Ulf drew in his breath. He would make a clean breast of it. He could do nothing but that now. “Anna put a kiss at the end—you know, an x. It was probably meaningless, but...” He faltered.
“You like her, don’t you?” said Carl.
Ulf nodded. “I like her, but I can’t like her, if you see what I mean.”
Carl looked away. It was clear to him that Ulf was telling the truth. At first he was silent, but now he spoke. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” said Ulf. “It can’t be.”
“I can see that,” said Carl. He leaned forward and put a hand on Ulf’s shoulder. “Let me tell you something, Ulf: you are the best, kindest, funniest person I know. You are also the most truthful.”
Ulf was not sure whether there was ironic reproach in that accolade. Truthful? Earlier on, he had lied about the content of the note, but Carl, of course, did not know that. Or did he? If he had read the note while Ulf was out of the room, then he himself had behaved reprehensibly, even if he had not actually lied to Ulf.
Ulf decided to ask him. “Did you read the note?” he asked.
Carl hesitated, and his gaze, until that moment focused on Ulf, slipped away. Ulf knew, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. They were moral equals now—each as bad as the other.
“Unimportant,” said Carl.
Ulf raised an eyebrow. One did not fend off an unwelcome question by simply saying it was unimportant. That was not for Carl to judge; it was for Ulf himself.
But Carl was not going to answer. He took his hand off Ulf’s shoulder and clasped the fist in which Ulf held the note. “Give that to me.”
Ulf opened his fist to reveal the fragments. Carl took these, scooped them up, and then dropped them to the floor. “There,” he said. “Gone.”
Chapter Eleven
HORMONES COME INTO IT
Ulf’s life, normally so settled and so ordered, had now become markedly more complicated. What had been the Bim Sundström case had now become the Signe Magnusson investigation, and had, in the process, transformed itself from a case of the suspected non-disappearance of a non-existent person to one involving the actual disappearance of a real person. He had yet to find the time to devote to that issue and left Anna to make preliminary inquiries by herself. Carl had also played a role, and the two of them had so far confirmed one thing: Signe was nowhere to be seen.
Then he had Martin to worry about; the vet had advised him to give the dog plenty of attention, but the demands of work had been such that this had been left to Mrs. Högfors. He felt bad about that; Martin was his responsibility, and he believed that he should not palm him off on his neighbour, no matter how obliging she might be. And, of course, there was also that business with Anna and her note. He would have to watch that situation very closely and be on his guard; affairs started so easily and yet were so difficult to extricate oneself from. As far as his relationship with Anna was concerned, Ulf felt that he was standing at the brink of waters that were both deep and dangerous. He would have to be extremely careful or he would find himself embroiled in a situation from which there would be no easy escape. So he would have to do something that up until now he had never had to do: he would have to fall out of love. And he was not sure how to do that, at least not how to do it deliberately.
Now, to make matters worse, a case had been referred to him by no less a person than the Commissioner of Police himself, a barely glimpsed, remote, and quasi-apocryphal figure. Very few people in the Criminal Investigation Authority had ever met the Commissioner; indeed, there were those who denied his existence, saying that he was no more than a cypher for the shadowy police management committee that answered to the government on policing policy. Others said that he existed, but that he was a recluse who found social interaction disturbing and who ran the department by fiats dictated to a few hand-picked officers who were allowed to enter his presence.
Neither of these views was correct. Police Commissioner Ahlbörg did exist; he was certainly not a public man, preferring to work quietly in the background, but he was considered by those who knew him to be a painstaking administrator, a scrupulously fair boss, and an astute defender of the force’s interests. He did not choose to appear in public or to be seen very much by those who worked below him because he felt that it was not necessary for him to do this. He was by nature a delegator and was quite happy to let people get on with their jobs without his breathing down their necks. Privately, he and his family led a model life. He helped with Swedish-adjustment classes for refugees, while his wife, Anita, was an accountant who voluntarily did the accounts of two local charities. Their two clear-eyed sons had co-founded an aero-modelling club for disadvantaged youths. They were well liked in the suburb in which they lived, where very few, if any, people knew that their mild and rather pleasant neighbour was in fact the Commissioner of Police.
That morning, when Ulf arrived in the office, Erik hailed him from the other side of the room. “Important message for you, Ulf,” he shouted. “Ahlbörg wants to see you. Pronto.”
Ulf laughed. “Ha ha, Erik. It’s not the first of April, you know.”
Erik was the person in the office who most enjoyed the first of April and the opportunities it gave to play practical jokes on his colleagues. They were forewarned, of course, and most of his efforts had been spotted immediately. Thus the memo he had circulated earlier that year that all detectives were to be equipped with a false moustache, in the case of men, or false eyelashes in the case of women, had been greeted with no more than tolerant groans. More successful, though less inventive, had been the trick he had played on Anna, putting two spoons of sugar in the coffee that she normally took unsweetened.
“Ha!” he had exclaimed as he saw her grimace at the taste. “April fool!”
Ulf had pointed out to him that this was not really a proper April fool prank. “There has to be deception, Erik. You have to give somebody a piece of news that is false, but just believable. Something like that.” He thought quickly. “But it mustn’t actually be true—such as this morning’s news about the fishing ban.”
