The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Psychopath?’ asked Astor Nilsson.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Lillieskog. ‘Psychopath is a fairly meaningless term. Comes all too readily to hand, but it’s seldom really adequate. We can reckon on impaired empathetic ability, but that’s true for most perpetrators of violence. He might not even fear being caught. Sees it more as a game, or a contest, between him and the police. And the letter writing presumably gives him a sort of kick. He gets off on it in some way, sees it as self-affirmation. But just to be clear, I don’t think we’re dealing with a serial killer – this is something else. What worries me, as I say, is that he’s a lot smarter than we’re used to. He works alone, he knows what he wants to do, and he does it.’

  ‘For specific reasons?’ said Tallin.

  ‘For specific reasons,’ said Lillieskog. ‘My recommendation is that you all start looking for them.’

  He leant back and put away his pen in his breast pocket. He had evidently concluded his analysis.

  ‘Any questions for Lillieskog?’ asked Jonnerblad.

  ‘One,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘How certain are you about this picture of the perpetrator?’

  Lilllieskog thought about it for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Eighty–twenty,’ he said.

  Gunnar Barbarotti nodded. ‘And if he falls within the remaining twenty, he’s a loony who picks names from the phone book?’

  ‘Or something along those lines,’ said Lillieskog.

  Once profiler Lillieskog had departed, they moved on to the case of Hans Andersson.

  ‘Three days,’ observed Jonnerblad. ‘It’s been at least three days since our murderer sent that letter. We’ve located all the Hans Anderssons registered in Kymlinge and talked to the whole lot. They’re all still alive and none of them have come up with a link to either Anna Eriksson or Erik Bergman.’

  ‘No link at all?’ asked Astor Nilsson.

  ‘No significant ones, at any rate,’ said Jonnerblad. ‘Three or four of them claim to know who Bergman was. One was in the same form at school as Anna Eriksson for two years, but they evidently weren’t in the same groups of friends. We’ve tried to keep it as vague as possible and sworn them to secrecy, which seems to be working so far, but it’ll get out eventually of course. Sooner or later we’ll have the tabloids snapping at our heels. A murderer writing letters to the police to tell them who he plans to kill is going to be a real scoop. Could well mean shifting fifty thousand extra copies. But we’ll deal with that problem when we get to it. Our surveillance of all these Hanses isn’t much to boast about, though it’s occupying thirty officers round the clock, but even so . . .’ He paused for thought, scratching his chin. ‘Even so, we have to maintain the protection. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we maintain it?’ asked an attentive Sorrysen.

  ‘Because he presumably isn’t going to murder any of this lot we’ve got under surveillance,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘He would already have done it if he was going to. In Anna Eriksson’s case, he gave us hardly any time at all. Or . . . well, or it could be that it’s a Hans Andersson who lives somewhere else.’

  ‘And in that case, he might already be dead,’ supplied Tallin. ‘There are more than fifteen hundred people in this country called Hans Andersson. And some of them go rather off-grid in the holiday period, so any bad news could take time to emerge. But we’ve got a nationwide alert out, of course.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Jonnerblad. ‘And remember what an outcry there might be if we gave up on the protection. But we can’t carry on with it for an unlimited period, of course. It’s costing more than policing a high-risk football match.’

  ‘Interesting situation,’ said Eva Backman. ‘So what shall we do?’

  ‘Suggestions?’ said Jonnerblad, looking round the table.

  ‘Stop the surveillance,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘But not tell the individuals involved.’

  ‘Give me your reasons,’ said Jonnerblad.

  ‘Gladly,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Can I just have a drop of water first?’

  Tallin opened a bottle of Loka mineral water and poured him a glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Well, firstly, the pathetic level of surveillance we’re providing isn’t going to stop any crimes . . . all we’re doing is keeping up appearances and that’s daft. A sop to public opinion. Secondly, we’ll presumably look even more incompetent if the perpetrator strikes and succeeds despite our surveillance. And thirdly . . . well, thirdly, as I said, I don’t think our good friend the murdering correspondent is going to harm a hair on the head of any Hans we’re trying to keep tabs on. Ergo, call the whole thing off.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jonnerblad. ‘I think we need to think this through a bit more carefully.’

  ‘Do as you like,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Now can we talk about the bodies we’ve already got, instead?’

  This was permitted.

  First, Sorrysen reported on progress in the ongoing interviews with people who had known Erik Bergman. In various capacities. In summary, his opinion was that their picture of Erik Bergman had grown clearer in many ways, but that nothing of vital importance for the case had emerged.

  Then Eva Backman gave a similar report on how far they had got with Anna Eriksson’s circle of acquaintances. There was a kind of psychological accord between the two victims, Backman stressed; they were both pronounced individualists, and were described by almost all the interviewees as strong if somewhat superficial, and as distinctly self-sufficient characters. Several of the informants had described Anna Eriksson as ‘hard’ or ‘tough’, and an old upper-secondary classmate of Erik Bergman’s had called his former friend ‘cold’.

