by Håkan Nesser
‘Your husband?’
‘Jakob took Kelvin – he’s our son – back to the hotel.’
‘You were staying at Kymlinge Hotel?
‘Yes. There wasn’t room for us all at Mum and Dad’s. We opted to stay at the hotel to make things easier.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But you decided to stay and talk to your brother and nephews, rather than going back to the hotel.’
‘Yes.’
He wondered briefly whether it would be worth digging a bit deeper on this point. Had Kristina and her husband fallen out? Possibly, but he decided to postpone the question until he met her face to face.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And why did you stay?’
‘Because I wanted to talk to them, of course. It was a long time since I’d seen Robert or Henrik . . . or Kristoffer.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘All sorts of things. The sort of things family members talk about when they meet after a long break, I suppose.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Can you give me any examples of those topics of conversation?’
I’m going in too hard, he thought. Why does it always turn into a cross-examination when I’ve been going for a few minutes? She isn’t suspected of anything; I’m only trying to get information out of her.
‘Well . . .’ She hesitated. ‘We talked about various things. You know about Robert, I assume . . . that television programme he was on?’
‘I know about that,’ Gunnar Barbarotti confirmed.
‘He was in a pretty bad state, actually. We talked about that quite a lot, just the two of us. We’ve always been pretty close, Robert and I. He felt ashamed, of course, but he had a bit too much to drink, I suppose he was trying to take the edge off the anxiety . . . well, you know?’
‘Was Robert drunk that evening?’
‘No, not drunk. Well, you might say he was tipsy.’
‘What time was it when he went out?’
‘He said he was going out for a cigarette and a walk. I think it was just after half past twelve.’
‘And that was the last you saw of him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was a bit drunk.’
‘Yes, OK, he was a bit drunk.’
‘What had you all been drinking?’
‘Beer and wine with the meal. A bit of whisky . . .’
‘Were you drunk, too?’
‘No, not particularly.’
‘But a touch?’
‘Yes, perhaps. Is that illegal?’
‘Not at all. But you’re the one who talked to Robert most. You were outside for a while, just you and him, so your mother told me. What did you talk about then?’
She paused before she answered.
‘He was . . . well, he was pretty down. He’d been a bit rude to Mum, as well.’
‘Rude? In what way?’
‘It was nothing really. He was tactless, that’s all. There was a sort of agreement that nobody would say anything about him overstepping the mark in that TV programme, and he thought it felt weird, everybody pretending nothing had happened. He said something a bit coarse.’
‘And you talked to him about that when you were outside, just the two of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Told him to calm down?’
‘No, it was . . . it was nothing as serious as that. But I felt sorry for him. Felt he needed a bit of a chat.’
Gunnar Barbarotti pondered. He reflected that while the telephone was a very practical device in many ways, it also concealed a good deal. Of the person you were talking to. He wished he were sitting at a cafe table with Kristina Hermansson instead.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Is there anything in whatever you and Robert talked about that could offer any hint of where he’s gone?’
There was a deep intake of breath, followed by a heavy sigh. The telephone was able to convey that much, at any rate.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been going over every single word we said, for three or four days now, and there’s nothing, believe me, not a thing, to . . . well, to shed any light on what’s happened. I’m devastated about this, you – you have to understand that . . . both of them . . . Robert and Henrik . . . it . . . it’s . . .’
She started to cry.
‘I’m sorry.’ She was gone for a short while. Gunnar Barbarotti stared out at the falling snow and thought of nothing. Or possibly of wolves. There was something about wolves and snow that went together, somehow.
She was back. ‘I’m sorry. I find – I find it so hard to deal with this. So there’s nothing new to report, then?’
‘I’m afraid not. But we were called in rather late. Robert disappeared on Monday night, and you didn’t contact the police until Wednesday evening, by which time a second person had gone missing. What made you wait so long?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose everybody thought Robert . . . well, that he was deliberately staying away. That he’d gone round to see someone he used to know in Kymlinge, and decided he just couldn’t face the family get-together. That would be . . . understandable, at the very least.’
‘And you thought that, too?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Do you know of any old acquaintances of Robert’s in Kymlinge?’
‘No, I don’t. Mum and I talked about it, but neither of us could come up with any likely candidates . . . and it’s been almost four whole days now.’
‘We shall be looking into all this more closely,’ Gunnar Barbarotti promised. ‘But as you say, why should he stay away so long?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Kristina Hermansson with a sob. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘If we move on to Henrik, your nephew,’ he hastened to say, to divert her from another descent into tears. ‘What did the two of you talk about?’
‘All sorts of things.’
Brilliant answer, he thought.
‘Such as?’
‘What leaving home felt like, amongst other things. Henrik’s started a course in Uppsala, you know – we talked about student life and that sort of stuff.’
‘Do you have a good relationship with your nephews?’
‘Yes, I think so. We’ve always liked each other.’
‘Do you include Kristoffer in that?’
‘Of course.’
‘But it was mostly Henrik you were talking to?’