Erik frowned. “What fishing ban?”
Carl had been listening. “Haven’t you heard, Erik?”
Ulf glanced at Carl. “The Riksdag has approved a ban on recreational fishing. It’s going to be outlawed. It’s something to do with the fish lobby.”
Erik dropped the file he was holding. “They can’t,” he stuttered. “They can’t do that!”
“It does seem a bit extreme,” said Ulf. “But they’ve said they’ll review it next first of April.”
At this point Anna, sensing Erik’s distress, had brought the deception to an end. “Ulf’s joking,” she said. “Don’t worry, Erik—nobody’s going to ban fishing.”
“Yet,” said Ulf. “But give them time.”
But now, Erik made it clear he was not joking. “I took the call,” he assured Ulf. “I noted down the extension. I’m not making this up. They said you had to phone and make an appointment the moment you came in. Here it is.” He walked across the room to give Ulf the slip of paper. Ulf dialled the number and scribbled on a notepad before replacing the receiver.
“Looks like you’re right,” he said. “I’m to report to Ahlbörg at eleven-thirty.”
“See,” said Erik. “I told you.”
Anna was concerned. “I hope it’s nothing you’ve done,” she said.
“Or failed to do,” said Carl.
Ulf was puzzled. “I can’t think of anything.”
Carl wondered whether it was something to do with the Gustafsson case. “That statement you gave to the court,” he said. “It was pretty sympathetic to Hampus Johansson, wasn’t it? Ahlbörg—if he exists—might think that you were sending out the wrong message about knife crime.”
Ulf thought this unlikely. “Nobody at Ahlbörg’s level will have noticed that case.
They have bigger fish to fry.”
Erik looked up, but only briefly.
Anna tried to reassure Ulf. “I suspect it’s nothing very important,” she said. “It’s probably some new initiative in staff communication. He probably has to speak to every section head once a year, just to show that channels of communication are open. You know how they’re always going on about channels of communication.”
That was some comfort to Ulf, but he still felt a degree of trepidation when he made his way over the Carolibron Bridge to the imposing building that was the headquarters of the Police Southern District. He had rather unwisely drunk two cups of strong coffee, and his nerves were jangling. He was not sure what to call the Commissioner, and he wondered if there was some etiquette that he should know but did not. If he simply called him Mr. Ahlbörg, it might sound as if he were deliberately playing down the Commissioner’s exalted rank, and yet if he called him Commissioner it might sound like Commissionaire, which was a different matter, altogether. Or sir: it was always possible to call him sir, but then there were plenty of other senior officers who would merit that, and this might not be quite respectful enough for an officer of his status. Of course, these days people used first names in so many circumstances, and Ulf had read of companies where surnames were banned on the grounds of excessive formality. The problem with that, though, was that not only was it unlikely, but Ulf also did not know what the Commissioner’s first name was; as far as he could make out, nobody knew that.
By the time he was ushered into the Commissioner’s office, Ulf had worked himself up into a state of heightened anxiety. But he was immediately reassured when the Commissioner, beaming with a smile of welcome, arose from his desk to greet him.
“I’m so sorry about the short notice,” said Ahlbörg, after he had shaken Ulf’s hand. “It’s very good of you to drop everything and come over here.”
Ulf breathed a sigh of relief. “It was no trouble, sir. Any time.” The sir slipped out, and seemed entirely natural.
“Please,” said Ahlbörg. “It’s Felix.” He paused, before smiling again at Ulf. “And you’re...”
“Ulf.”
“Of course. I noticed that when I saw your name. Both mean wolf in Old Norse, don’t they?”
Ulf nodded. “Some people find my name repetitive,” he said.
Ahlbörg laughed. “Names are odd, aren’t they? Some people talk about nominal determinism, but I find it a bit of an odd idea, frankly. Do you think one’s name can be one’s destiny?”
Ahlbörg returned to his side of the desk as he asked the question. As he did so, he gestured for Ulf to sit.
“I’m not sure about nominal determinism,” Ulf said. “Although I did once arrest a motorcycle thief by the name of Vroom.”
The Commissioner laughed. “And you read about dentists called Drill, and so on. Personally, I think it’s coincidence—nothing more than that.”
“I agree,” said Ulf.
“Mind you,” Ahlbörg continued, “I’ve often wondered about criminal types, you know. I know many people would look askance at me for saying this, but I’ve certainly observed a relationship between physical appearance and criminality. There are some people who just look the part, don’t they?”
“There was that Italian criminologist, wasn’t there?” said Ulf. “Lombroso.”
Ahlbörg raised a finger. “Yes, indeed. Now that’s a thing, Ulf: How many members of this police force would know about Cesare Lombroso? I can answer that myself—precious few. Perhaps just you and I in the entire district.”
Ulf said nothing. He had relaxed now, and the Commissioner’s demeanour had ruled out the possibility that this was a disciplinary interview; unless, of course, the Commissioner was a nasty cop behind a nice cop’s façade...Clichés might be clichés, but they existed for a reason.
