The Darkest Day

by Håkan Nesser

  It had stopped snowing and the streets and pavements were a slushy mess. Lots of people and lots of traffic. He suddenly came to a place he recognized. Kreatima? Hadn’t it been called something else when it happened? He thought it had. But anyway, it was a big DIY shop; that certainly tallied. This was where Olof Palme had been shot. Kristoffer stopped. It had happened a few years before he was born, but the location had been pointed out to him at least three times before. Virtually every time he had been in Stockholm.

  The murderer then fled into Tunnelgatan. That was right, wasn’t it? He stared into the narrow passageway. Up the steps, that had been the escape route.

  Back then. And now he was the one about to become a murderer. He lit a cigarette and looked around him. People were scurrying past in all directions. They all seemed to be in a hurry. They all seemed to be on their way somewhere important. Cars sent up a spray of slush. Nobody cared. Nobody spared a thought for the fact that this was where the Swedish prime minister had been murdered. But after all, it was over twenty years ago now. Kristoffer gripped the gun in his jacket pocket. And here am I, he thought, here am I with a pistol in my pocket. If the current prime minister came walking by, I could shoot him, too. I could actually do that. What uproar that would cause.

  It was so damn easy to kill. He had never thought about it before. All he had to do was raise his gun and fire. He took a drag on his cigarette and laughed to himself. You didn’t have to be sick in the head or a terrorist or a drug addict to go out and commit murder; all it took was for you to raise your gun and pull the trigger. A second was all it took to deprive a person of their life, that was the grim truth of it. Just one measly second to put an end to that succession of days and evenings and nights. And it made no difference who was in the bullet’s path. King or beggar. The pressure of an index finger. Then it was over, and it was no help at all if you had a hundred million or were the most famous film star in the world. Or just some poor tramp.

  It was a giddying thought. And pretty unjust, in fact. If I got out my gun and shot that woman in the red jacket and then ran away exactly like Olof Palme’s murderer, thought Kristoffer, nobody would fucking catch me. I’d run like hell for twenty or thirty metres, go up the steps, turn the corner and then just act normal and walk away. He stared into the alleyway again; it would be as easy as anything.

  The woman in the red jacket was slowly approaching and she didn’t look as stressed as most of the others, far from it. She was talking on a mobile phone and laughing. She wasn’t particularly good-looking, thought Kristoffer. Must be getting on for forty though she was trying to look younger. High-heeled boots and tight black jeans. Dyed blonde hair. Maybe she was a prostitute. Why not? Stockholm was teeming with them, everybody knew that. She came towards him and he found himself clutching the pistol in his pocket.

  Now, he thought. I’m going to do it. Right now. A test run on the very spot where Palme was shot, fucking hell!

  ‘Hi there, Gittan!’

  A man came dashing over the crossing. A car braked and gave an angry toot of its horn. The woman stopped.

  ‘Jörgen? What the hell are . . . ?’

  They hugged. Laughed and hugged again. Kristoffer swallowed hard and started walking. Christ, he thought. What the hell is up with me? What am I doing? For a moment there, I almost . . .

  Or maybe he hadn’t come that close after all. Thoughts were one thing, actions another. Maybe there was some sort of barrier inside him. Maybe there was more than one, there might even be a whole bank of barriers that made sure you – you didn’t go through with such acts of madness. Made your finger refuse to obey the order from your brain, for example. Refuse to pull the trigger at the vital moment.

  He went cold all over. What if that was true? He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed it away, although he had only smoked half of it. He started walking again. What if he couldn’t fire when he had Jakob Willnius there in front of him!

  What if his courage failed him? For a few seconds, he felt his fear of such an outcome threatening to smother him, he felt everything going black before his eyes and the sweets and nicotine embraced one another in his stomach – but then, at the critical moment, he heard Henrik’s calm voice deep inside him.

  Take it easy Kristoffer, he said. It’s going to be all right. I’m with you, don’t forget.

  And that was enough. His worries evaporated in a second. Henrik was the important thing, nothing else, and as long as he always kept that in the front of his mind, nothing could go wrong.

  Henrik, his big brother and guiding star. He suddenly found himself thinking of the Brothers Lionheart. Jonathan and Rusty. Well, he hadn’t expected that!

  And here was the Rigoletto, too. He checked his watch. Seven on the dot. The Usual Suspects would be starting in fifteen minutes. He pushed open the glass door and slipped into the warm foyer.

  Detective Inspector Barbarotti felt frustrated.

  He had been lying on his hotel bed and staring up at the ceiling for over an hour. This is how it feels, he thought. This is exactly how it feels, I remember now.

  What he remembered was the problem somebody had dubbed the Detective’s Dilemma – it had doubtless originated on the other side of the Atlantic. One of that hard-boiled generation of writers in the 1940s, probably. Gunnar Barbarotti was not acquainted with a wide variety of detective fiction, but he had read Hammett and Chandler, at any rate. And a Crumley or two.

  The crux of the dilemma lay in two factors.

  First, being in possession of knowledge that was the key to the case one was working on.

  Second, the fact that there was no way of using this knowledge.

  Incompatible, as they said these days.

