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open. It was midday when Lindman entered his office. He was just finishing a telephone call, and Lindman waited. Olausson slammed down the receiver, produced a handkerchief, and blew his nose.
    â€œThey want me to give a lecture,” he said, with a laugh. “Rotary. They wanted me to talk about the Russian Mafia, but there is no Russian Mafia in BorÃ¥s. We don’t have any Mafia at all. So I turned ’em down.” He gestured to Lindman that he should sit down.
    â€œI just wanted to let you know that my doctor’s certificate has been extended.”
    Olausson stared at him in surprise. “But you’re never sick?”
    â€œI am now. I have pains in my throat. I’ll be out for another month. At least.”
    Olausson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “A month sounds like a long time for a sore throat, don’t you think?”
    â€œIt was the doctor who signed the certificate, not me.”
    Olausson nodded. “Police officers do catch cold in the autumn,” he said. “But I get the impression that the criminal classes never get the flu. Why do you think that is?”
    â€œMaybe they have better immune systems?”
    â€œThat could be. Perhaps that’s something we should let the commissioner know about.”
    Olausson didn’t like the national commissioner. Nor did he think much of the justice minister. He didn’t like any superiors, for that matter. It was a standing joke in the BorÃ¥s police force that some years ago a Social Democratic justice minister had visited the town to open the
new district court, and at the dinner afterwards had gotten so drunk that Olausson had to carry him up to his hotel room.
    Lindman stood up to leave. “I read that Herbert Molin was murdered the other day.”
    Olausson stared at him in surprise. “Molin? Murdered?”
    â€œIn Harjedalen. He lived up there, it seems. I saw it in one of the evening papers.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œI don’t remember which one.”
    Olausson accompanied him out into the corridor. The evening papers were piled up in reception. Olausson found the article and read what they’d written.
    â€œI wonder what happened,” Lindman said.
    â€œI’ll find out. I’ll call our colleagues in Ostersund.”
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    Lindman left the police station. The drizzle seemed determined to keep falling forever. He waited in line at the wine shop and eventually took home two bottles of an expensive Italian wine. Before he’d even taken off his jacket he opened one of the bottles and filled a glass that he proceeded to empty in one gulp. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over a kitchen chair. The telephone answering machine in the hall was blinking. It was Elena, wondering if he would like to come by for dinner. He took his glass and the bottle of wine with him into the bedroom. The traffic outside was reduced to a faint buzz. He lay down on the bed with the bottle in his hand. There was a stain on the ceiling. He’d lain in bed the night before staring at it. It looked different by day. After another glass of wine he rolled over onto his side and fell asleep without further ado.
    It was nearly midnight when he woke up. He’d slept for nearly eleven hours. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He stared into the darkness. The curtains kept out any light there was in the street.
    His first thought was that he was going to die.
    Then he decided that he would fight it. After the next set of tests he would have three weeks in which to do whatever he liked. He’d spend that time finding out all there was to find out about cancer. And he’d prepare for the fight he was going to put up.
    He got out of bed, took off his shirt, and tossed it into the laundry basket in the bathroom. Then he stood at the window overlooking Allégatan. Outside the Varvaren Hotel garage a few drunken men were
arguing. The street was