  Sorrysen and Bergman’s combined reports took upwards of an hour, information was piled on information, and amongst other things they had established that Anna Eriksson had still been alive at 11.55 a.m. on the Tuesday, when she was seen on her balcony by a reliable witness across the road – and that she had very probably been dead two hours later. Thus within this window – these two hours – the murderer had struck. The technical investigations of the two murder scenes were complete, a number of plastic bags with vastly varying contents had been sent off to the National Forensic Centre in Linköping for analysis, but no results had come back yet, and it was not deemed particularly likely that anything of interest to the investigation would come to light that way. Fingerprints and DNA seemed conspicuous by their absence, and one plausible hypothesis in Anna Eriksson’s case was that he had rung at the door, been admitted, beaten his victim to death with his blunt instrument, put her in plastic bags and stowed her under the bed. As simple as that. The unknown male who had been observed from behind by a witness on the stairs remained shapeless and unidentified, and in a follow-up interview the witness had shown signs of having confused Tuesday with Monday.

  As for the letters, a new set of graphologists had carried out fresh analyses. A right-handed man who had written in block letters with his left hand was still their best hunch. The letters having been posted in Gothenburg (the first two) and Borås (the third), he could be assumed to live within a radius of 150–200 kilometres of Kymlinge.

  ‘Brilliant,’ commented Astor Nilsson. ‘We’re dealing with a right-handed man from west Sweden. It can only be a matter of time until we nail him.’

  ‘Hrmm, um, yes,’ muttered Superintendent Jonnerblad. ‘Our most important task is to keep searching on a broad front. But we’re also focusing on looking for links, by checking photo albums amongst other things. So far we haven’t really found anything like that, but it would be useful if we did before Hans Andersson turns up dead.’

  He cleared his throat again and drank some water. ‘And it would be equally useful if Inspector Barbarotti could tell us why he’s the one on the receiving end of these letters,’ he added.

  Gunnar Barbarotti pulled himself more upright in his seat.

&
nbsp; ‘We’re entirely in agreement on that point,’ he said. ‘I’ve drawn up an inventory of all the skeletons in my cupboard, as requested. You’ve all seen the list now, and it would be interesting to hear whether there were any names that leapt out at you.’

  It all went quiet round the table while they studied the lists of the sixty names he had noted down.

  Then they discussed five or six of them for a while – they all had some form of criminal record – after which heads were shaken and the consensus was that the exercise wasn’t leading anywhere.

  ‘And none of these say anything extra to you?’ asked Superintendent Jonnerblad, looking very tired all of a sudden.

  ‘No,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Which doesn’t mean I’d be entirely surprised if it actually turned out to be one of them. But I wasn’t able to pick out ten I’d give low odds.’

  ‘There’s a bit too much maths in this for my taste,’ declared Astor Nilsson. ‘We’ve got twenty-nine Hanses and now sixty Barbarotti ghosts. Shall we put them all in a random number generator and see which ones stick together, then?’

  ‘Too much sitting thinking behind a desk, too little practical detective work,’ Eva Backman put in.

  ‘Detection always needs a specific direction,’ Tallin pointed out. ‘Or it does once a few days have passed, at any rate.’

  ‘I’m with you on that,’ said Eva Backaman. ‘I take it back.’

  Sorrysen discreetly cleared his throat.

  ‘That photograph,’ he said. ‘Pardon me, but I got the idea it could have been taken in France.’

  The picture of the man and woman on the bench was hastily dug out and scrutinized.

  ‘France?’ said Jonnerblad. ‘And why is that, exactly?’

  ‘It’s something to do with the colour of the litter bin at the end of the bench,’ explained Sorrysen. ‘That’s to say, you can only see part of it, but I assume it’s a litter bin. I think I recognize the shade, you see.’

  Barbarotti suddenly recalled that painting was a hobby of Sorrysen’s. A few years previously he’d even held a little exhibition in the police canteen. A dozen small, semi-figurative oils and egg temperas, which had met with surprise and appreciation. Barbarotti had been thinking of buying one, but before he could decide, they had all been snapped up. Perhaps Sorrysen had a feeling for colour that none of the others in the group could aspire to?

  ‘The colour of a litter bin?’ said Jonnerblad dubiously. ‘I don’t really know . . .’

  ‘Well I’m damned,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘I think you’re right. Reminds me of the shade of the shutters on a house I rented once. In Avranches . . . Normandy, that is, for those of you who don’t—’

  ‘I don’t think we should make too much of this,’ interrupted Tallin. ‘And what’s more, we’re far from certain the man on the bench really is Erik Bergman. Aren’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sorrysen. ‘I just thought it was worth mentioning. It could equally well be southern Italy, but I do realize this isn’t a great deal of help.’

  ‘Hrmm, um, yes,’ went Superintendent Jonnerblad again, leaning back in his chair. ‘France and Italy? I’m afraid we really need to narrow down our field of enquiry a bit rather than widening it out to include the rest of Europe. But thanks for your input anyway. It might prove useful later on.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sorrysen.

  Jonnerblad scanned the flagging company around the table. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to call it a day, I think,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, all we can do is carry on working along the guidelines we’ve already drawn up. Surveillance of the Hans Anderssons to be maintained at current levels for the whole weekend. Assuming nothing unforeseen happens, we’ll reconvene on Monday morning at ten o’clock. Questions?’

