Lindman spent the rest of the day in Johansson’s office. The conversations he had with Rundström lasted for hours, thanks to the continual interruptions. At 1:45 Rundström received a call informing him that Holmström had been arrested in Arboga, still in the Ford Escort they had put a trace on. It was 5 P.M. by the time Rundström declared that he felt sufficiently informed. He accompanied Lindman to his hotel. They said their goodbyes in the lobby.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. The morning flight to Landvetter.”
“I’ll arrange for somebody to drive you to the airport.”
They shook hands.
“It’s all been very peculiar,” Rundström said, “but I figure that one way or another I’ve come around to understanding most of what’s been going on. Not everything. You never do understand everything. There are always gaps. But most of it. Enough to solve the murders.”
“Something tells me you’ll have problems in catching Hereira,” Lindman said.
“He smoked French cigarettes,” Rundström said. “Do you remember the butts you found down by the lake, and gave to Larsson?”
Lindman remembered. “I agree,” he said. “There are always gaps. Not least this mysterious person named ‘M.’ in Scotland.”
Rundström left. Lindman took it that Rundström hadn’t read Molin’s diary. The receptionist was ashen.
“Did I do the wrong thing?” she asked.
“Yes. But it’s all finished now. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll leave you to your test drivers and Baltic orienteering specialists.”
That evening he had dinner in the hotel, then called Elena and said he’d be coming home. He was on his way to bed when Rundström called to say that Larsson was doing pretty well under the circumstances. The wound was serious, but not life-threatening. Johansson was in a much worse state. He’d had a nervous breakdown. Rundström ended by telling Lindman that Special Branch was now involved.
“This is going to be splashed all over the news,” he said. “We’ve turned over a very large rock. It’s already obvious that this Nazi network is far more extensive than anybody ever dreamed of. Think of yourself as lucky that the reporters won’t be gunning for you.”
Lindman lay awake for a long time after that. He wondered how the funeral had gone. Most of all it was memories of his father flooding through his mind. I’ll never understand him, he thought. I won’t ever be able to forgive him either, even if he is dead and buried. He never showed his true face to me and my sisters. I had a father who worshiped evil.
The following morning Lindman was taken to the airport in Frösön. Just before 11 A.M. his plane touched down at Landvetter. Elena was there to meet him, and he was extremely pleased to see her.
Two days later, on November 19, sleet was falling on Borås as Lindman walked up the hill to the hospital. He felt calm, and was confident he could handle whatever was in store for him.
He had coffee in the cafeteria. Copies of yesterday’s evening papers were piled up on a chair. The front pages were full of what had been going on in Harjedalen, and about the Swedish branch of a worldwide network of Nazi organizations. The head of Special Branch had made a statement. “This is a shocking exposure of something that goes much deeper and is much more dangerous than the neo-Nazis, all those tiny groups dominated by skinheads that have been associated with Fascist aspirations.”
Lindman put the newspapers down. It was 8:10 A.M. Time for him to go to the people who were waiting for him.
Hereira was still at large. Lindman wondered where he had disappeared, and hoped the man would get back to Buenos Aires. Smoke a few more French cigarettes in peace and quiet. The crime he’d commit ted had been atoned for long ago.