“I’ll get to the point,” Ahlbörg said. “I need an officer to deal with a very sensitive matter. That’s why I’ve called you in.”
Again, Ulf felt a flood of relief. This was routine. He crossed his legs. He could sit back and enjoy the meeting now.
“I’m at your service...Felix.” It was still an effort to use the first name, but he had to. It would be rude to revert to sir.
“There’s a small town not far from where we are,” Ahlbörg began. “It’s not an important place—a bit off the beaten track. A farming place mostly, but pretty enough to get some visitors in the summer. A couple of hotels and a spa. There’s a marina too. That sort of thing.”
Ulf waited.
“The spa happens to be run by a cousin of mine. They used to own a hotel and then, about ten years ago, they made it into a health spa. They get people going out there for detoxification. You know, the carrot cure, or whatever happens to be fashionable at the time.” He paused. “Are you vegetarian, Ulf?”
Ulf replied that he was not. He was sympathetic, though, to vegetarianism and was in general eating far less meat than he used to.
“You’re on the right track,” said Ahlbörg. “My wife and I have cut right back. A bit of chicken now and then, and we eat fish, of course, but not much red meat.”
“Red meat has a pretty large environmental footprint,” Ulf said. “All those forests in South America being cut down so that they can ranch cattle.”
“Exactly,” agreed Ahlbörg. “And that means more methane.”
Ulf remembered his last conversation with Blomquist, and the discussion of methane in the vet’s waiting room. That made him think of Martin, and his troubles.
“Methane is definitely an issue,” Ulf said. “Even dogs contribute methane.”
The Commissioner nodded. “My sons have a dog. They’ve been very good about looking after it. I think looking after an animal is quite good training for a child, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Ulf. Then he added, “My dog’s been depressed, I think. The vet gave him something called clomipramine.”
This seemed to pique the Commissioner’s interest. “Has it made a difference?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” said Ulf. “I was told that I would have to wait for a while before he picked up, but he seems less down in the mouth now.”
The Commissioner appeared pleased. “Isn’t it remarkable what modern pharmacology can do?” He looked out of the window. “Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to put something like that in the drinking water. It would make our job a whole lot easier—if not do us out of a job altogether.”
Ulf laughed. “You could suggest it. The press would be grateful to you on a slow news day.”
The Commissioner winced at the mention of the press. “Actually, that brings me back to the question of my cousin. One of the reasons why I asked to see you is my worries about the press. We have to be so careful, you know—the slightest thing and they’re off. Discretion is required.” He looked searchingly at Ulf. “I’ve heard that the Department of Sensitive Crimes is known for its discretion.”
Ulf assured him that he knew all about confidentiality. “It’s our stock in trade, sir.”
“Felix.”
“Yes, Felix. We’re ultra-discreet. Not even any pillow talk. Nothing.”
The Commissioner said that that was what he liked to hear. “You see, Ulf,” he went on, “I need somebody to find out why somebody seems intent on ruining my cousin’s business.”
Ulf raised an eyebrow. He had not expected to be asked to do a personal favour—something unofficial. There were rules about that, and he would have thought that the Commissioner, of all people, should know about those.
His doubts were anticipated. “Oh, no. I’m not asking you to do something on the side,” said the Commissioner. “This will be a perfectly proper criminal investigation.”
“The crime being?” asked Ulf.
“The crime, I suspect, is malicious interference in trade. That’s in t
he penal code, section whatever it is—I forget the numbers of these things. If you maliciously set out to interfere improperly in my business, you commit a crime. That makes it a matter for the police.”
Ulf said that he understood.
“And it’s sensitive because the local police have proved to be hopeless at dealing with it. They say there’re no grounds for suspicion that a crime has been committed.” The Commissioner paused. “Now I could instruct them to investigate more thoroughly—I could overrule them. But the problem with that is that if I did so, and it got out that I was doing it to help a cousin, I’d be accused of exercising improper influence for a personal reason. You see my difficulty?”
Ulf said that he did. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Leave it with me. Just give me the address of the spa and I’ll handle the whole thing.”
The Commissioner arose from his seat. “I’m very grateful, Ulf. And report to me, will you, if...when you find something.”
They shook hands and the Commissioner began to show Ulf out of his office. “What was the name of that stuff they’re giving your dog?” he asked.
“Clomipramine.”
“Interesting,” said the Commissioner. “Do you think it works on cats?”
“Possibly,” said Ulf. “I don’t really know, though.”
“Because we have a cat as well as a dog,” said the Commissioner. “The cat belongs to my wife—I’m not really a cat person, you see. But the cat is very difficult. Anti-social, in fact. It takes a swipe at you from under a chair as you walk past. Draws blood sometimes.”
“You could try,” said Ulf. “But sometimes cats just have nasty natures, don’t you think? And you can’t do much about a personality disorder. Cats are psychopaths at heart.”
The Commissioner looked disappointed. “How long do cats tend to live?”
“They can last for a long time,” said Ulf. “Twenty years in some cases.”
The Commissioner sighed. “We all have our burdens in this life, don’t we?”
The Department of Sensitive Crimes Page 13
