The Darkest Day

by Håkan Nesser

  The nineteen-year-old boy had – for some unknown reason – left his bed and his room during the night between Tuesday 20 and Wednesday 21 December. Probably not before 1 a.m. – when his brother Kristoffer, who was sharing the room, went to sleep – and definitely not after 6.15 a.m., when Rosemarie Hermansson got up and would have heard anyone moving around upstairs.

  Why? Well, neither his grandmother nor his grandfather had any idea. It would be best to ask the boy’s parents and brother about that. For their part, they just felt desperate and very confused.

  Inspector Barbarotti said he entirely appreciated their feelings, but they should still not give up hope of a positive outcome. Before rounding off his conversation with Mr and Mrs Hermansson, he asked them if either could see any kind of link between the two strange disappearances.

  None at all, they said. On that point, husband and wife were touchingly unanimous.

  ‘My parents have taken this very hard, I hope you understand that.’

  Ebba Hermansson Grundt had asked to speak to him alone. He knew she was a senior surgical consultant, but she was also the sister of one of the missing and the mother of the other. It was rather odd for her to start by referring to her parents.

  ‘I do understand that,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’ve just been talking to them.’

  ‘Especially Mum, as I’m sure you noticed. She hasn’t slept all night. I tried to get her to take a sleeping pill last night, but she refused . . . she’s pretty close to going over the edge. But perhaps you could see that?’

  ‘It’s a very normal reaction in situations like this, isn’t it?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘How are you feeling yourself?’

  Ebba Hermansson Grundt sat bolt upright in her chair and breathed in slowly through flared nostrils a few times before answering. As if she had to run a check on herself before she could deliver the correct reply. ‘I feel the same,’ she said. ‘But it would be much worse if I lost control.’

  ‘You’re used to keeping it?’

  She studied him, perhaps looking for signs of criticism or irony. Evidently, she found none, because she replied: ‘I’m not unfeeling, if that’s what you think. But for Mum and Dad’s sake – and for Kristoffer’s – I’m trying to hang on to some optimism.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘For his sake, too.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti nodded. That wasn’t really what he had asked. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for the well-balanced, well-toned woman sitting opposite him. She was forty years old, had two children and was a senior consultant. A very onerous job; it must have taken its toll, but even so, his guess would have been more like thirty-five.

  ‘I do understand,’ he reiterated. ‘But I’m sure you realize I have to subject you to a few questions nonetheless.’

  ‘Go ahead, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Inspector. I’m only a detective inspector.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Please don’t apologize. Anyway, first of all I’d like to know whether you see any kind of connection between these two disappearances. Is there anything to indicate that they’re linked in any way?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve been thinking about that nonstop for twenty-four hours,’ she said, ‘but I can’t come up with anything. I mean, it’s strange enough for one person to go missing, but for . . . well, for both of them to vanish into thin air . . . no, it’s utterly incomprehensible.

  ‘Even to me,’ she said after a momentary pause. As if things that were incomprehensible to her mother or husband did not necessarily prove incomprehensible to Ebba Hermansson Grundt herself.

  In this case, however, they were.

  ‘If you’re convinced of that, then I suggest we discuss them one at a time,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, turning the pages of his notebook. ‘Robert first, perhaps? What have you got to say about him?’

  ‘What have I got to say about Robert?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘In general, or as regards his disappearance?’

  ‘Both, perhaps?’ suggested Gunnar Barbarotti tentatively. ‘Can you see any motive he might have had for going off, for example? If we completely exclude your son from consideration for now.’

  Ebba Hermansson Grundt sat in silence for a few seconds, but did not seem to be searching for an answer to the question. It was more a case of deciding what she would and would not tell him, guessed Inspector Barbarotti.

  ‘OK,’ she said eventually. ‘To be completely honest, I thought from the outset that he’d simply gone off to hide.’

  ‘Gone off to hide?’

  ‘Or however you want to put it. Robert’s quite a spineless person. If a situation gets too uncomfortable, he might very well run away. You no doubt know what he got up to this autumn?’

  ‘You mean that television programme?’

  ‘Yes. That more or less says it all, doesn’t it? He’s presumably not been feeling all that great recently, and it wouldn’t be particularly surprising if this family get-together was too much for him. Suddenly having to face up to your closest family, and . . . well.’

  ‘You think he’s somewhere here in Kymlinge?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But his car is still parked outside. He grew up in this town. I’m sure he has a few old acquaintances he could take refuge with.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Why not? But this is all speculation. It could be completely wrong. He must realize how terribly he’s worrying Mum, and I didn’t really expect that of him.’

  ‘Did you talk to him much on Monday night?’

  ‘Scarcely at all. We only had a few hours and it was a full house, so to speak. And besides, my husband and I went to bed fairly early.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She paused before she answered. ‘As one might have expected, I suppose. A mixture of arrogance and insecurity. Of course, he has to try to put a brave face on it, but inside he must have been feeling pretty awful. Dad asked us not to mention that wretched programme, and we didn’t.’

