The Department of Sensitive Crimes

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Walking up the staircase to her mother’s flat, Bim no longer seethed. Rather, she reflected with pleasure on the nature of revenge. People said you should never seek revenge. Bim had never subscribed to that view. Revenge was a smörgåsbord of delight—to be contemplated with anticipation, and savoured with satisfaction.

  She stopped halfway up the stairs. A further thought had occurred to her. What if she were to take a photograph of Signe with one of her boyfriends, and then send it to the other boyfriend? Perhaps she would add a message to it—a simple one. Something like, Who’s this then? Or possibly, Cheating heart?

  When she eventually reached the flat, Elvinia was waiting anxiously. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  Bim shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

  Elvinia would not let that pass. One did not get invited to the Department of Sensitive Crimes for a discussion about nothing.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, darling. Bear that in mind.” Elvinia paused. “What was it?”

  Bim gazed out of the window. “I should have told you,” she said. “I was going to, but it slipped my mind.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Told you that Sixten and I have split up.”

  Elvinia was puzzled. “I’m sorry to hear that. But what’s that got to do with the police?”

  “Apparently, somebody has reported him missing.”

  Elvinia frowned. “Did he tell you he was going away?”

  “Yes, he did. He told me he was going to the North Pole.”

  Elvinia’s jaw dropped. “The North Pole?”

  “Yes. There’s a research station up there...He’s a paramedic, you see...”

  Elvinia held up a hand to stop her. “Darling! Darling! No more, please. Do you really think that Mummy can’t tell when you’re telling fibs? Do you really think that?”

  Bim said nothing. She was six again. That was the problem with living with your mother: it was only too easy to go back to being six again.

  When Elvinia spoke, she addressed the light fitting in the centre of the room rather than her daughter. “I should have realised when you told me this boy’s name. I should have realised. Sixten. Of course. It was so obvious.”

  Bim continued to look out of the window. She loved her mother—of course she did—but there were times when she wished she did not live here. There was such a thing as repressive tolerance. There was such a thing as smothering love. “Realised what?”

  “Realised that you were doing what you did when you were seven—or thereabouts. You had an imaginary friend. Children often do, you know.”

  Bim waited.

  “And yours,” Elvinia continued, “was called Sixten. You said that he was a little boy with fair hair whose father had a small aeroplane that could fly through windows. Sixten worked for the King, you said. He repaired the King’s bicycle. You created a whole life for him, you know. It was utterly charming. But then...well, apparently children’s imaginary friends are written out of the script—suddenly and without warning. And that’s what you did. You announced that Sixten had gone to the North Pole. And that was that.”

  Elvinia stopped looking at the light fitting and turned to her daughter. “Darling, you mustn’t fabricate,” she said. “I know how much you want a boyfriend, but you shouldn’t make men up.” She paused. “There are enough men already for us to have to deal with—why add to the troubles of women by making more up?”

  Chapter Nine

  BISCUITS, CATS, BASKET, SWEDEN

  Later that afternoon Mrs. Högfors called Ulf to tell him that Martin had refused to go for a walk. She was worried, and her anxiety showed in her tone; he had never declined to go outside, she said, and in her view this was final proof, if proof were needed, that something was seriously wrong. “I am not one to exaggerate, Mr. Varg,” she said (she was), “but dogs can turn their face to the wall, you know. They decide their time has come, and they turn their face to the wall. Just like humans.” Ulf was distracted by this observation. He had never witnessed a turning of a face to the wall, but he assumed it was possible. Perhaps doctors recognised it, when they visited their patients and found them facing the wrong way. Perhaps it happened subtly, by stages, with the patient at first glancing at the wall, then slowly becoming more fixated, and finally succumbing.

  His thoughts returned to Martin. He assured Mrs. Högfors that he would make an appointment with the vet that evening. Dr. Håkansson conducted an evening clinic for the convenience of those clients who could not make a daytime appointment. It was always crowded, but there had been a cancellation and Martin was fitted in. Ulf had a great deal of faith in Dr. Håkansson’s diagnostic powers and his ability to find out what was going wrong in his patients. “Animals can communicate a great deal without saying anything,” the vet declared. “All you have to do is observe. They’ll tell you everything—in their own way.”

  Martin had spent the afternoon with Mrs. Högfors, and was still there when Ulf returned from work. Ulf had thought that his neighbour might have been over-dramatising the situation, but when he saw Martin he realised that this was not the case. The dog was lying under a table, his head tucked under his forelegs, utterly uninterested in Ulf’s arrival. That was unusual enough, but what was even more uncharacteristic was the sigh that he emitted every few minutes. This was a strange, dispirited sound—very close to a human sigh, and redolent, it seemed, of some deep, heartfelt despair. When Ulf first heard it, he looked in alarm at Mrs. Högfors, who made an I told you so gesture.

  “You see?” she said, her voice lowered, as at a sick bed. “Poor creature. That’s the sigh, Mr. Varg, of one who is turning his face to the wall.”

