by Håkan Nesser
‘Why should it be odd?’
‘He hadn’t even got her phone number written down.’
‘What are you driving at, Ebba?’
‘I’m not driving at anything. I’m just saying I think it seems odd.’
‘Do you think Jenny’s got something to do with Henrik’s disappearance?’
Ebba gave a dejected shrug. ‘I don’t know. It’s all so horribly weird, the whole thing. And where does Robert come into the picture?’
Kristina sighed. ‘Ebba, please, this is getting us nowhere. As you say, what happened is incomprehensible. It was incomprehensible then, and it’s just as incomprehensible now. There’s no point rooting around in it any more, can’t you see? We’ve got to move on with what’s left, concentrate on other things – if we ever find out what happened to Robert and Henrik, it won’t be because of anything we’ve done or not done. You’ve got to put your energy into going forwards, Ebba, not backwards.’
‘So what you’re saying is that you don’t want to help?’
‘I can’t help, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘But what do you think then, Kristina? You can confide that much in me, surely? What do you really think happened to Robert and Henrik?’
Kristina leant back in her basket chair and regarded her sister with a look of . . . well, what, Ebba wondered. Pity? Rejection? Boredom?
‘I don’t think anything, Ebba, dear. I don’t think anything at all.’
‘Are they alive? Can’t you at least tell me if you think either of them is still alive?’
Her voice scarcely held, it was little more than a whisper. Kristina once again had that look in her eyes that was so hard to interpret, and now she was holding on hard to the arms of her chair, too; for a few seconds, it looked as though she couldn’t make her mind up.
Whether to get to her feet or not. Whether to answer or not. In the end, she took a deep breath, relaxed and let her shoulders go slack.
‘I think they’re dead, Ebba. It would just be stupid to go round imagining anything else.’
There were ten seconds of silence.
‘Thank you,’ said Ebba. ‘Thank you for letting me talk to you, anyway.’
Kristina stood at the window, watching as her sister went out of the gate. Even once Ebba had disappeared out of sight along Musseronvägen, she did not feel able to move. An icy paralysis spread from the soles of her feet all the way to the top of her head, and soon her field of vision started to contract too; she was conveyed backwards through a rapidly shrinking tunnel, and the second before she fainted, she managed to soften the fall a little by bending her knees and leaning forwards.
She came round on the hall floor some time later, crawled on hands and knees to the toilet and threw up. Went on vomiting as if it were not just the contents of her stomach that had to be ejected, but everything else as well. Her guts, her internal organs, life itself.
Her unborn child.
But she did not crack. She found unexpected strength from somewhere, the child clung on, she splashed her face with cold water, pulled a brush through her hair, stood up straighter, looked at herself in the mirror. I pulled it off, she thought in surprise. I did it.
Then she returned to the verandah. Cleared away the coffee pot, cups and cake.
She threw the slender orchid in the rubbish bag and took it out to the bin. All traces eradicated.
29
The evening tabloids were having a field day.
TV STAR KILLED AND DISMEMBERED
said the front page of one.
WANKER ROB BODY PARTS FOUND IN FREEZER
shouted the other. A total of sixteen pages was devoted to the story, and if the reality TV show Fucking Island had started to fade from popular memory, it was now fished up to became the focus of renewed attention. To the delight of some and the horror of others, presumably. The coverage – in both papers – also featured the sad news that Miss Hälsingland 1995, who almost precisely nine months earlier and together with ice hockey stud ‘Gherkin’ Johansson had hit the jackpot of 3.1 million kronor and should have been giving birth just about now to the fruit of the couple’s happy union, had miscarried in February, and at the same time had left Gherkin for a singer in a Goth hard rock band from Skene, just twenty and covered in tattoos.
While he was snatching a belated, quarter-hour lunch – comprising a cheese and ham roll, a banana and a small apple juice – Gunnar Barbarotti flicked through both newspapers and then threw them into the wastepaper basket in frustration.
‘Well we’re not being overlooked, that’s for sure,’ observed Eva Backman, coming through the door at that moment. ‘What time is the press conference?’
‘In fifteen minutes. Have you had time to look at the interviews?’
Eva gave a shrug. ‘Just a quick glance. There doesn’t seem to be anything.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not at first sight, at any rate.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
Eva Backman sat down. ‘We’ve talked to three, but there are two more who might have something relevant to say. There’s evidently quite a high staff turnover. At any event, these three think a greater level of institutional care would have been desirable for Jane Almgren.’
‘Really?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Well I believe I would have come to the same conclusion.’
‘But with the politicians having reformed all psychiatric care out of existence, there was nothing to be done, they claim. On the other hand, there’s nothing in Jane Almgren’s pathology that indicated . . . well, her being this insane.’
‘Not particularly unexpected opinions, then?’
‘Hardly. The fact that she had previously tried to kill her family was of no great relevance, one of them thought. Excellent medication had brought all that under control.’
‘Aha? And if she didn’t take her medication . . . ?’
‘Well it’s nothing anyone else can be blamed for, in that case. Anyway, the way I see it is that we’ll get nowhere if we start looking for scapegoats and attacking the care system. Actually . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Actually, I don’t have much clue what we ought to focus our attention on. We’ve found the murderer, after all. But what do you think, Mr Inspector? The case is solved.’