‘Well, Kristoffer went up to bed at . . . er, about quarter to one, it must have been.’
‘So that left just you and Henrik?’
‘Yes, though we can’t have stayed chatting for more than another fifteen minutes. Then I went back to the hotel.’
‘But you were talking to Henrik on his own for fifteen minutes?’
‘Roughly that. I didn’t look at the time, but it wasn’t all that long.’
‘Right. And you didn’t talk about anything in particular during that time?’
‘No . . . his studies . . . a few old memories. When he and Kristoffer were little . . . that sort of thing.’
‘Thank you. So this was on Monday. How about Tuesday, did you talk to Henrik much?’
‘Hardly at all. That was the actual birthday – Dad and Ebba’s big day – no, I don’t think I exchanged many words with Henrik, actually.’
‘How was he?’
‘Pardon?’
‘How was Henrik? Was he happy? Fed up?’
‘He was fine, I think. He thought it was nice to get away from home – seemed to like it in Uppsala.’
‘Did he mention a girlfriend?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Ebba, my sister, said something about a girl called Jenny, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mention her. Maybe it wasn’t particularly serious.’
‘But he wasn’t depressed?’
‘Depressed? No, I don’t think so. Earnest . . . he was earnest, but he always has been. Why are you asking whether—’
‘And he didn’t say anything that could
explain why he’s gone missing?’
‘No.’
‘Or tell you about any special plans?’
She gave another sigh.
‘Oh please, I’ve thought about this day and night. If anything had occurred to me, I would have told you right away. But it’s as incomprehensible to me as to everybody else. I’ve scarcely slept a wink for two nights now, and—’
‘When did you and your husband go back to Stockholm?’
‘What? When did we . . . er, we went back on Wednesday. First thing, my husband had to get to a meeting, so we left about eight.’
‘And at that point you didn’t know Henrik was missing?’
‘No, we didn’t. Mum rang just after lunch to tell me. I couldn’t believe it was true.’
Hmm, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, that was an opinion with which he could certainly concur. It really was a bit difficult to believe this whole thing was true.
‘Well, thank you very much for this information,’ he said. ‘But I would still like to meet you in person. And talk to your husband as well. When do you think that might be possible?’
They batted dates and times to and fro for a while, and then agreed on the third day of Christmas. Tuesday.
Unless there had been any developments by then, of course; he was careful to underline that.
He had asked for a list of Robert Hermansson’s potential contacts in Kymlinge, and when he got back to Allvädersgatan just after two o’clock, Rosemarie Hermansson had one ready.
It comprised four names.
Inga Jörgensen
Rolf-Gunnar Edelvik
Hans Pettersson
Kerstin Wallander
The two women were former girlfriends, the two men former schoolmates, explained Mrs Hermansson. But they all still lived in the town, so if you think there’s any point, Inspector . . . ?
He didn’t, not really, but he said nothing on that score, only that they would naturally look into the matter. To help him further in his quest, she gave him a class list out of a school catalogue from Robert’s time at upper secondary, so there was nothing for it but to start sorting through and weeding out.
He took both lists and put them in his briefcase. He realized he already had tasks enough to occupy two or three colleagues for two to three weeks, if it came to it, but decided to refer the matter to Asunander. It was not up to Gunnar Barbarotti to decide on workload distribution. He thanked Mrs Hermansson and asked to speak to Kristoffer Grundt. One or two questions had come up as a result of yesterday’s conversations, and he didn’t want to miss anything.
It was important not to miss anything, Rosemarie Hermansson agreed. Would they mind being upstairs? A friend of hers had dropped round and the Grundts were still with them, so they would probably prefer to be somewhere quieter.
Of course, Gunnar Barbarotti assured her. Upstairs would be fine.
Kristoffer Grundt looked like a normal fourteen-year-old today, too. Not that Gunnar Barbarotti was entirely sure how normality manifested itself at that age. Not just at the moment, anyway; it was some years since his time with the police youth task force, and his daughter had turned eighteen. But still. He had read somewhere that fourteen was the most moral of all ages, the time in your life when you could most clearly see what was right and wrong – not that you necessarily acted accordingly, but you had the clear-sightedness. Subsequently, the older you grew, the more obscure things got. They became muddier and harder to determine.
Don’t believe a damn word of it, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, his eyes on the bony youth sitting opposite him.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ said Kristoffer Grundt.
‘I can imagine,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘You don’t much like it here in Kymlinge, do you?’
‘Not much,’ admitted Kristoffer Grundt. ‘But as long as Henrik turns up, then . . .’
‘We’ll do what we can,’ promised Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘That’s why I need to ask you a couple more things. About Henrik, that is. Never mind your uncle for now.’
‘Sure,’ said Kristoffer.
He’s not stupid, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. I must remember that. ‘Well, the way I see it is this,’ he said. ‘When all is said and done, your brother must have left here of his own volition on Tuesday night. We don’t think anyone came and abducted him. So, what’s your take on it, did some idea just pop into his head and make him plunge off into the dark?’
