Lindman looked hard at the house. It seemed different, now that the ground was white. He turned his attention to the shed. He’d been in there the first time, but then he’d been more interested in the house. He opened the door. It was one room with a concrete floor. He turned on the light. There was a stack of firewood along one wall. On the opposite wall was a bench, shelves full of tools, and a metal locker. Lindman opened it, thinking that there might be a police uniform inside, but there was only a set of dirty coveralls and a pair of rubber boots. He closed the locker and looked around the room again. What does it have to say? he asked himself. The stack of firewood tells us that Molin knew how to build the perfect woodpile, but not much else. He turned his attention to the shelves of tools. What did they have to say for themselves? Nothing unexpected.
Lindman recalled that when he was a child his father had a toolshed in Kinna. It looked just like this one. Molin had everything he needed for minor repairs to the house and his car. There was nothing that didn’t fit the pattern, no tool that suggested an unexpected story. He resumed his tour of the shed.
In one corner was a pair of skis with poles. Lindman took one of the skis to the doorway. The binding was worn. So Molin had used them. Maybe he’d skied over the lake when it was covered in ice and the weather was good? Because he enjoyed it? Or because he needed the exercise? Or to go fishing through the ice? He put the ski back. What was this? Something unexpected. Another pair of skis, shorter, possibly ladies’ skis. Now he could envisage two people gliding over the frozen lake, in glitteringly clear winter weather. Molin and Berggren. What did they talk about when they were out skiing? Or perhaps you didn’t talk when you were skiing? Lindman didn’t know because he hadn’t skied since he was a child. He continued his search. In another corner was a broken sled, some coils of steel wire, and some roof tiles.
Something caught his eye. He looked more closely. It took him almost a minute to realize what it was. The tiles were lying haphazardly. Here was something that didn’t fit into the pattern. Molin solved jigsaw puzzles, he stacked firewood with a feeling for symmetry and order. The same applied to the tools. They were all neatly arranged. But not the tiles. They weren’t orderly in the same way as the rest. He bent down and removed them, one by one.
Underneath was a sheet of metal sunk into the concrete floor. A lid, locked. Lindman stood up and fetched a crowbar from among the tools. He forced it into the crack between the floor and the edge of the lid, and used all his strength to lever it open. It gave way suddenly, and Lindman fell over, banging his head against the wall. His hand was bloodstained when he rubbed his head. There was a box of rags under the tool shelves. He wiped his forehead and pressed a rag against his head until the bleeding stopped.
Then he looked into the hole in the floor. There was a package inside. When he lifted it, he could see it was something wrapped in an old black raincoat. Molin was very close to him now. He had hidden something under the floor that he didn’t want anyone else to see. Lindman put the package on the bench, apologizing silently to Molin, then moved the tools out of the way. The package was tied with thick string. Lindman untied the knots and removed the raincoat.
There were three objects: a black notebook, some letters tied with red ribbon, and an envelope.
He started by opening the envelope. It contained three photographs. He was not surprised by what he saw. He’d known, ever since that visit to Berggren’s. Deep down, he’d known, and here was the confirmation. There were three black-and-white photographs. The first was of four young men with their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were looking straight at the camera. One of the four was Herbert Molin, at that time August Mattson-Herzén. The background was unclear, but it could have been a house wall. The second photograph was of Molin alone. It was taken in a studio, the name of which was at the bottom of the picture.
The third photograph was also of Molin as a young man. Here he was standing beside a motorcycle and sidecar. He was holding a rifle. He was smiling at the camera. Lindman laid the photographs side by side. They also had this in common: Molin’s clothes. His uniform. It was the same as the one in Berggren’s wardrobe.
Chapter Fourteen
There was a story about Scotland.
It was in the middle of the diary, slotted like an unexpected parenthesis into the account Molin had written of his life. In May 1972, Molin has two weeks’ vacation. He takes a ferry from Göteborg to Immingham on the east coast of England. He takes a train to Glasgow and arrives late in the afternoon of May 11. He checks into Smith’s Hotel, which, according to his description of it, is “close to some museums and a university,” but he doesn’t visit the museums. The next day he rents a car and continues his journey northwards. His diary says that he passes through Kinross, Dunkeld, and Spean Bridge. He drives for a long way that day, as far as Drumnadrochit on the western shore of Loch Ness, where he stays the night. He doesn’t look for the monster, however.