Gunnar Barbarotti shuffled a drift of paperwork off the edge of the desk to make room for his elbows. He put his head in his hands. ‘Not exactly solved, perhaps,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re forgetting we have an unidentified victim.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Eva Backman, popping two bits of chewing gum into her mouth and starting to chew thoughtfully. ‘Who do you think he is? Or was?’
‘Good question,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, picking up a piece of paper that had escaped the desk clearance. He glanced through it swiftly. ‘According to Wilhelmsson, what we have is a male individual aged thirty-five to forty. Presumably a pretty rootless character. Lousy teeth, signs of needle use . . .’
‘Yes, I heard. A junkie, basically. How long had he been in the freezer?’
‘A long time. Maybe even longer than our friend Robert. It’ll take a few days for us to get an answer on that little detail.’
‘Do you think there’s a link?’
‘How do you mean, a link?’
‘Between him and Robert.’
Gunnar Barbarotti scratched his head. ‘How the hell should I know? They both knew Jane Almgren, I suppose. There’s one link for you, at least.’
Eva Backman gave a quick smile. ‘Now, now, constable, no need to be petty. Let’s just be glad that at least we have a murderer. Even if she’s dead. It feels a bit back-to-front, don’t you think? The jigsaw is finished even though it’s missing a piece.’
‘Finished?’ snorted Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘What the hell are you on about? We have – listen up now – we have good grounds for assuming that Jane Almgren killed Robert Hermansson. On equally good grounds, we can assume she dismembered him and put him in the freez
er. Along with some other guy, who was presumably already there. As far as I understand it, that’s all we know with any certainty. We’ve got a thousand questions and only one answer, namely that the murderer’s name was Jane Almgren. And we’re not even sure of that, incidentally, so if you think—’
‘Calm down,’ interrupted Backman. ‘I just mean that it’s unusual for us to know the perpetrator’s name before we know the victim’s. It’s usually the other way round. But I’m absolutely clear on the fact that Henrik Grundt still has to be considered missing.’
‘Good,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘On that point, we’re in agreement.’
‘And we will find out who Robert’s roommate was, I’m convinced of that. There are a few hundred people reported missing who are awaiting our attention . . . but you must still agree that we’ve come a bit further along the road, thanks to Jane Almgren?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ sighed Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But the road to where? To hell, or what?’
Eva Backman threw her chewing gum into his bin and stood up.
‘Just trying to cheer you up a bit,’ she said. ‘But it’s a waste of time, I can tell. Good luck with the press conference. I think you ought to toddle off now. Remember not to gnash your teeth, it makes a bad impression.’
Gunnar Barbarotti struggled into his jacket and accompanied her through the door.
‘If that bald idiot from GT turns up, I’ll throttle him,’ he declared grimly.
‘Fine by me, supercop,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I can chop him up and freeze him for you if you’re too busy.’
A woman shouldn’t really be talking like that, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, but he didn’t say it out loud.
By the time he got home that evening it was ten thirty and Sara was sitting in the kitchen with a Frenchman. His name was Yann and he had stopped off in Kymlinge on his way back from the North Cape to Paris. They were travelling in a revamped old Volkswagen camper van, Sara told him, four young men from Paris – they had met at the outdoor cafe of the city hotel, where Sara had been with a few other girls, friends of hers, in this final refrain of the summer holidays, and she had invited Yann home for a cup of tea because she liked him.
Gunnar Barbarotti, who had about twenty words of French and a thirteen-hour working day to his name, muttered an inspired ‘Bon soir’, and tried to smile at the young Adonis. He could see Sara appreciated his discomfort, but she didn’t do anything to mitigate it.
Instead, she said, ‘A woman rang.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes. She said her name was Marianne and that you knew each other. She was ringing from Helsingborg. She sounded nice. You must have forgotten to tell me about her, Daddyo.’
‘No, I . . .’
‘I told her you were still at work, and she said she might ring back later.’
The French boy said something he didn’t catch and Sara laughed. Gunnar Barbarotti ventured a cautious ‘Salut!’ and left the kitchen.
If he’s still there in half an hour I’ll throw him out, he decided as he stood in the shower. Coming here on the prowl in his Frenchy way.
And she did ring. He had just crawled into bed and she apologized for ringing so late.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Gunnar Barbarotti assured her. ‘I hadn’t managed to get to bed.’
‘I thought as much. I saw you on TV. You looked so good that I started missing you. And you come across as really intelligent, did you know that? How are you?’
Gunnar Barbarotti swallowed. A warm Mediterranean night beneath a clear and starlit sky came washing over him without warning. A terrace with mattresses on the ground – and ouzo glasses and olives and a naked woman with pendulous breasts riding him . . . oh God!
‘Fine,’ he croaked. ‘How about you?’
‘Good. But I’m missing you, as I said.’
We had an agreement not to be in touch for a month, he thought. It’s been barely two weeks.
But it seemed a bit petty to point it out. Eva Backman had called him petty.
