“I don’t know any Spanish,” Larsson said, “but I have an idea that Fernando Hereira would be quite a common name.”
“Like mine,” Johansson said. “Every other bastard’s called Erik, up here in Norrland at least, and in my generation.”
“We don’t know if it’s his real name,” Larsson said.
“We can track him through Interpol,” Rundström said. “As soon as we have some fingerprints, that is.”
Several phones started ringing at once. Larsson proposed a ten-minute break and stood up. He also indicated to Lindman that they should go out into the corridor. They sat down in the reception area. Larsson eyed the stuffed bear up and down.
“I saw a bear once,” he said. “Not far from Krokom. I had been dealing with a few moonshiners and was driving back to Ostersund. I remember I was thinking about my father. I had always thought it was that Italian crooner, but when I was twelve my mom told me it was some con man from Ange, who disappeared the moment he heard Mom was pregnant. All of a sudden, there was this bear by the side of the road. I slammed on the brakes, and thought, ‘For Christ’s sake! That can’t be a bear. It’s just a shadow. Or a big rock.’ But it was a bear all right. A female. Her fur was very shiny. I watched her for a minute or so, then she lumbered off. I remember thinking: ‘This simply doesn’t happen! And if it does, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event.’ Kind of like getting a royal flush in poker. They say Erik was dealt one twenty-five years ago. The rest of the deal was worthless, there were only five kronor in the pot and everybody else discarded.”
Larsson stretched and yawned. Then he was serious again.
“I’ve been thinking about our talk,” he said. “That stuff about having to think again. I have a problem with the fact that we might be looking for two different killers. It seems so unlikely. Such a metropolitan way of looking at things, if you get my meaning. Out here in the wild, things generally happen in accordance with a simpler pattern. Then again, I can see that a lot of the evidence suggests you might be right. I talked to Rundström about it before the meeting.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s a proper bastard with both feet on the ground, never believes anything, never guesses, always sticks to the facts. He shouldn’t be underestimated. He catches on fast, possibilities and pitfalls.”
Larsson watched a group of children.
“I’ve tried to map things out in my head,” he said when the last of the children had filed into the library. “A man speaking broken English shows up here and kills Molin. That nonsense his daughter goes on about—owing money to some woman in the UK—I don’t believe that for a moment. What you suggest could be right, especially if you read that awful diary—that the motive can have its source a long time ago, during the war. The brutality, the fury we’ve witnessed might suggest revenge. So far so good. That means we are after a killer who was very clear about what he was undertaking. But then he hangs around. That’s what I can’t work out. He should be running away as fast as he can.”
“Have you uncovered any links at all with Andersson?”
“Nothing. Our colleagues in Helsingborg have talked to his wife. She claims that Abraham told her everything. He had mentioned Molin now and then. They were worlds apart. One played classical music and wrote pop songs as a hobby. The other was a retired police officer. I don’t think we’re going to work out how all this fits together until we find the bastard who knocked you out. How’s your head, by the way?”
“It’s okay, thanks.”
Larsson stood up. “Andersson wrote a song called ‘Believe Me, I’m a Girl.’ Erik remembers it. That pseudonym, Siv Nilsson. He had a record by some dance band or other—Fabians, or something like that. All very odd. He played Mozart one day, made up pop music the next. Erik figures the pop songs were utter crap. I suppose that’s life. Mozart on Monday, drivel on Tuesday.”
They went back to the conference room where the rest of them were assembled, but the meeting never got going again. Rundström’s cell phone rang. He answered, then raised his hand.
“They’ve found a rental car in the Funasdalen mountains,” he said.
They gathered around the wall map. Rundström pointed to the spot.
“There. The car was abandoned.”
“Who found it?” It was Larsson who asked.
“A man called Elmberg, he has a summer place there. He went to check that his cottage was okay. Somebody had been there, and he thought it was a bit strange at this time of year. Then he found the car. He suspects the chalet where the car’s parked has been broken into too.”