Kristoffer thought for a moment.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that, of course.’
‘So he must have been planning to go,’ went on Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Or he got a phone call from somebody, asking him to go somewhere.’
‘We talked about this yesterday, though.’
‘I know. But things sometimes occur to people afterwards, too. Are you sure you didn’t hear the phone after you went to sleep on Tuesday night?’
‘I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘Even in your sleep, a sound like that can . . . find its way through, so to speak.’
‘Oh? Yes, but I don’t remember hearing anything.’
‘Would you recognize Henrik’s ringtone?’
Kristoffer Grundt thought about it.
‘No, I don’t think I would, actually. I know what he had at home in Sundsvall, but he’s probably changed . . . and he’s got a new phone, too.’
‘And you’ve never heard his mobile ring?’
‘Oh yes, hang on, it did ring once on the way here . . . Mum and Dad haven’t brought their mobiles, but Granddad – or Granny – rang him once. But I don’t remember the ringtone.’
‘Quite a standard one, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not one of those with horses neighing or a church organ or anything like that?’
‘No, I would have remembered it in that case.’
‘All right. We’ll leave that there for now. Let’s imagine instead that Henrik knows he’s planning to go out during the night. Maybe he’s lying there waiting for you to drop off. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I’ve been asking myself is why you didn’t know about it.’
‘What? Why would he have said anything to me?’
‘I didn’t say he must have said something to you. But you should have noticed something.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you were sharing the same room. You must have been with each other almost all the time. You must have talked a lot . . . so, I think you really ought to have something to give me.’
‘But I haven’t anything to give you.’
‘I don’t mean you knew about it in advance. But if you think back, was there really nothing Henrik said or did that might give us some hint of what his plans were?’
‘No.’
‘Not even some tiny detail?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been thinking about this?’
‘I’ve thought about it a lot.’
‘Did he mention the name of anyone here in Kymlinge?’
‘No.’
‘Are you aware of him knowing anyone here except your grandparents?’
‘I don’t think he knows a soul. Why would he? We’ve hardly ever been here. I don’t know anybody.’
Gunnar Barbarotti paused briefly. He felt a fleeting sense of powerlessness and it left its mark on his soul. ‘But there has to be something,’ he said with slow emphasis. ‘I’m sure you agree with me on that? Henrik must have had some sort of plan, and I find it odd that you didn’t notice a single little thing . . . You do understand, don’t you, that all I’m looking for is some tiny hunch.’
He waited another few seconds to give the boy a chance to confirm his suppositions. But Kristoffer just looked down and bit his lip.
‘Something that might sound wholly insignificant when one first hears it, but that might in retrospect turn out to contain a crucial lead. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
Kr
istoffer Grundt nodded. Then he slumped over the table slightly, his empty eyes staring straight ahead. Gunnar Barbarotti leant back and observed him. The most moral of all ages, he wondered again. Either we’ll get something here, or we won’t.
‘Of course I understand what you’re talking about,’ said Kristoffer Grundt finally. ‘But I still can’t think of a single thing.’
So that was that, thought Inspector Barbarotti with a tired sigh.
20
The Christmas bank holidays came and went.
Sara gradually improved. Father and daughter spent Christmas Eve largely in front of the television. The presenter had changed gender and skin colour and was called Blossom. Sara had a comfortable bed on the sofa, while he nested in the armchair or dashed out to the kitchen and back with little treats to keep hunger from the door. Sushi. Black olives. Blinis with sour cream and caviar. He had bought it all in half an hour at the deli stalls in the indoor market, and he periodically offered up grateful thoughts to the existent God while trying to imagine what was being consumed up in Malmberget. He had experienced it once and felt nauseous at the very memory of gnawing on a pig’s trotter for half an hour. After the ritual watching of the Disney cartoons he rang to wish them a Happy Christmas, and heard that Martin had hurt his wrist skiing on Dundret that morning in temperatures of minus twenty-two, but that everything was OK otherwise.
Apart from that, they read the books they’d had for Christmas presents. For Sara that meant Moa Martinson and Kafka, hand in hand in some inscrutable fashion; some school project must presumably be behind it, but he didn’t enquire. And for him, just what he had asked for: Train by Pete Dexter.
The missing persons case was at a standstill. On the surface, at least. Both evening tabloids had covered the story, but in some merciful way it managed to drown in the general Christmas excess. Or perhaps the reality televisionites had such a short half-life that they were forgotten after two months. Was that a blessing to quietly pray for, wondered Gunnar Barbarotti. He had been in touch with Allvädersgatan and had been told that a couple of journalists had rung, and a photographer had been outside, apparently taking shots of the house, but that was all.
He hadn’t discovered anything else useful. The Grundt family stayed on and spent Christmas in the parental home; it would have felt wrong in every way to go up to Sundsvall without Henrik, his mother declared. But sooner or later, if there was still nothing happening, they would of course be obliged to take that step as well.