  Nobody had any. Superintendent Jonnerblad declared the briefing session closed. It was twenty to five on Friday 10 August.

  ‘Your holiday?’ Gunnar Barbarotti asked when Eva Backman looked into his room ten minutes later. ‘What’s happening about that?’

  ‘I’m working till Wednesday,’ she said. ‘But I’ll pop down to the cottage for the weekend as well. Eight hundred kilometres there and back; what we won’t do for family harmony, eh? You got any plans?’

  Barbarotti shrugged. ‘Two-pronged approach,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here, trying to make some inroads. But I’m also planning to find time to decide what I want to do with my life.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eva Backman. ‘You’re right to do that. The latter I mean.’

  ‘OK then,’ said Barbarotti. ‘See you on Monday. Give my regards to the family.’

  ‘And mine to Marianne,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘I won’t be speaking to her until Wednesday,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  Eva Backman stopped in the doorway. ‘Wednesday? Why then?’

  ‘It’s this thing,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘This thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re just so bloody obvious sometimes,’ said Eva Backman.

  15

  He slid his index finger into the Bible and opened it.

  Found he had landed in St Matthew’s Gospel. Chapter 6, verses 22–3.

  The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.

  But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!

  He read it twice. Oh? he thought. Well yes, that’s how it is. Of course it is.

  But if this were to be taken as guidance, and that was the whole point after all, the precise nature of the guidance being offered didn’t seem entirely straightforward. Did it refer to the case? Or to himself? His general spiritual darkness and blind fumbling along the thorny path of life?

  Or to both?

  Yes, maybe both, he thought. A single and unclouded eye would be very useful in any circumstances. It would help him see what was actually there to be seen, rather than imagined dangers.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Inspector Barbarotti sighed and closed the Bible. He went into the kitchen and discovered the fridge was empty. Well, it contained some cheese, a tub of spreadable margarine, a litre of milk and four or five other abandoned items, but nothing to amount to a decent dinner. But then, on the other hand, why would anyone want to cook dinner for one person? It was half past six on Saturday night, and too late to ring a good friend and ask whether he or she felt like a bite to eat and a glass of wine. What was more, strictly speaking he only had two friends of the same calibre of loneliness as himself, and to be honest he didn’t really fancy an evening of meaningless chat with either of them across a restaurant table.

  But sitting alone was worse. People recognized him. Look, there’s DI Barbarotti eating his dinner all alone! Poor guy, his life can’t be much fun.

  Christ no, that wasn’t an alternative he would consider. But he was hungry. His body’s signals were at a stage that could not be ignored. He supposed he’d have to make do with a couple of hot dogs over at the Rocksta Grill; it was a suitably discreet compromise and it had worked before. Maybe he could drop in at the Elk on the way home and see if there were any familiar faces hanging round the bar?

  He checked the thermometer outside the kitchen window before he set off. Twenty-four degrees. The heat was back after a couple of days of changeable weather. He didn’t even need a sweater. An evening just made for sitting outside in convivial company.

  How deep is the darkness in my body? thought Gunnar Barbarotti, and hurried out into town.

  And I can’t ring Marianne until Wednesday.

  But he could ring Sara.

  The hot dogs from Rocksta and a melancholy beer at the Elk took the time to quarter past eight, and he had scarcely set foot back in his hallway before sensing that he must ring Sara.

  Simply must.

  He sank down into the deckchair on his balcony and rang the number. He watched the sunset and l
istened to the jackdaws as he waited to hear her voice from London. After six rings, it went to voicemail. Sara gaily announced – in English and in Swedish – that she was either asleep or in the shower, but would ring back before Christmas as long as the caller left their number. He gave it five minutes before trying again. This time, she answered.

  ‘Hi, it’s Dad.’

  ‘Who?’

  There was the sound of music and voices in the background.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said a little louder. ‘Your darling father, remember him?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, so it’s you? Can I ring you back in . . . in half an hour, things are a bit of a mess here at the moment.’

  He told her that was fine, but wondered what she meant by ‘a bit of a mess’ and ‘here’. It didn’t sound particularly reassuring. Would have been much better if she’d been at home and all he’d been able to hear was the television news or a vacuum cleaner in the background. He’d made out the sound of glass bottles chinking, wherever she was, hadn’t he? And smoke, he was sure it must be smoky as hell, though it was hard to get a sense of it over the phone, but if you’d been a detective for twenty years, you just kind of knew.

  He went to get the list of sixty names from his briefcase, took the last beer from the fridge and settled back down on the balcony.

  Might as well do a bit of work while I’m waiting, he thought. It’s what one clings to for security and support. Life is a gravel pit and you’re the mechanical shovel.

  It took Sara fifty-five minutes to ring; almost a minute per name, in fact, but it didn’t help. No matter how hard he stared at them, he couldn’t visualize a single one of them as a letter-writing murderer, and no light came on to illuminate his darkness.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ said Sara. ‘Do you think you could call me back, I haven’t got much money left on this card.’

  It was the usual procedure. ‘How are you?’ he asked once the conversation finally got underway.