  Ulf glanced down at Martin. The dog was indeed more or less facing the wall. “I’ll take him immediately,” he said. “I’ve arranged an appointment with Dr. Håkansson.”

  Mrs. Högfors nodded. “Högfors always said that you should never leave things too late. He always said that.”

  That was somewhat trite, Ulf thought. If one was always going to say something, then surely it should be something more significant than that. But he did not voice these reservations, saying instead, “How right your husband was, Mrs. Högfors.”

  “Of course, he didn’t always follow his own advice,” she said.

  For a brief moment, Ulf wondered whether the late Mr. Högfors had turned his face to the wall. “People don’t,” he agreed. “Advice, in my experience, is often for others, rather than oneself.”

  He bent down to pick up Martin, who had shown no signs of being willing to walk. The dog did not resist, but was heavy, and not easily moved. Mrs. Högfors fussed about and offered to accompany Ulf to the vet’s. He thanked her but said that he would manage. Martin looked at them both with baleful eyes. He sighed again.

  Ulf carried him to the Saab, and then, at the other end, he carried him into the vet’s clinic. There was a short wait there, as they were early, and then Dr. Håkansson appeared at the door and ushered them in.

  The physical examination did not take long. Everything, the vet said, appeared to be normal—at least on initial examination. Martin’s temperature was exactly as it should be; there appeared to be no abdominal swelling or soreness; and eyes and mouth gave no cause for concern. Standing back, Dr. Håkansson looked pensive.

  “Do you know that dogs get depressed, Mr. Varg?” he asked.

  Ulf looked thoughtful. “Yes, I’d heard of that.” He paused, looking at Martin with new eyes. “Do you think that’s what’s wrong?”

  Dr. Håkansson nodded. “It’s a distinct possibility. We get a lot of dogs in Sweden who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. But that’s a winter thing—to do with deprivation of sunlight.”

  “And vitamin D?” asked Ulf. “Isn’t it connected with vitamin D?”

  “There’s some evidence of that,” said Dr. Håkansson. “There’s been a Dan
ish study that shows good results with vitamin D supplementation.”

  “So his vitamin D levels could be low?”

  “Possibly. We could look into that. But remember, this is summer. SAD is a winter condition. I don’t think Martin’s issue is seasonal.”

  The vet reached forward to pat his patient on the head. Martin looked up, but only briefly.

  “Have you observed any other symptoms, Mr. Varg?”

  “My neighbour spotted it,” he said. “She said that he’s been uninterested in things. He didn’t want to go out, which is very unusual for him. Normally he loves his walks.”

  “And any hyperphagia?”

  “I’m not sure...”

  “That’s excessive eating,” explained Dr. Håkansson. “People who are depressed may eat too much.”

  Ulf pointed out that dogs ate too much anyway. “Dogs are always hungry, aren’t they? They don’t turn down food.”

  “Possibly,” said the vet. “What about lethargy? What about decreased libido?”

  Ulf raised an eyebrow. “Decreased libido? But you yourself neutered him, Dr. Håkansson. I thought that was the end of his libido.”

  Dr. Håkansson looked embarrassed. “Of course. But the reduction of testosterone doesn’t mean there can’t be a memory of testosterone.”

  Ulf savoured the phrase. A memory of testosterone. It would be a good title for a book, perhaps by a great roué, looking back, from sedentary old age, at the highlights of his roué’s career.

  “I haven’t noticed any change there,” he said. “Martin was never one to fight or roam, as unneutered male dogs can do, I believe.”

  The vet moved to a cupboard and extracted a small box. “I think we might try him on an anti-depressant,” he said.

  “Prozac? Do you give dogs Prozac?”

  “Not Prozac itself,” Dr. Håkansson replied. “Prozac isn’t intended for animals, and there are side effects. No, there’s a drug called clomipramine that we use for general behavioural issues. Let’s try him on that.”

  Ulf was concerned. “Do we have to medicate him? Isn’t there another possibility?”

  “Psychotherapy?” asked Dr. Håkansson. “I can refer you, if you like. There’s a veterinary psychotherapy clinic that deals with these cases. They work on improving mood.” He paused. “But frankly, I think we need to do something fairly immediate. Psychotherapy can take a long time.”

  Ulf already knew that. His own psychotherapy had been going on for two years now, although he felt that he probably no longer needed any help of that sort. But if Martin started psychotherapy too, then that would mean he would have to pay double what he was currently paying to Dr. Svensson. “Clomipramine,” he said. “I think we should start with that.”

  Dr. Håkansson seemed pleased. “We get good results with it, Mr. Varg.”

  The vet administered the first dose then and there, Martin accepting the pill with all the resignation of one who does not particularly care what happens. He looked up at Ulf, and then slowly rose to his feet.

  “Immediate effect,” said Ulf.

  Dr. Håkansson laughed. “We’ll see. But at least you won’t have to carry him.”

  They left the vet’s inner office and went out into the waiting room. And it was there, amongst the unhappy canine and feline patients, and their predominantly anxious owners, that Ulf came face-to-face with Blomquist.

