“I don’t know. It’s a hunch. And it doesn’t feel good.”
Aneta Djanali had decided to let Anette Lindsten go; let her go to an independence without a husband and without violence. Anette would find her own way via her detour to her childhood home.
Aneta had started to feel a bit sorry for Sigge Lindsten. The traveler. She smiled as she sat in the car on the way to the police station. He had never explained what it was he sold. Maybe reference books. About English football. That went like hotcakes among old ladies out in the woods. She smiled again. She was also a traveler. How many of her working hours did she spend in her car? An awful lot.
Fredrik honked behind her. She stopped and he took the last parking spot. She would get her revenge. She had to drive around. More time in the car.
They went in through the glass doors. It was Monday morning. Inside, the usual number of unfortunate souls waited to speak to someone. She could see the usual lawyers wander back and forth with the usual facial expressions. The usual binders. She thought of Forsblad. He didn’t work in the court, not in that way.
The unfortunate souls in the waiting room hung their heads. Someone sneezed, someone screamed, someone cried, someone laughed, someone cursed, someone made gestures that could only be made here. Some poor person in a coat with a torn collar stared at the messages on the bulletin boards: Investigators needed in Uddevalla. Yes, thank you. Substitutes on the city squad, temporary positions. Thank you, good sir. I wasn’t planning on staying forever anyway.
Police went in and out through the doors to the stairs and the elevators. Someone waved. Someone dropped something solid on the floor. Someone else picked it up.
This was her life, her world. Was it supposed to be like this? Was there any alternative? Was it better somewhere else? Which other paths were there?
She suddenly thought of Gabin Dabire’s music; she played it more and more often, and other music from Burkina Faso; folk music from the Lobi, Gan, Mossi, and Bisa people, and from the surrounding countries. Mali, of course, but also Ghana, Niger. The music was like paths, or like people who walked on the paths with a rhythm that everyone who listened had to follow.
“I’ll buy you coffee,” said Halders.
“The coffee is free here,” she said.
“It’s the thought that counts,” he said.
The elevator stopped. Mollerstrom was coming down the hall.
“A man was asking for you,” he said. “He just called.”
“Who was it?”
“Sigge something,” said Mollerstrom. “I have the number.”
“I have it myself,” she said, going into the office she was sharing with Halders while they renovated their floor. It would be finished before the new century was over, if everything went well. She dialed the Lindstens’ number. The childhood home.
“We’re not really rid of him, it seems,” said Lindsten in his calm way.
“What happened?”
“He’s calling and threatening.”
“Threatening? Threatening Anette?”
“Yes, her, and me too if we don’t put Anette on the phone. He screamed at my wife.”
“May I talk to Anette a little?”
“She’s… asleep, I think.”
“Should I come over right away?”
“Then I heard her cell phone ring,” said Lindsten, as though he hadn’t heard Aneta.
“Yes?”
“I think it was him.”
“She should probably turn it off.”
“Yes. I’ve told her so.”
“Forsblad told me he was able to borrow a key from her. To the apartment,” said Aneta.
“She told me. It seems he had to get something.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. But he must have been the one who gave it to the people who cleaned out the place,” said Lindsten.
“I got it from him. Rather, he threw it at me.”
“Keys can be copied,” said Lindsten.
“Could you ask Anette to call me when she wakes up?” said Aneta.
“Yes.”
“I want her to call.”
“So what can you do?”
“I want to talk to her first,” said Aneta.
“No one here is making anything up,” said Lindsten.
She heard the dog let out a bark in the background.
“I didn’t think you were,” she said.
Aneta waited for a call that didn’t come. She called the Lindstens, but no one answered. She looked up. Halders had entered the room.
“No one is answering at the Lindstens’. I don’t like this. Something isn’t right.”
She told him about the conversation she’d just had with Sigge Lindsten.
“We can go over there, if you want to,” said Halders.
“I don’t know… I’ve knocked at their door once before. Without an invitation.”
“The guy did call you. That’s as good as an invitation.”
“Okay.”
No one opened the door when they rang the doorbell. There was no car in the driveway.
“Flown the coop,” said Halders.
A car drove by slowly down on the street, behind them. Aneta turned around. The windows were tinted and the sun was at such an angle that the driver was only a silhouette. Halders had also turned around.
“Visitors?” said Halders.
“Can’t you go down and check?” she said.
“Scared?”
“I don’t like this,” she said.
She watched Fredrik walk down to the street. He stood next to the gate, authoritatively, as though he demanded that those in question drive by again, just as slowly.
The car returned. She thought she recognized it. Halders stepped out onto the sidewalk. The car sped up and drove away, to the south. Halders had not raised his hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was in plainclothes, as he had once put it. With emphasis on plain, Winter had retorted. Now she saw him dig out a notebook and write something.
He came back.
“I didn’t see a face, but I have the license plate number. Do you want me to call it in?”
“Yes, why not.”
“Now?”
Aneta didn’t answer.
“Now?” Halders repeated.
“Did you see that curtain move?” she said.
“Where? Nope.”
“The window in the gable. The curtain moved.”
“Did you ring the bell again?”
“Yes.”
“Then the girl has probably woken up,” said Halders.
“She should have woken up before,” said Aneta.
Halders went over to the window. He had to dodge the tall weeds that were growing under some spruce trees
