intended. ‘Will that work?’
‘Bring your boots,’ Bosse Marksson said, ending the conversation.
Lindell turned on her computer, but did not log on. She thought about the foot by the sea. Had forgotten to ask if it had belonged to a man or a woman. She guessed the latter. Who wore sandals in November? Perhaps it was a slipper.
Her visit with Berglund and his melancholy had slowed her down, as if he had transferred some of his sadness to her.
She opened the telephone book and immediately found Elsa Persson. She dialled the number but no one answered, and she hung up with a tired gesture. Perhaps Elsa was at the school. Berglund had said she was a teacher.
A faint knock on the door made her jump. Ottosson poked his head in.
‘I’m driving out to the coast tomorrow,’ Lindell said as a way of anticipating his question. ‘And I’m supposed to tell you Berglund says hello. He is a bit tired and I don’t think he wants people to come visit, but he does want to get the files from an old case from the nineties. The county commissioner who disappeared, Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson, has surfaced in India.’
Ottosson stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and sat down.
‘I know,’ Ottosson said, ‘but Berglund has changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at that case anymore. He called and told me he didn’t want it.’
‘He wanted another case?’
Ottosson nodded.
‘An old homicide where Berglund was the investigative lead. It was at least ten years ago. He didn’t manage to crack it. It was an old guy who was killed at Kungsgärdet. You know, in one of those little houses, the sugar cubes, as people called them when I was growing up. Despite prints and a couple of witnesses we drew a blank.’
‘He’s never talked about it.’
‘I think he might feel some shame,’ Ottosson said. ‘Maybe not shame exactly, but you know …’
‘Yes,’ Lindell said. ‘I’ll go check out the foot tomorrow. We’ll see.’
‘That Marksson they have out there is a good sort, but his voice takes some getting used to. His dad sounded just like him. He was also a police officer. He was an extra in Bathing Devils , if you remember that film. I’m an Ernst Günther fan.’
Lindell had a little smile on her face long after Ottosson had shut the door behind him. He knew how to handle her.
She logged in and discovered to her surprise that the ‘good sort’ had already sent her a report on the foot. She printed the document and started to read.
‘A foot, female,’ she muttered.
ELEVEN
Jan Svensk knew he was paying too much, but nonetheless gave the rickshaw driver a smile, which the driver replied to with a vague shake of the head.
Bangalore’s botanical garden was impressive, at least the main entrance. The ticket seller explained that he had no change for the twenty-rupee note that the Swede handed over, which was a blatant lie since the next visitor received a ten-rupee note. But Jan Svensk took it in stride. Normally he would have stood his ground but today he felt generous. Why argue about a couple of pennies, he thought, and walked into the garden. It was easy to be magnanimous in India.
He immediately encountered a man in a wheelchair who offered to take his picture, a memory for life, and then, when Jan Svensk declined the offer, declared he was the best guide in the garden, even authorised. He held up a wrinkled piece of paper.
‘No, thank you,’ Svensk said, and continued farther into the park before changing his mind and walking back.
‘Could you tell me where the staff area is?’
‘Do you mean the office?’
‘Yes, that is …’
He did not quite know how to express himself.
‘Do you know if there is a foreigner working here, a European?’
The man came closer, so close that a wheel touched Svensk’s pant leg, looked swiftly around, bent to the side and spit, before he answered.
‘Englishmen,’ he said, and made a sweeping gesture with one hand
‘Bring your boots,’ Bosse Marksson said, ending the conversation.
Lindell turned on her computer, but did not log on. She thought about the foot by the sea. Had forgotten to ask if it had belonged to a man or a woman. She guessed the latter. Who wore sandals in November? Perhaps it was a slipper.
Her visit with Berglund and his melancholy had slowed her down, as if he had transferred some of his sadness to her.
She opened the telephone book and immediately found Elsa Persson. She dialled the number but no one answered, and she hung up with a tired gesture. Perhaps Elsa was at the school. Berglund had said she was a teacher.
A faint knock on the door made her jump. Ottosson poked his head in.
‘I’m driving out to the coast tomorrow,’ Lindell said as a way of anticipating his question. ‘And I’m supposed to tell you Berglund says hello. He is a bit tired and I don’t think he wants people to come visit, but he does want to get the files from an old case from the nineties. The county commissioner who disappeared, Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson, has surfaced in India.’
Ottosson stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and sat down.
‘I know,’ Ottosson said, ‘but Berglund has changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at that case anymore. He called and told me he didn’t want it.’
‘He wanted another case?’
Ottosson nodded.
‘An old homicide where Berglund was the investigative lead. It was at least ten years ago. He didn’t manage to crack it. It was an old guy who was killed at Kungsgärdet. You know, in one of those little houses, the sugar cubes, as people called them when I was growing up. Despite prints and a couple of witnesses we drew a blank.’
‘He’s never talked about it.’
‘I think he might feel some shame,’ Ottosson said. ‘Maybe not shame exactly, but you know …’
‘Yes,’ Lindell said. ‘I’ll go check out the foot tomorrow. We’ll see.’
‘That Marksson they have out there is a good sort, but his voice takes some getting used to. His dad sounded just like him. He was also a police officer. He was an extra in Bathing Devils , if you remember that film. I’m an Ernst Günther fan.’
Lindell had a little smile on her face long after Ottosson had shut the door behind him. He knew how to handle her.
She logged in and discovered to her surprise that the ‘good sort’ had already sent her a report on the foot. She printed the document and started to read.
‘A foot, female,’ she muttered.
ELEVEN
Jan Svensk knew he was paying too much, but nonetheless gave the rickshaw driver a smile, which the driver replied to with a vague shake of the head.
Bangalore’s botanical garden was impressive, at least the main entrance. The ticket seller explained that he had no change for the twenty-rupee note that the Swede handed over, which was a blatant lie since the next visitor received a ten-rupee note. But Jan Svensk took it in stride. Normally he would have stood his ground but today he felt generous. Why argue about a couple of pennies, he thought, and walked into the garden. It was easy to be magnanimous in India.
He immediately encountered a man in a wheelchair who offered to take his picture, a memory for life, and then, when Jan Svensk declined the offer, declared he was the best guide in the garden, even authorised. He held up a wrinkled piece of paper.
‘No, thank you,’ Svensk said, and continued farther into the park before changing his mind and walking back.
‘Could you tell me where the staff area is?’
‘Do you mean the office?’
‘Yes, that is …’
He did not quite know how to express himself.
‘Do you know if there is a foreigner working here, a European?’
The man came closer, so close that a wheel touched Svensk’s pant leg, looked swiftly around, bent to the side and spit, before he answered.
‘Englishmen,’ he said, and made a sweeping gesture with one hand
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