‘Wouldn’t mind seeing you, either,’ he heard himself say. ‘Though I’ve got a lot on at work at the moment.’
‘Yes, I realize,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to call and wish you good night. And remind you of my existence.’
‘I remember, I remember,’ he assured her, a little poetically.
‘So if I were to ring you on Saturday and suggest a date, you wouldn’t say no?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Sleep well, Marianne.’
An hour and a half later, he still hadn’t got to sleep. As far as he could judge, the French boy had left, and what was preying on Gunnar Barbarotti’s mind was the possibility that Sara had gone with him. But he didn’t want to go and check; there hadn’t been a sound from either the kitchen or her bedroom for the last twenty minutes – but then nor had he registered the front door opening and closing. Bloody hell, he thought. What if his own daughter were at this very minute being seduced in her bed by a pretty-boy frog!
It was more than he could bear. He was well aware that Sara was in fact eighteen, and that he had made his own sexual debut at sixteen. But that was irrelevant, and his own experience was not one he would have wished on his beloved daughter.
On the other hand, nor did he want to subject her to him sticking his head round the door as she lay naked in the arms of a French . . . Christ, he thought. This is driving me crazy. I’m as primitive as a male gorilla and as bigoted as I don’t know what. Who am I to go interfering in her life? Just now I was watching a film in my mind of a naked woman sitting astride me. It would be nothing but totally normal if—
Ponytail! He had a ponytail, that Yann. If there was one thing Gunnar Barbarotti couldn’t stand, it was men with ponytails. It was simply—
You’re talking crap, protested his superego. You’re a jealous, overprotective father! Don’t interfere in your daughter’s life, she’s not a minor any more!
And so it went on. Half-formed and mildly hysterical thoughts ran riot in his head, but in the midst of this desperate mental wrestling, he suddenly heard that click, the front door. He sat up in bed and strained his ears . . . it was . . . it was Sara coming in. Just one person? He listened even more intently, trying to evaluate the sounds from the hall.
Yes, just one.
Good. He gave a sigh of relief. Sara had gone with the Frenchman, for a little walk. They had parted outside his camper van and she had allowed him to kiss her on the cheek. They had promised to keep in touch, exchanged email addresses, and by tomorrow morning he would be on the motorway down through Denmark and Germany. Excellent.
Gunnar Barbarotti looked at the time. Twenty to one. Now I’m going to lie on my back with my hands folded and think about the Jane Almgren case until I fall asleep, he decided.
That took another forty-five minutes, and there were still just as many question marks when he dozed off as when he started. But at least he had listed them in his mind, which was something.
And counted them. There were four. Hundreds of smaller ones of course, but really only four big ones.
The first was to do with the connection between Jane Almgren and Robert Hermansson. Although it was now a day and a half since Linda Eriksson had made her macabre discovery in her sister’s flat in Fabriksgatan, they hadn’t identified any link.
Always assuming there was one. Perhaps they’d merely run into each other in the town that night and Jane had picked him up and taken him home. Killed and dismembered him. There were indications that this could be the case, and he had a sense that Eva Backman was thinking along the same lines. Jane had certainly lived in Kymlinge in an earlier phase of her life. That was some years ago – while Robert Hermansson was still living at home with his parents in Allvädersgatan. But they were never at the same school, and moreover, Robert was two years older – and of the people they had talked to so far, nobody could think of anything to connect them.
Perhaps, thought Gunnar Barbarotti as he lay there stari
ng up into the darkness, listening to a shower of rain that was passing over and tapping on the metal windowsill, perhaps she simply recognized him from TV? Could it be as vile as that? Could that be what had landed him in hot water?
Assuming she had deliberately selected him, that is. Perhaps it was entirely random that he was the one; he had already explored the thought. One had to bear in mind that she wasn’t normal.
Anyhow, question number two. The other man? Who was he? Was there any connection between him and Robert Hermansson? Between him and Jane? And when had he died? It seemed reasonable to assume that Robert had ended his days some time around 20 December – but what about his equally deep-frozen companion in misfortune? How long had he been there? That would take a few days to investigate, but in a week or so they ought to be able to determine it.
A junkie? Had Robert Hermansson been in such a bad state that he, too, came into that category? Barbarotti didn’t think so; there was nothing to indicate that he had used drugs to any great extent, and it would have been pretty astonishing if they had managed to miss anything like that after eight months of digging around in his life.
Assuming there was any point at all in looking for things the freezer chums had in common, that is.
Number three – Gunnar Barbarotti had always liked making lists; in his younger days he had kept exercise books full of notes on all manner of things: players in the Swedish football league, Italian cities, astronauts, African animals, the world’s tallest buildings, assassinated heads of state – so now, number three: Why?
That was an extraordinarily important question – but he wondered whether they would ever get an intelligible answer to it. An answer to why anyone murdered two men, chopped them up and kept them in a freezer. Well, the motive must presumably be pretty well hidden in the perpetrator’s darkest inner recesses. As usual. It was nothing a simple detective inspector had any chance of understanding and taking in. And when she also happened to be dead, as in this case, there was no option of questioning her – and probably, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, probably it was just as well not to know.
