Open Grave: A Mystery by Kjell Eriksson Page A

even had time to have his morning coffee before the call came from Germany.
    Bubb was also seeking support from Sweden and inquired whether the associate professor had possibly taken some initiative, which of course he had not. He had been fully occupied with leaf raking, he thought about adding jokingly, but refrained.
    He felt yesterday’s listlessness and now, having a bad conscience, he felt all the more anxious to end the conversation and digest the information. He felt he was being disloyal, most of all considering the activity that the colleagues in Germany were developing, that they were actually also fighting for his cause, albeit indirectly. It was a disruptive feeling, he did not want to feel like a traitor, he simply wanted peace and quiet, but was unable to say anything about his irresolution to Horst Bubb.
    Instead he inquired about his wife’s health.
    “Unchanged,” Bubb said curtly.
    “I think the doorbell rang,” the associate professor said mendaciously. “It may be the media wanting a comment. Perhaps they’ve been contacted by—”
    “Excellent,” Bubb exclaimed. “Let him have it! Don’t hesitate to stress your own contribution. Do that, Gregor, speak out.”
    “Thanks, I’ll do that,” said the associate professor.
    After hanging up the phone he remained standing awhile by the kitchen table, unable to sort his thoughts. The only feeling he could register for certain was discomfort. There was something in Horst Bubb’s voice that he could not come to terms with, a kind of shrill fervor, not magnificent, righteous revenge, but instead a petty revanschism, an attitude he was mortally tired of.
    He understood that the cure this time too was coffee and then work in the garden. Yesterday’s rain had accelerated the falling of the leaves, and then there was the compost to tend to. And he should prepare the winter covering of the Gloire de Dijon, one of the most beautiful roses he knew of.
    A sudden movement caused him to look out the window. A police car came slowly cruising up the street. It was a remarkable sight, one the associate professor could not recall ever having seen in the vicinity of the house. It slowed down in front of Bunde’s gate. Had he really called the police? thought the associate professor. The man whom the neighbor had seen “sneaking around” was a gardener and nothing else, that was quite clear. The associate professor had been able to study him yesterday—the gardener was industrious, as it was an effort to dig in the Uppland clay. Gregor knew that from his own experience.
    But the car cruised farther and finally stopped in front of Ohler’s house. Two uniformed policemen got out. He positioned himself as close to the window as possible to see what was happening. The policemen walked slowly up the path toward the house. They gave an impression of being hesitant, as if they were not sure they had come to the right place. Or else they were simply impressed by the grand entryway—the flight of steps and floor in J ä mtland dark shale, four cream-white pillars, without exaggerated details, which held up a balcony with a pointed wrought-iron fence, and a wide, dark brown door in some type of foreign wood with a brass knocker.
    The associate professor had to resist the desire to open the front door and peek out. Then he realized that he had a better view from the tower and hurried as best he could up the stairs.
    Once there he could see the professor himself, standing on the lawn in front of the house. He was pointing toward the house and then down in the grass. The associate professor, who knew him well, saw immediately that he was worked up. His white hair was sticking up in all directions, his one hand once again was pointing toward the house while the other waved at the street with irritation.
    One of the policemen leaned over and studied something in the grass that was impossible for the associate professor to make out.
    The policeman returned to the car and