the evening. You could hardly say they indulged in conversation; they drank coffee and exchanged a few words about how the evening was going for the police emergency service in Ostersund. Everything had been quiet for the first few hours, but soon after 9 P.M. Larsson had to investigate a burglary in Häggenås. When he eventually returned, Lindman had just reached the end of the last of the files.
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What had he found? A map, it seemed to him, with large blank patches. A man with a history with large gaps. A man who sometimes strayed from the marked path and disappeared, only to turn up again when least expected. Molin was a man whose past was elusive and in places very difficult to follow.
Lindman had made notes as the evening progressed. When heâd finished the last file and put it on one side, he looked through his notebook and summarized what heâd discovered.
The most surprising thing as far as Lindman was concerned was that, according to the documents the Ostersund police had requested from the tax authorities, Herbert Molin had been born with a different name. On March 10, 1923, he had come into this world at the hospital in Kalmar and been baptized August Gustaf Herbert. His parents were cavalry officer Axel Mattson-Herzén and his wife Marianne. That name had disappeared in June 1951 when the Swedish Patent and Registration Office allowed him to change his surname to Molin. At the same time he had changed his Christian name from August Gustaf Herbert to Herbert.
Lindman sat staring at the name. Two questions occurred to him immediately. Why had Mattson-Herzén changed his surname and his Christian name? And why Molin, which must be about as common as Mattson? So many people in Sweden had the same surname that changing it was not unusual. But most people who changed their surname did so to escape from a common one and acquire one that nobody else had, or at least one that was not always being mixed up with somebody elseâs.
August Mattson-Herzén was twenty-eight years old in 1951. At the time heâd been serving in the regular army, an infantry lieutenant in Boden. It seemed to Lindman that something must have happened then, that the early 1950s were important years in Molinâs life. There was a series of significant changes. In 1951 he changed his name. The following year, in March 1952, he applied for and received an honorable discharge from the army. He married when he left the army, and had children in 1953 and 1955, first a son christened Herman, and then a daughter, Veronica. He and his wife Jeanette moved from Boden in 1952 to an address in Solna outside Stockholm, RÃ¥sundavägen 132. Nowhere could Lindman find any information about what Molin did to earn a living. Five years passed before he appeared again as an employee, in October 1957, in the local authority offices in Alingsas. He was posted from there to BorÃ¥s, and after the police force was nationalized in the 1960s, he became a police officer. In 1981 his wife filed for divorce. The following year he remarried, but wife number two, Kristina Cedergren, divorced him in 1986.
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Lindman studied his notes. Between March 1952 and October 1957, Herbert Molin earned his living in some way unexplained in the files.
That is a relatively long time, more than five years. And he had changed his name. Why?
When Larsson returned from the break-in in Häggenås, he found Lindman standing by the window looking at the deserted street below. Larsson briefly explained the burglary, no big deal in fact: somebody had stolen two power saws from a garage.
âWeâll get them,â he said. âWe have a pair of brothers in Järpen who specialize in jobs of that kind. Weâll nail them. What about you? What have you found out?â
âItâs quite remarkable,â Lindman said. âI find a man I thought I knew, but he turns out to be somebody else altogether.â
âHow
Â
Â
What had he found? A map, it seemed to him, with large blank patches. A man with a history with large gaps. A man who sometimes strayed from the marked path and disappeared, only to turn up again when least expected. Molin was a man whose past was elusive and in places very difficult to follow.
Lindman had made notes as the evening progressed. When heâd finished the last file and put it on one side, he looked through his notebook and summarized what heâd discovered.
The most surprising thing as far as Lindman was concerned was that, according to the documents the Ostersund police had requested from the tax authorities, Herbert Molin had been born with a different name. On March 10, 1923, he had come into this world at the hospital in Kalmar and been baptized August Gustaf Herbert. His parents were cavalry officer Axel Mattson-Herzén and his wife Marianne. That name had disappeared in June 1951 when the Swedish Patent and Registration Office allowed him to change his surname to Molin. At the same time he had changed his Christian name from August Gustaf Herbert to Herbert.
Lindman sat staring at the name. Two questions occurred to him immediately. Why had Mattson-Herzén changed his surname and his Christian name? And why Molin, which must be about as common as Mattson? So many people in Sweden had the same surname that changing it was not unusual. But most people who changed their surname did so to escape from a common one and acquire one that nobody else had, or at least one that was not always being mixed up with somebody elseâs.
August Mattson-Herzén was twenty-eight years old in 1951. At the time heâd been serving in the regular army, an infantry lieutenant in Boden. It seemed to Lindman that something must have happened then, that the early 1950s were important years in Molinâs life. There was a series of significant changes. In 1951 he changed his name. The following year, in March 1952, he applied for and received an honorable discharge from the army. He married when he left the army, and had children in 1953 and 1955, first a son christened Herman, and then a daughter, Veronica. He and his wife Jeanette moved from Boden in 1952 to an address in Solna outside Stockholm, RÃ¥sundavägen 132. Nowhere could Lindman find any information about what Molin did to earn a living. Five years passed before he appeared again as an employee, in October 1957, in the local authority offices in Alingsas. He was posted from there to BorÃ¥s, and after the police force was nationalized in the 1960s, he became a police officer. In 1981 his wife filed for divorce. The following year he remarried, but wife number two, Kristina Cedergren, divorced him in 1986.
Â
Â
Lindman studied his notes. Between March 1952 and October 1957, Herbert Molin earned his living in some way unexplained in the files.
That is a relatively long time, more than five years. And he had changed his name. Why?
When Larsson returned from the break-in in Häggenås, he found Lindman standing by the window looking at the deserted street below. Larsson briefly explained the burglary, no big deal in fact: somebody had stolen two power saws from a garage.
âWeâll get them,â he said. âWe have a pair of brothers in Järpen who specialize in jobs of that kind. Weâll nail them. What about you? What have you found out?â
âItâs quite remarkable,â Lindman said. âI find a man I thought I knew, but he turns out to be somebody else altogether.â
âHow
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