The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

of his legs…
     
    The only plan that made sense to Chief Inspector Aronsson was to continue his journey in the same direction Boss Gerdin had taken just over half an hour earlier. There was of course no hope of catching up with the Never Again leader, but something interesting might turn up on the road. Besides, Växjö wasn’t so very far away, and the chief inspector needed to find a hotel so he could think through the situation and get a few hours’ sleep.
    After some time, Aronsson spotted the wreck of a new BMW X5 wrapped round a fir tree. At first, Aronsson wasn’t surprised that Gerdin had crashed, considering the speed with which he had left Lake Farm. But a closer look suggested a different story.
    First, the car was empty. It was full of blood on the driver’s seat, but there was no driver anywhere to be seen.
    Second, the right-hand side of the car seemed to be unnaturally dented, and here and there were signs of yellow paint. Something big and yellow had rammed the car at full speed.
    ‘For example, a yellow 1992 Scania K113,’ Chief Inspector Aronsson murmured to himself.
    This was hardly a difficult inference to make, and it became easier when it turned out that the number plate of the yellow Scania was firmly impressed into the right back door of the BMW. Aronsson only had to compare the numbers and letters with what the Vehicle Licensing Authority said about the change of ownership to have his suspicions confirmed.
    Chief Inspector Aronsson still couldn’t fathom what was actually going on. But one thing seemed more and more clear, however incredible: centenarian Allan Karlsson and his entourage seemed to be pretty accomplished at killing people and then spiriting away their corpses.

Chapter 13
    1947–48
    Allan had most certainly experienced more comfortable nights than those he spent lying on his stomach in the back of a truck on the road to Tehran. It was cold, and there was no specially treated goats’ milk to warm him up. And that would have been difficult anyway because his hands were tied behind his back.
    No wonder Allan felt pleased when the journey was over. It was late afternoon when the truck stopped outside the main entrance of a large brown building in the middle of the capital.
    Two soldiers helped the stranger to his feet and brushed off the worst of the dirt. Then they loosened the ropes that had tied Allan’s hands and picked up their rifles to guard him.
    If Allan had mastered Farsi, he would have been able to read where he had ended up on a little yellow sign by the entrance. But he couldn’t. And he couldn’t care less. More important to him was whether anyone was going to serve breakfast. Or lunch. Or preferably both.
    But, of course, the soldiers knew exactly where they had brought the suspected communist. And when they pushed Allan through the doors, one of the soldiers said goodbye to Allan with a grin and a ‘good luck’ in English.
    Allan thanked him for the good wishes even though he realised they were meant ironically, and then he thought that he probably needed to pay attention to his surroundings now.
    The officer in the group that had arrested Allan formally handed his prisoner over to somebody of equivalent rank. When Allan was properly registered, he was moved to a holding cell down a nearby corridor.
    The holding cell was pure Shangri-La compared with what Allan had been used to recently. Four beds in a row, double blankets on each bed, an electric light in the ceiling, a washbasin with running water in one corner and in the other an adult-size bucket with a lid. Allan also received a decent-sized bowl of porridge and a whole litre of water to satisfy his hunger and quench his thirst.
    Three of the beds were unoccupied, but in the fourth lay a man on his back, with his hands clasped and his eyes closed. When Allan arrived, the man woke from his slumber and got up. He was tall and thin and had a white clerical collar, a contrast to his otherwise black clothing. Allan held out his hand to introduce himself and said that unfortunately he didn’t know the local language. Did the clergyman perhaps speak a word or two of English?
    The man in black explained that he did, since he was born and bred in Oxford, and educated there too. He introduced himself as Kevin Ferguson, an Anglican priest who had been in Iran for twelve years searching for lost souls to recruit to the true faith. And where did Mr Karlsson stand?
    Allan answered that in a purely physical