Page 105 of The Living and the Dead

“Why?”

“I’m not really sure. It just happened.”

The professor’s talk went on for forty-five minutes. Then he stopped abruptly—perhaps he’d been living according to the university timetable up in Stockholm for so long that it was part of his internal clock now.

“Right,” he said. “That’s that. Thank you.”

Now and again, Ardelius had looked up from his notes to search the sea of faces. He’d squinted up at the corner where Lundström sat and seemed to nod in recognition. Sander couldn’t tell if the professor recognized him too.

There was a Q&A period. By the time that was over, it was almost eight thirty and the audience was quick to exit the auditorium. Sanderhovered behind Lundström, who walked down the steps and approached the podium. A bright gleam in those cool, intelligent eyes.

“John,” Ardelius said. “Good evening. I’m so glad to see you.”

Lundström offered his hand. The old man took it warmly between his own.

“It’s been ages.”

“Yes, perhaps it has. Time is strange, when you’re old.”

While they chatted, Sander lingered nearby, waiting. After a moment, the professor turned to look straight at him. Sander stepped forward.

“I just wanted to say hello. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Ardelius squinted behind thick glasses. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Eriksson,” he said hesitantly. “Sander.”

The old man took him in, his face unchanging. Sander wanted to vanish from sight, hide his blazing cheeks and his darting gaze.

“Did you study with me?”

“I never got the chance. But I was going to, it was my plan to.”

“I see,” the professor said uncertainly. “Oh, of course, that’s right.” He smiled faintly. “Now I remember.” Whether he was just saying it or whether he truly remembered Sander was impossible to say. He smiled wearily and all at once he seemed to long for his hotel bed. “Have a good evening. Thanks for coming, both of you.”

Sander went home to Snöstorp and Backavägen, Olivia and the children, his mind somehow at ease, relieved of a burden he hadn’t even known he was carrying. No one missed him out there in the great big world. Maybe it was just as well that he had stayed.

78

Two dead Söderström brothers and their equally dead friend Killian Persson, in the midst of a tough summer that never seemed to end. More than twenty years had passed—it was such a long time, and even so it took nothing more than death to bring all three together again. That was how Vidar saw them: three coins tossed into a vast darkness.

He sat in his office with Lillemor Söderström’s photo album on the desk before him. Pages of milestones and rites of passage: birthdays, last days of school, holidays, dinners. Ordinary moments. A boy, probably Mikael, beaming proudly atop a small motocross bike.

Another picture was labeled “Inga-Lill, 42!” Jakob Lindell’s mother’s birthday. It must have been a lovely autumn day. The sun was shining. The photograph showed a long table outdoors, set with a white tablecloth, plates and glasses, yet-unopened bottles. A salad covered in aluminum foil waited on the table. Two women were just bringing out a platter of meat.

As he turned the page, his phone vibrated in his pocket. When he saw the name on the screen, he realized he hadn’t expected to hear from her.

“Hello there.”

“I’m calling about your binder,” said Siri’s cool voice in his ear, skipping the pleasantries. “I was just browsing through it. Thereshould be documents from the investigation into the burglary at the Lindells’, but maybe you just haven’t gotten that far yet?”

Vidar went over to the boxes. “I don’t know, I didn’t see any.”

“They might be in a separate binder. Gerd and I combined the investigations, as I recall, because we suspected they were related, the homicide and the break-in. That’s all I wanted to ask. You can pick up your binder whenever,I—”

“Hold on.”

Vidar lifted a box onto the desk and began to search through it. Nothing in the first box.