  Though knowledge was possibly slightly too strong a word, seen in context. In this context. Perhaps it wasn’t such a pure and simple dilemma, when it came to it. For if he had really dared to trust his feeling that there was something suspicious about Kristina Hermansson – something really suspicious – then surely he would have found some way to get to her? Wouldn’t he?

  If only he had put more faith in his intuition.

  There was something up with her, that much was clear. No sane person with nothing to hide would have behaved the way she did during their conversation at the Royal Viking. She had viewed him as . . . well, as an opponent; the conversation had been a sort of trial of strength, and that had been the clincher for him. Why had she been so nervous? Why hadn’t she wanted to help, if it did so happen that there was a new lead in the investigation of her nephew’s case? Wouldn’t the natural thing have been for her, too, to want the murderer caught – if the boy had indeed been murdered? Why was she stalling? Why?

  But here he had to stop and examine himself a little. Perhaps it was his own fault things had gone the way they did. He had brought up the family aspect almost straight away, and an attack directed at the Hermansson-Grundt family was perhaps automatically also perceived as an attack on her. On Kristina. And on her husband. In actual fact, it was perhaps the most natural thing in the world for her to react defensively.

  Because what had he been claiming, after all? What allegation must she have discerned behind his smokescreens?

  That her husband Jakob Willnius had something to do with the disappearance? Wasn’t that exactly what he had been insinuating? Was there any scope whatsoever for alternative interpretations?

  And wasn’t that what he believed, at heart – but was doing his utmost to pretend he didn’t believe?

  Bloody hell, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, getting up from the bed. If I can’t even assess my own motives and reasoning, how can I ever decide what some other person is thinking?

  And what possible reason could Jakob Willnius have had for doing away with the lad? He didn’t even know him, after all.

  A crucial point, undoubtedly. Barbarotti heaved himself into his coat and left the room. It was past seven, and a walk in the slushy snow plus a dinner at some reasonably empty restaurant might clear some of t
he dross out of his skull. He ought at any event to try to dispel that mental image of Klampenberg the prosecutor laughing in his face when he came to present the facts of the case.

  ‘So what have you got for me on this Willnius?’

  ‘His ex-wife alleges he’s most unpleasant, Mr Prosecutor.’

  For God’s sake, no, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets as he came out onto the street. This isn’t going anywhere.

  He didn’t feel remotely hungry, and decided to go for a half-hour walk first. He took the route past the Åhléns store and the square at Sergels torg, and continued northwards. He had just crossed Sveavägen by the concert hall when a film poster caught his eye. The Usual Suspects. It was the Rigoletto cinema.

  He checked his watch. Half past seven. Shame, he thought, it’s been going for quarter of an hour. Wouldn’t have minded seeing that again.

  He shrugged and continued down Kungsgatan to Stureplan. He was starting to feel very cold and realized he had left his gloves and scarf back at his hotel room.

  And the frustration continued to gnaw away at him.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Of course I’m late,’ said Jakob Willnius, hanging up his coat. ‘Zimmerman rejected the whole translation. I don’t know what I pay those wretched scriptwriters for. And it was pretty vital to get it all sorted today, wasn’t it now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you forgotten we’re off to Thailand on Sunday? You don’t suppose I want to leave this in Törnlund or Wessing’s hands, do you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Do you want to eat straight away?’

  ‘No, I want a bloody large Laphroaig first. And I suggest you have one, too.’

  ‘Jakob, I’m seven months pregnant.’

  ‘I know that. I just thought you might need it for your nerves.’

  ‘What do you mean, for my nerves?’

  He went over to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle. ‘Yes, you heard me right. For your nerves. To help you . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To help you watch your step.’

  ‘I don’t really follow.’

  ‘You don’t? Come on, I think you do, really. The thing is, I came past the Royal Viking this afternoon. Zimmerman’s staying there while he’s in town and he needed something from his room. So it must have been about quarter past three, when you were sitting chatting to your girlfriend in there . . . what was she called again?’

  ‘Henriette.’

  Suddenly she wasn’t sure whether that was the right name. Had she said Henriette or Josefin? Both of them existed in real life; she was so bad at lying that she had to rely on old friends even in a situation like this.

  ‘Henriette, right. The funny thing is . . . well, can you guess what the funny thing is?’

  ‘No, I don’t understand. What are you talking about, Jakob?’

  He poured a large whisky before he answered. He put the cork back in with great care and took a gulp. ‘The funny thing is,’ he said, ‘that while I was sitting there in the car waiting for Zimmerman, I saw someone I knew coming out of the hotel. I assume you can’t hazard a guess, even now?’

  She shook her head. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and wished it were a way of killing yourself. Or making yourself invisible.

  ‘That goddamn policeman. The one who rang the other day. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a small whisky? I think we’ll have quite a lot to talk about this evening.’

  41

  Time was really dragging.

  As Kristoffer boarded a train on the green line at T-Centralen metro station, he remembered the strange wish that had come into his mind almost a year ago. When they were all in the car on their way down to Kymlinge and nothing had happened yet.

  His wish to skip a bit of his life.

