The woman snorted.
“Well, we don’t seem to be getting any further,” said Sammy without showing anything he was feeling. On the contrary he extended his hand and looked sincerely friendly.
“Thank you, and I apologize for disturbing you.”
The Ohler daughter closed the door.
“Animosity,” said Lindell, sneering.
Sammy Nilsson shook his head.
“The bitch is lying,” he said.
“Yes, it’s obvious,” said Lindell.
They went out onto the street. When Sammy closed the gate behind him he turned around and looked up toward the house.
“If it had been a drunk woman we could have forced our way in,” he said. “Now we’re standing like two beggars on the stairs.”
“We had nothing.”
“Doesn’t matter. We could have forced our way in anyway. Or rather, a drunk woman would have taken for granted that we would run right in.”
They knew that they would drop the whole thing. A disappearance, which besides might very well have a natural explanation, was not their responsibility. Even if there were no formal obstacles to snooping further there were practical limitations. Ottosson would not give his approval. Even though at the present time it was calm at the squad, there were many old cases to sink their teeth into.
Epilogue
DECEMBER 10, 2008
It nauseated him, this false pomp. He cursed himself for having turned on the TV. He already knew. He knew what it looked like. “There is no justice,” Ohler had said, and that was right. There are injustices here, illustrated by this sea of refined and decked-out persons, the elevated of society within academe, culture, and business, all weighed down by their own importance.
Why should he stare at the spectacle? The last thing he saw before the TV screen went black was the close-up of a face he recognized very well. It was an old colleague from the university in Lund whom the associate professor knew was very critical of Ohler. Now the professor was sitting there, taking part in the celebration, laughing along.
Gregor Johansson got up with great effort. The autumn had been difficult. It would get even worse. He was surrounded by darkness.
Besides, his body was starting to protest. Perhaps next year he wouldn’t be able to care for his garden properly? Then I might as well die, was a thought that constantly returned.
With even greater effort than before he made his way up into the tower. The garden was just as desolate and depressing as a closed-down amusement park during the winter. The snow that had fallen around the first Sunday in Advent had disappeared in an unfortunate thaw. He loathed these abrupt leaps between bitter cold and warmth, between deep snow and bare ground. Black frost was a word that meant the death of plants.
Suddenly he perceived a movement at Lundquist’s and had a déjà-vu experience from the fall. It was not the landscaper this time but instead Winblad’s setter that was sniffing around. It was an uncommon sight. Willie, which was the dog’s name, was very disciplined and never left the yard, even though it always went around loose. The associate professor had also on some occasions praised Winblad for his good hand with the dog.
Now the setter was standing by Haller’s planting on the back side of Lundquist’s lot. The associate professor could see with the binoculars how Willie was wagging his tail and nosing at the magnolia. Don’t you dare lift your leg, the associate professor thought.
The dog went sniffing a turn around the flower bed, as if he was a critical inspector. Then he started digging in the dirt.
So that’s how it happened! It was Willie who had also rooted up the plants before. Winblad had discovered it and tried to put them back. The associate professor laughed. The mystery was solved.
The dog continued to dig, more and more eagerly.
About the Author
KJELL ERIKSSON is the author of The Princess of Burundi, The Cruel Stars of the Night, The Demon of Dakar, The Hand That Trembles, and Black Lies, Red Blood. His series debut won Best First Novel by the Swedish Crime Academy, an accomplishment he later followed up by winning Best Swedish Crime Novel for The Princess of Burundi. This is his sixth novel to be published in the U.S. He lives in Sweden and France. You can sign up for email updates here.
