And Sammy was the right person for her to confide in. They were getting along better than ever. Lindell had even socialized a bit during the fall with the Nilsson family.
And there were not too many others to choose from, in a squad that was in the process of falling apart. Ottosson had announced that he would retire at the end of the year, withdraw to his cabin in Jumkil. Berglund had already quit, Haver was on long-term sick leave and would most likely not come back, and a couple of days ago Beatrice Andersson had dropped a bomb: she was going to get a divorce, resign, and move to Skåne. She had met a man, a farmer from the Östra Sönnarslöv area, and was going to “start over.” It sounded like she was presenting a package from some agency, with forms, start-up subsidies, and follow-up.
“How the hell do you meet someone from Skåne?” Sammy Nilsson had asked.
“Through the Farmers Cooperative newsletter,” Ottosson speculated.
“What’s wrong with farmers?” Fredriksson hissed.
“I was talking about Skåne,” said Nilsson, who was known for his almost racist attitude toward people from that province.
And clearly Dalsland had now also fallen into disfavor.
Ann Lindell hardly knew her way around the block west of Villavägen and she sensed that the terror she had felt five years ago had erased many of the memories. Where the Hindersten villa had once stood there was now a newly constructed, functionalism-inspired house.
“That time it was an associate professor, now it’s a professor,” said Sammy Nilsson with a smile. “Does that mean that-”
“We have both an associate professor and a professor,” Lindell interrupted. “A neighbor is an associate professor and he’s the one who’s the villain in the drama, our Nobel Prize winner thinks.”
“What do you mean? Is he the one who’s threatening the professor’s life?”
Lindell shrugged.
“We’ll just have to see,” she said in a tone that expressed her understanding of their mission.
In front of the house was a van from the local radio station and a couple of other cars.
“Journalists,” Sammy moaned, “and then you’re along. This is going to be really amusing.”
They stopped behind the van. The journalist they already recognized, Göte Bengtsson. He was one of the fixtures on local radio.
When Lindell got out of the car he was standing on the sidewalk, with a wry smile. Dressed in a large parka, he looked like a shaggy bear.
“Reception committee,” Lindell observed.
Göte Bengtsson nodded. He had a disarming talent for looking uninterested, a little disheveled and borderline indifferent, as if he had just been wakened and sent out on an assignment that barely intrigued him. But Lindell did not let herself be fooled.
“I see, Nobel Prize,” he began grandiosely.
In the corner of her eye Lindell saw one of his colleagues approach. In the background a photographer could be seen.
“Personnel shortage,” said Lindell, trying to put on an embarrassed but at the same time bored expression. The journalist, however, did not seem convinced.
“He’s still alive,” said Bengtsson, who knew very well what kind of cases she worked with normally.
“You are too,” said Sammy Nilsson, who had joined them on the sidewalk and now voluntarily took on the task of trying to disarm Bengtsson’s colleagues. He went up to them.
“Is this a new initiative, a kind of preventive activity from the homicide squad?” Bengtsson asked.
Lindell was cold and wished she had a parka too.
“Stylish shack,” she said. “No, we’re allocated here by quota, to get an idea of how the social cases in Kåbo are doing.”
It was not a particularly funny remark, but Bengtsson smiled.
“I had a chat with our prize winner,” he said. “He was extremely outspoken.”
“That’s nice,” said Lindell with a smile. “Then you don’t need me.”
“A little later perhaps?” said Bengtsson.
Lindell nodded and smiled again.
Bengtsson smiled back, turned his head, and saw how Sammy Nilsson was backing away from the journalists with a dismissive gesture.
“Karnehagen from Aftonbladet,” said Bengtsson, “and a new star from Expressen.”
“Do you have any coffee with you?”
Bengtsson nodded toward his van.
Lindell, Bengtsson, and Nilsson then had their coffee in peace and quiet, talking about this and that, and Bengtsson’s impending retirement.
On the sidewalk outside was the tabloid press.
“There are no excuses for the laxity you have shown. Two uniformed policemen came here and then nothing happens.”
“What should we have done, do you think?” asked Sammy Nilsson. “Cordoned off the block, called in the marines?”
They had talked for ten minutes with Bertram von Ohler and both police officers felt they had no business being there.
The professor stared at Nilsson.
“Perhaps we can speak with your… employee,” said Lindell.
“Why is that?”
“Perhaps she has seen or heard something of interest?”
“And what would that be?”
Lindell smiled. Nobel Prize winner, she thought.
“I don’t want you to worry Agnes, she is extremely sensitive.”
Agnes Andersson did not look at all worried. She was sitting straight-backed on the other side of the gigantic kitchen table, her hands folded in front of her. She mostly resembled an aged confirmand who was waiting for a question from Bible history. A question that she knew in advance and would manage splendidly.
“What an amazing kitchen,” said Lindell, “so well organized.”
“Thank you,” said Agnes.
Lindell let her eyes sweep again over the walls and cabinets.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Fifty-five years. I came here in 1953.”
There was something familiar about Agnes Andersson, thought Lindell. Had they met previously?
“As a young girl,” Lindell noted, inspecting the woman before her a little more carefully.
How old could she be? Over seventy, at a guess. The protruding eyes looked fixedly at Lindell.
“Before, there was more to do,” said Agnes, “and then there were more of us too. Now it’s just the professor and me.”
“But you can’t very well clean the whole house yourself?”
“Oh yes, but three times a year my sister comes and helps out. At Christmas, in May when the apple trees are blooming, and now in the fall.”
Lindell tried to imagine what it would be like to vacuum, dust, and mop fourteen rooms and kitchen, but couldn’t. Just polishing all the copper forms that were hanging on the walls must take at least a week.
“My sister likes apple blossoms very much,” the woman added.
Lindell tried to imagine what it might be like to have a sister who liked apple blossoms, but couldn’t do that either.
“You must be a strong woman,” said Lindell unexpectedly.
Agnes Andersson moved her head almost imperceptibly.
“I’ll take a look in the garden,” said Sammy, slipping out the kitchen door without waiting for any comment from Lindell.
“I mean, to run a household of this size basically alone.”
“I’m used to it,” said Agnes.
Lindell smiled, and to her surprise the woman answered with a smile.
“The professor must have quite a few guests too.”
“Not anymore. He wants to take it a little easier.”
“What do you think about what happened? I mean the stone-throwing and then the threat in the mailbox this morning.”
“What should one think?” Agnes replied after a few seconds of reflection. “If you ask me I think it’s just some rowdy kids, schoolboy pranks.”