  Blomquist was far from anxious. “Mr. Varg!” he exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

  That question, thought Ulf, was the reason why Blomquist would never make it to the Criminal Investigation Authority.

  “My dog,” he said, gesturing to Martin standing disconsolate beside him.

  “Ah,” said Blomquist. “What a nice-looking animal.”

  “And you?” asked Ulf. “I take it that’s your cat?”

  Blomquist gestured towards a small pet-carrier in which a large ginger cat was crouched, staring at Martin with horrified animus. “It’s my daughter’s,” he said. “She always wanted a cat and we gave it to her for her sixth birthday recently. He’s here for his regular inoculations. Cat flu, feline AIDS—that sort of thing. There are all sorts of perils in being a cat.”

  “There certainly are,” said Ulf. Then he added, “My dog’s suffering from depression, I’m told.”

  Blomquist did not seem surprised. “Dogs don’t like cities very much,” he said. “They pine for the countryside.” He looked thoughtful. “What do you feed him on?”

  “Dog food,” said Ulf.

  “Ah,” said Blomquist. “You might need to think about that. He’s probably getting too many carbohydrates.”

  One of the other clients, a thin man in a nondescript grey suit, who was nursing a dachshund on his lap, joined in the conversation. “If you don’t mind my saying, that’s a very important point. Many people who eat too many carbohydrates get depressed. That’s people, of course, but the same undoubtedly applies to animals.”

  Blomquist seemed pleased with this support. “Absolutely,” he said. “Carbohydrates are all right in moderation...”

  “Barely,” said the man with the dachshund. “That advice you get to have three hundred grams of carbs a day is nonsense, in my view. I restrict myself to sixty—at the most.”

  Blomquist nodded enthusiastically. “That’s very good. I’m on eighty, but some days I get by with twenty. No pasta. No bread.”

  The dachshund owner was in full agreement. “And no potatoes or sweet things. No chocolate, of course.”

  “Chocolate is difficult,” said Blomquist, rolling his eyes heavenwards, as might the weakest of sinners. “My problem is that I love it. And then there are all those studies that show that if you eat chocolate, your risk of stroke is significantly reduced.”

  “I’ve heard that,” said the man. “And heart disease too. Chocolate’s now been recognised as a superfood.”

  “Except for dogs,” warned Blomquist. “Chocolate is toxic to dogs.” He turned to Ulf. “Did you know that, Mr. Varg? You haven’t been giving your dog chocolate, have you?”

  Ulf rather resented that question. It was none of Blomquist’s business what he gave his dog. And the junior policeman certainly had no right to imply that he was an over-indulgent owner. “No, I haven’t,” he replied firmly.

  “Good,” said Blomquist.

  “He has a stomach of iron, anyway,” said Ulf. “Chocolate would be no problem for him, I suspect.”

  Blomquist looked doubtful. “No matter how strong his stomach is, you still...”

  He did not finish. “And he once ate a pair of stereo headphones,” Ulf continued. “They didn’t seem to give him indigestion and we could have left them in—except that Dr. Håkansson thought it best to operate.”

  “Very wise,” said Blomquist.

  The man in the suit now addressed Blomquist. “Has the low carbohydrate approach worked?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” replied Blomquist. “I’ve lost four kilos.”

  “And you don’t feel hungry?”

  Blomquist shook his head. “That’s the point about low-carb diets,” he said. “Because you can have plenty of protein and fat, you don’t feel hungry.”

  “Exactly,” said the man. “Fat fills you up. I eat full-fat yoghurt—bacon, butter, the works. I never feel hungry.”

  Ulf looked at his watch. “Well, there we are,” he said. He reached into his pocket for his car key and that was when he felt, folded up, the piece of paper on which the photograph of Sixten had been printed. He took this out and unfolded it. He showed it to Blomquist. It was a long shot.

  “This has cropped up in an inquiry we’re involved in,” he said. “We were questioning this young woman about this young man.” He pointed to Sixten.

  Blomquist stared at the photograph for a few moments and then looked up. “Yes, I know w
ho that is,” he said. “The boy, not the girl. I’ve no idea who she is, but the boy is called Bo. He goes to my gym.”

  Ulf drew in his breath. He had not expected this. “You know him?” he asked, almost incredulously.

  “Yes, sure,” said Blomquist. “Bo...I can’t remember his surname. It’ll come back to me, though. You know how it is—things come back to you much later on, when you don’t really need them.” He looked up at the ceiling, and it came back to him. “Pålsson. Bo Pålsson.”

  Ulf struggled to contain himself. “Could you find him?”

  “That won’t be hard,” replied Blomquist. “He’s in the gym three or four nights a week. I have no idea why he spends so much time there. Always showering. I sometimes meet him in the showers.”

  Ulf did not say anything. People showered for different reasons. One could never be sure.

  Ulf drew close to Blomquist. “Listen, Blomquist,” he said, lowering his voice. “We need to talk to that young man—if he’s not dead or at the North Pole.”

  Blomquist looked at Ulf in puzzlement. “The North Pole?”

  “There’s a Swedish research station there—or somewhere near there. We had information that suggested this young man was up there.”