  If he remembered rightly, he’d fancied skipping three or four days on that occasion. Just so he could get home to Sundsvall and Linda Granberg. Linda Granberg, who had then thrown him over for one of the Niskanen brothers from Liden before moving to Drammen.

  How ridiculously immature he had been back then. And yet it was less than a year ago. But a good deal had happened since, thought Kristoffer Grundt. That was undeniable.

  But right now, on this dark and fateful December evening, at this very moment as the train gave a jolt and moved off again, here he was with the same wish in his head. To be able to skip time. Though this evening, he wasn’t asking so much. Not four days, he could make do with . . . well, two hours, in fact.

  So he was spared the darkness and the cold.

  And the waiting. He was bound to be at the Skogskyrkogården stop by half past nine or ten. Damn, it was way too early. Just think if it had been possible to manipulate the hours a bit, so the time moved on to quarter to twelve instead. That would have been just right, thought Kristoffer. As things stood, he couldn’t go direct to Musseronvägen. Not before midnight. Not even to check the lie of the land, it was too risky. Somebody might see him and remember what he looked like. He couldn’t start the actual break-in until one at the earliest, he had decided. Or maybe not even then, if it turned out that Jakob and Kristina stayed up late. At least an hour from when they put the light out, he had decided. It was important to stick to the plan. As long as you remembered to do that, you didn’t risk making a load of wrong decisions along the way.

  But that meant at least two hours to while away before it was time. It felt like an eternity. He could have spent the whole time on the underground, of course, travelling to and fro between various stations, getting off and on again a few times – but he wasn’t very happy on the underground. He never felt at home. There was an atmosphere of fear and hostility down here, and he didn’t like it.

  Something was hanging in the air that felt as if it might explode at any second. A loud-mouthed gang of kids was making a racket further along the carriage and the guy who had just sat down opposite him was clearly drugged up: a cross-eyed weirdo who kept chewing his lower lip and scratching his wrists. He must have weighed a hundred and fifty kilos, and if the wrong thought happened to pop into his short-cropped head he’d very likely decide to land a punch on Kristoffer. Just for looking cocky or something. Or for obviously being from Norrland.

  I’ll shoot the fucker if he tries it, thought Kristoffer, and a desperate laugh was about to escape his lips.

  He managed to stop it, and decided to pretend to be asleep instead. Presumably nobody could take exception to that? He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. The train braked. A metallic voice announced they had reached Skanstull. Five stations to go, thought Kristoffer. He had memorized them all. Gullmarsplan. Skärmarbrink. Blåsut. Sandsborg. Then Skogskyrkogården. That was where he would get off. Perhaps he could take a stroll round the woodland cemetery itself? Wander amongst the graves for a while? It was a big place, he had heard. Perhaps that was a good way for a murderer to psyche himself up? Test his weapon, even?

  No, that was too much. You don’t go round cemeteries using them for target practice. An amble round while he collected himself, that would have to do. He’d smoke a few cigarettes, buy a hot dog and a chocolate milk somewhere, a bit later on – he had the money – and focus properly. Try to stay warm.

  And then the underpass beneath Nynäsvägen when it got to twelve. Into Old Enskede and then to Musseronvägen. Do you think that’s a good plan Henrik, he asked, directing the question deep inside himself.

  The train began slowing again, another squeal of its brakes, and Henrik replied that it was a bloody good plan.

  There were no official visiting times at the Vassrogga clinic, and social calls were not generally recommended anyway. Unplanned visits from the outside world were considered disruptive to treatment programmes, but in the case of Benita Ormson they made an exception on a Friday afternoon. Benita Ormson was not only a good and long-standing friend of Ebba Hermansson Grundt, she was also a practising psychiatrist h
erself. Though a little too far to the cognitive side for their taste, she was a far from unknown name – and it was judged that there would be no appreciable negative impact on the patient if they were allowed to spend an hour together. It was Friday and, after all, the original intention had been for Mrs Hermansson Grundt to spend weekends with her family.

  Benita Ormson brought two presents for her old friend and fellow student, and once they were alone in the room, she produced them. One was a bag of Marianne chocolate-filled mint sweets and the other was a Bible.

  ‘I’m not religious,’ declared Ebba.

  ‘Nor am I,’ said Benita Ormson. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. But the Bible is something else entirely, you see.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Ebba.

  ‘How are you?’ Benita Ormson asked. ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you mean by “really”?’

  ‘I mean I can see that you like being here, and are sufficiently intelligent to furnish yourself with a justification for it.’

  Ebba sat in silence and thought about this for a while.

  ‘A sharp intellect is certainly overestimated as a companion.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Benita Ormson. ‘The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Ebba. ‘But I think my problem is that I can’t see one single little reason to go on living.’

  ‘So why do you?’

  ‘Go on living?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I really don’t know. Perhaps I see even that as some sort of duty. A feeling that you ought to live your life to its end once you’ve been given it.’

  Benita Ormson nodded. ‘And these are insights that came to you after your son went missing?’

  ‘Yes. I realize they’re insights that must afflict everybody – to a greater or lesser degree – and that most people can work through them and carry on. But that just doesn’t work for me. The fall was . . . well, I think it was just a bit too brutal.’