They crossed over the bridge.
“There used to be trains here when I was little,” Larsson said. “The National Railway. You could get from Ostersund to Orsa via Sveg. You transferred there. Or was it Mora? I did that trip with Grandma when I was little. Nowadays the train only runs in the summer. The Italian singer Mom saw in the People’s Park came here on that train. No planes or limousines in those days. She was at the station to wave goodbye to him. She even has a picture of it. Blurred and wobbly. Taken with a box camera. She guards it like the crown jewels. She must have been madly in love with him.”
They had reached Berggren’s house.
“Have you warned her that we were coming?” Lindman said.
“I thought we’d give her a surprise.”
They went through the gate. Larsson rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting them.
“Giuseppe Larsson, Ostersund CID. I think you’ve already met Stefan. We have quite a few questions to ask you. It has to do with the investigation into the death of Herbert Molin. You knew him, I believe?”
“We” indeed, Lindman thought. I don’t intend to ask any questions. He looked at Larsson, who winked at him as they stepped into the hall.
“I suppose this must be important, since you’ve come so early in the morning?”
“It certainly is,” Larsson said. “Where can we sit down? This is going to take quite a while.”
Lindman noticed that Larsson was much more brusque than he’d expected. He wondered what his own approach would have been if he’d been the one asking the questions. They went into the living room. Berggren didn’t ask them if they’d like coffee. Larsson proved to be a man who didn’t beat around the bush.
“You have a Nazi uniform in one of your closets,” he said, as an opening gambit.
Berggren stiffened. Then she looked at Lindman. Her eyes were cold. Lindman could see that she immediately suspected him, without being able to understand how he’d managed to get into her bedroom.
“I don’t know if it’s against the law to possess a Nazi uniform,” Larsson said. “I am pretty sure it’s illegal to appear in public wearing it. Can you get it for us?”
“How do you know that I have a uniform in my closet?”
“That’s a question I have no intention of answering, but you must understand that it’s relevant to two current murder investigations.”
She looked at them in astonishment. It seemed to Lindman that her surprised expression was genuine. He could see that she knew nothing about the murder at Glöte. He was surprised by this. Almost two days had passed, but still she knew nothing about it. She can’t have been watching television, he thought. Or listening to the radio. Such people do exist, I suppose, although there aren’t many of them.
“Who else has been killed—besides Herbert Molin?”
“Abraham Andersson. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes, he lived not far from Herbert. What has happened?”
“All I can tell you so far is that he’s been murdered.”
She stood up and left the room.
“No harm in being direct,” Larsson said softly. “But she obviously didn’t know that Andersson was dead.”
“The news was released a while ago, surely?”
“I don’t think she’s making it up.”
She came back with the uniform and cap. She put them down on the sofa. Larsson leaned forward to examine them.
“Who do they belong to?”
“Me.”
“But I hardly think you were the one who wore them?”
“I don’t think I need answer that question. Not merely because it’s idiotic.”
“Not just at the moment, but we could take you to Ostersund for a quite different kind of questioning. It’s up to you.”
She thought for a while before answering. “It belonged to my father. Karl-Evert Berggren. He’s been dead for many years now.”
“So he fought in World War II, in the German army, is that right?”
“He was a member of the volunteer corps known as the Swedish Company. He was awarded two medals for bravery. I can show them to you if you wish.”
Larsson shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I take it you know that Molin used to be a Nazi in his youth, and was a volunteer in the Waffen-SS during the war?”
She sat up straight, but she didn’t ask how they knew that. “Not ‘used to be.’ Herbert was just as convinced a National Socialist the day he died as he was as a young man. He and my father fought side by side. Even if my father was much older than Herbert, they remained good friends all their lives.”