.”
Her outburst had set her off trembling. Lindman was nauseated, and wondered where all this hatred could have come from.
“What you have just said was not exactly uplifting,” Larsson said.
“I stand by every single word. Sweden is a social concept that barely exists any longer. One has to feel nothing but loathing for the people who have allowed this to come to pass.”
“So Molin’s moving up here was no coincidence?”
“Of course not. In times like this when everything is falling apart, those of us who maintain the old ideals have a responsibility to help one another.”
“So there is an organisation, despite what you said?”
“No. But we know who our real friends are.”
“You keep it all secret, though?”
She snorted with disgust as she answered. “Being faithful to the land of our fathers seems to be a criminal offence nowadays. If we are to be left in peace, we have to keep quiet about our views.”
“Nevertheless, somebody tracked down your friend, and killed him, isn’t that so?”
“What has that got to do with his patriotic views?”
“You said it yourself. You are forced to hide away and conceal your idiotic ideals.”
“There must have been some other reason for Herbert’s death.”
“What, for instance?”
“I didn’t know him well enough to know.”
“But you must have wondered?”
“Of course, but I find it impossible to understand.”
The Return of the Dancing Master Page 17
