Heâs evidently got a second home down there. Heâs on my list for tomorrow.â âHeâs back?â âYesterday.â Larsson thought for a moment. âI can tell my colleagues that Iâll take the responsibility for interviewing him. Which in turn means that thereâs nothing to prevent you from talking to him.â âHans Marklund?â âHe works from his house in Krokom. Take the road north. In Krokom itself, youâll see a sign saying âRural Properties.â Ring the doorbell here at 7:15, and Iâll come and let you in.â Larsson went back inside. Rundströmâs attitude had annoyed Lindman, but at the same time it had given him renewed energy. And Larsson wanted to help him by letting him go through the material they had accumulated so far. In doing so, Larsson was putting himself at risk, even if there were no real impropriety in allowing a colleague from another force to take part in the investigation. Lindman found the hotel Larsson had suggested. He got a room under the eaves. He left his suitcase there and returned to his car. He phoned the hotel in Sveg and spoke to the receptionist. âNobody will take your room,â she assured him. âIâll be back tomorrow.â âYou come when it suits you.â Lindman found his way out of Ostersund. It was only twenty kilometers to Krokom, where he found the real estate agentâs right away. It was a yellow-painted house with a large garden. A man was walking around the lawn vacuuming up dead leaves. He switched off the machine when he saw Lindman. The man was tanned and about Lindmanâs age. He looked fit and trim, and had a tattoo on one of his wrists. âAre you looking for a house?â he said. âNot exactly. Are you Hans Marklund?â
âThatâs me.â Then he turned serious. âAre you from the tax authority?â âNo. Giuseppe Larsson told me Iâd find you here.â Marklund frowned. Then he remembered who that was. âThe policeman. Iâve just gotten back from Spain. There are quite a lot of Giuseppes there. Or something like that. In Ostersund thereâs only one. Are you a police officer as well?â Lindman hesitated. âYes,â he said. âIâm a police officer. You once sold a house to a man called Herbert Molin. As you know, heâs dead now.â âCome inside,â Marklund said. âThey phoned me in Spain and told me heâd been murdered. I didnât expect to hear from them until tomorrow.â âYou will.â One of the rooms on the ground floor had been turned into an office. There were maps on the walls, and colored photographs of houses up for sale. Lindman noticed that the prices were significantly lower than in Boras. âIâm on my own at the moment,â Marklund said. âMy wife and children are staying in Spain for another week. Weâve got a little house in Marbella. I inherited it from my parents. The kids have their fall break, or whatever itâs called.â Marklund made some coffee and they sat down at a table strewn with files. âI had some problems with the tax people last year,â Marklund said apologetically. âThatâs why I asked. As the local authority is running short of money, I supposed they have to squeeze out every krona they can.â âEleven years ago or so, you sold the house near Linsell to Herbert Molin. I used to work with him in BorÃ¥s. He retired and moved up here. And now heâs dead.â âWhat happened?â âHe was murdered.â âWhy? By whom?â âWe donât know yet.â Marklund shook his head. âIt sounds nasty. We like to think that we live in a pretty peaceful area up hereâbut maybe there arenât any of those anymore?â âMaybe not. What can you tell me about that sale eleven years ago?â Marklund disappeared into