  ‘But you didn’t speak to him alone at any point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anybody else?’

  ‘I think my sister Kristina did. They’ve always . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’ve always been a bit closer than Robert and I have.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti wrote Kristina on his notepad and underlined it twice.

  ‘Rather too much time has passed,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You indicated that Robert could possibly have decided to stay away of his own volition. But he disappeared on Monday night. Today’s Thursday. Don’t you think—’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘And yes, I agree. A few hours or a day, perhaps, but not this long. Something must – something must have happened to him.’

  Her voice quavered slightly and he realized this last conclusion could also have implications for her son. He turned a page in his notepad and decided to move on to disappearance number two.

  ‘Henrik,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about your son for a while instead.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ebba Hermansson Grundt. ‘Just give me two minutes.’

  Her voice was far from steady. She got up and hurried out of the room. Gunnar Barbarotti leant back and looked out of the window. A few flakes of snow had begun to fall. From somewhere in the house came the sound of a radio, a news bulletin. But the doors of the living room had been carefully closed; he had no notion of what the other members of the stricken family were doing to help the minutes pass. And the hours. Poor devils, he thought involuntarily. This can’t be easy.

  Then he poured himself some more coffee and tried to get some glimmer of a sense of the direction this case might be heading in.

  None came.

  18

  ‘No, I’ve no idea where Henrik is. Can’t even hazard a guess. It defies all reason.’

 
She was composed again, but he assumed she had been crying. The two minutes had turned into five and her face looked as if she had just washed it.

  ‘Does Henrik know anybody here in Kymlinge besides his grandparents?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, but no more than a centimetre in each direction. ‘None at all. Henrik has only been here seven or eight times in his life, at most. Never for more than a few days. He doesn’t know a soul in this town.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that?’

  ‘As sure as it’s possible to be.’

  ‘So Henrik is nineteen. He’s been studying law at Uppsala for a term. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about him?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I just want to get a general picture. Is he conscientious? Calm or nervous? Interests? Do you get on well with each other?’

  She swallowed and nodded. Wiped something from the outer corner of her eye with the knuckle of her little finger. ‘We’ve always got on well, Henrik and I. He’s conscientious and clever. Things come easily to him . . . whatever they are. Studies, sport, music . . .’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Has he got friends, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s got lots of good friends, and he’s always been honest with me. I’m – I’m proud of my son, I want you to understand that, Chief Inspector.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti didn’t bother to correct her. He closed his notebook and put it down beside him on the sofa. He put his pen in his breast pocket and clasped his hands round his right knee. It was a practised gesture for creating intimacy, and as usual he felt a slight sense of shame as he performed it.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t really understand,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He must have gone out during the night.’

  ‘Yes, I assume so.’

  Something in her eye irritated her again and he gave her time to wipe it away.

  ‘Can you think of any plausible – or at any rate conceivable – reason why your son would have got out of bed and left his room – and the house – in the middle of the night?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Is he a sleep walker?’

  ‘No. Henrik has never walked in his sleep.’

  ‘Does he have a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes, of course he’s got a mobile. We’ve been ringing him ever since . . . well, ever since he went missing.’

  ‘No reply?’

  ‘No, no reply. Why are you asking about this? You presumably know it already?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti paused briefly. ‘I ask because I can see two conceivable alternatives in front of me.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes, two. Either your son left his room because somebody rang him. Or he had already decided to do it when he went to bed.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Which do you think the most likely?’

  She thought for a few seconds.

  ‘I think them both equally unlikely.’

  ‘Can you think of anything else, that is to say, a third alternative?’

  She frowned and gave a slow shake of the head. A wider movement this time, but still controlled, as if she was very conscious of what she was doing, even at this level.

  ‘To my mind, there can be only one other explanation,’ declared Gunnar Barbarotti, clasping his hand round his left knee for variety.

  ‘And what . . . what could that be?’

  ‘That someone came and abducted him.’

  ‘That’s the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard,’ snorted Ebba Hermansson Grundt. ‘How on earth could anyone abduct a grown—’

  ‘All right,’ interrupted Barbarotti. ‘I just wanted to exclude the possibility. I agree with you that it’s unlikely to have happened that way. How were things for him in Uppsala?’

  The question seemed to catch her unawares.

  ‘In Uppsala? Fine . . . they were fine. Naturally the first term at university is a bit overwhelming, but it’s like that for everybody.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘I sensed you were hinting something wasn’t quite as one might have hoped.’

  She looked at him for a second, her mouth fixed in an irritated line. ‘No, I wasn’t doing that at all,’ she said at length. ‘But, of course, I don’t have insight into everything he may or may not have done in Uppsala. Student life has its ups and downs, that’s all I meant to imply. But perhaps you didn’t—’

  ‘I spent eight terms at Lund,’ Gunnar Barbarotti informed her, and received a swift and slightly surprised glance in return. ‘Has he got a girlfriend, Henrik?’

  She hesitated again. ‘Well, he certainly seems to have met a girl in the course of the term – she’s called Jenny. But she’s never visited us in Sundsvall, so I don’t know how serious it is.’

  ‘Have you ever spoken to her on the phone?’

  ‘Why would I have done that? Henrik only came home twice, all term. Law is a pretty demanding subject, so . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. I did a law degree myself, in Lund.’

  ‘Did you? And then you . . . joined the police?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he remarked. ‘And then I joined the police.’

  She had no further comment to offer on this, but he could see she was struggling to balance the equation. And if there was one message he had picked up from their conversation so far, it was that Ebba Hermansson Grundt liked equations to balance.

  ‘Do you know whether Henrik received any calls while he was here in Kymlinge?’ he asked.

  She thought about it and then gave a shrug.

  ‘I can’t answer that. I can’t remember seeing him on the phone at all. But I didn’t have my eye on him very much. Perhaps Kristoffer could tell you. They were sharing a room, after all, so he should have noticed if Henrik rang anybody or received any calls.’

  ‘I will be talking to Kristoffer and your husband about this,’ Gunnar Barbarotti assured her. He was silent for a few seconds while he watched a little fly come in to land on the green and red tablecloth, evidently unaware that it was December and that it had woken up far too soon. Or too late.

  Then he leant back on the sofa and picked up his notepad again.

  ‘What did he take with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Have you checked what he took with him when he went off? Outdoor clothes? Toothbrush? Phone?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, sorry, I didn’t understand what you meant. Yes, that’s right, his jacket, scarf, gloves and hat are gone. His phone and wallet, too.’

  ‘But his toothbrush is still here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was his bed made?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think that points to?’

  ‘It . . . I suppose it means he intended to come back, of course. Good God, Chief Inspector, it sounds as if you . . . as if you’re interrogating me here. I really hadn’t expected . . .’

  ‘Do excuse me,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But I’m rather interested in the conclusions you draw yourself. I mean, you’re his mother and you probably know Henrik better than anybody else. It would be arrogant of me if I thought I could be clear on the way things stand before you are. Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘If I provoke you a bit, you might think of something important, whereas we don’t get anywhere if I sit here feeling sorry for you.’

  ‘I see,’ she said curtly, but he could tell she agreed with him. Naturally, he thought. Appealing to her maternal feelings and her intellect, he could hardly go wrong.

  ‘So what does it point to?’ he repeated.

  She gave it due consideration this time. Leant her head a little to one side, and he suddenly remembered that a Finnish skier whose name he had forgotten used to do the same in the closing phase of races.

&nbs
p; ‘I understand what you’re saying,’ she resumed. ‘He went off because he had some reason to do so, that has to be it. Possibly he was going to meet someone . . . someone who rang him, perhaps.’

  ‘It doesn’t happen to be the case that this girl . . .’ He had to leaf back through his notepad. ‘. . . Jenny. That she happens to live somewhere in these parts?’

  He could see the thought had never occurred to her. ‘Jenny?’ she exclaimed. ‘No, I think . . . I have the idea she comes from Karlskoga. And why should she . . . ?’

  ‘I agree it sounds a bit far-fetched,’ agreed Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But it needn’t necessarily have been her. It could have been some fellow student, for example. When I was studying in Lund, we came from literally all over Sweden.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Ebba Hermansson Grundt, looking suddenly quite critical. ‘No, I have to say I don’t buy this.’

  Nor me, Gunnar Barbarotti thought gloomily. Nor me. But the question is what to buy otherwise.

  He conducted his conversation with Leif and Kristoffer Grundt straight after their wife and mother had left the room, and afterwards he asked himself if he should have taken a little break and a breath of fresh air first. Neither of them had much to add to what he had already learnt from the three previous informants, but after more than two hours on the sofa in the Hermanssons’ house, he was starting to lose focus a little. If there were things to detect between, or beneath, the words that were actually spoken, he was far from certain that he would be capable of picking them up.

  At least his powers were not so blunted that he could not see his powers were blunted, and with that small comfort in mind, he decided to let it go.

  Anyway, he thought it most unlikely that Leif Grundt was keeping anything to himself that could shed light on the situation. He was a big, powerful man who came across completely differently from his wife and exuded a kind of phlegmatism – or good-naturedness, at any rate. But perhaps that was a conscious ploy: a strategy and modus vivendi. He assumed it was of no significance for the disappearance, but still found himself wondering about the respective roles and balance of power in the Grundt family. It seemed beyond all doubt that the mother, Ebba, was the one in control of things.

  How would he deal with a woman like Ebba himself, thought the inspector, then shook his head, aware of having strayed beyond the bounds of relevance.