The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘You lot?’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘You lot,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  She gave him a worried glance. ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘If you don’t,’ said Barbarotti, massaging his throbbing temples with his knuckles, ‘it can only mean one thing.’

  ‘That there’s no connection?’

  ‘Exactly. It can be difficult to identify where two people’s lives intersect, but if you add in a third and a fourth, the common denominator will surface pretty quickly. Or it should do, with halfway competent investigators at the helm.’

  ‘So you’d have me believe we’re not playing on the strongest of teams?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti forced a crooked smile. ‘Now there you go with your unihockey metaphors and stuff I know nothing about, Mrs Backman.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Anyway, we’ll just have to see who turns out to be right. I’ll keep in touch, like I said.’

  ‘I’m grateful for that,’ said Barbarotti.

  She left, he washed up the breakfast things, and after that he was suddenly at a loss as to how to make the minutes and hours go by.

  There’s a time for sitting waiting, he thought, but today I feel as if I’ve got ants crawling all over me, body and soul. Please God, let there be a bit of action now, so I’m spared this idle pacing round my three-room flat like a broody female polar bear. Two points, OK?

  Our Lord gave a sigh and slung a gust of wind and a few stray spatters of rain at the kitchen window but, having heard far worse things in the course of the centuries, he decided not to pass comment on the supplicant’s terrible imagery. After all, a person couldn’t help having gone to school in the seventies.

  As previously discussed.

  Instead, Our Lord began angling for his points an hour and a half later. Not unexpectedly, he had to recruit Inspector Backman to help him.

  ‘Bad news is good news,’ she began cryptically. ‘Just you listen to this.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Barbarotti assured her. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Firstly,’ said Backman, ‘we’ve found Katarina Malmgren.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Yes. Or to be more accurate, a Danish fisherman did, early this morning, not far from Skagen. He was taking his boat out and was only about fifty metres offshore when he came across the body of a woman, floating in the water.’

  ‘How do you know it’s her?’

  ‘There’s been no formal identification yet, but plenty points to it being her.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as various ID items in the breast pocket of her jacket; plastic cards are pretty water-resistant. She’s being transported back to Gothenburg at the moment. That sister, I think you talked to her, didn’t you, she’s on her way down from Karlstad to identify her.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gunnar Barbarotti recalled. ‘I did actually talk to a sister of Mrs Malmgren’s before I was dismissed . . . half-sister, if I remember rightly. What about the husband, you haven’t found him yet?’

  ‘Correct. He’s still missing. Probably floating about in some other bit of the sea. Or he’s got caught in a net or propeller, in which case it might take a while.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And the cause of death, how about that? What did Katarina Malmgren die of?’

  ‘Strangled, with some kind of ligature. The marks on her neck leave us in no doubt’

  ‘Strangled? He . . . so that means he’s changed method again?’

  ‘It seems so, yes,’ said Backman. ‘It’s too early to say anything about time of death, of course, but the Danish pathologist says she probably died some time on Sunday night. Looks to have been in the water about forty-eight hours when Trulsemanden found her.

  ‘Trulsemanden?’

  ‘Our fisherman, that’s his name. He’s seventy-eight.’

  ‘Hang on . . . isn’t it the system now . . . don’t they have to have complete passenger lists on ferries these days? Since the Estonia disaster?’

  ‘In principle, yes,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But unfortunately they don’t require ID.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you can book a ticket in the name of Jöns Jönsson, and when you pick it up, all you have to do is say that’s your name. You’ll get your boarding documents even if you’re actually called Lars Larsson.’

  ‘OK,’ sighed Barbarotti. ‘Which in turn means we won’t happen to find the murderer’s name in the passenger lists?’

  ‘Precisely right, I’m afraid,’ said Eva Backman. ‘We got our hopes up on that score for about ten minutes, too.’

  ‘Though I suppose one could go through the lists anyway . . . how many names would it be?’

  ‘Just over fifteen hundred people,’ said Eva Backman. ‘We’ll be doing it, of course, but it’s one heck of a job.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti thought for a moment. ‘And the search warrant?’ he asked. ‘Did you find anything of interest at the Malmgrens’?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ admitted Eva Backman. ‘But we’ve got four cardboard boxes that we’re about to go through. They had six desk drawers each, plus at least ten photo albums. And we’ve got both computers.’

  ‘I assume you know what you’re looking for?’

  ‘We’re looking for all sorts of things. But above all, anything that can link the Malmgrens to Anna Eriksson or Erik Bergman.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘Or both. We’re also working flat-out on the mobile phone data. And if the same number comes up on either of the Malmgrens’ phones as on Eriksson’s or Bergman’s, we’ll investigate further. Happy now, inspector?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti considered this.

  ‘I’ve nothing to add for the time being,’ he said. ‘Is there anything particular you’d like for dinner?’

  ‘It’s been a while since I had lobster,’ Inspector Backman reminded herself aloud.

  There was a well-stocked fishmonger’s in Skolgatan in Kymlinge; Barbarotti shopped there from time to time and when the Polish owner, a former ski jumper named Dobrowolski, said he couldn’t particularly recommend the lobster he had on offer that day – especially if it was being cooked for a woman – the detective inspector allowed himself to be talked into buying scallops and langoustines instead. He was presented with eight other ingredients to boot, and even the name of a white wine that was an indispensable complement to the dish in question, and as a result he had to take a detour via the off-licence on his way home, as well.

  It felt very odd to be out buying one luxury item after another on a mid-week morning, and it was with a distinct touch of guilt that he put away his purchases in the fridge and cupboard when he got home. Quite apart from anything else, the coming meal was of course one he should have been serving to Marianne, not Inspector Backman, but it was as it was, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. The letter writer had struck for the third – and in all probability the fourth – time, and with a cold-bloodedness which, as far as Barbarotti could currently judge, one could only describe as breathtaking.

  How did it go, again? He – if, at least for the sake of argument, they could assume the murderer wasn’t a woman? – had boarded a Stena Lines ferry from Gothenburg to Fredrikshavn. It had departed on time at 23.55 on Sunday evening, Inspector Backman had informed him – and at some point on the roughly three-hour crossing to Denmark, he had killed Henrik and Katarina Malmgren, exactly as promised, and dumped them overboard. How did anyone go about something like that, wondered Barbarotti. However did they do it?

  Katarina Malmgren had been strangled with a noose. That was no easy way to kill a person, especially not on a boat rammed with passengers and potential witnesses. He must have had a pretty thorough plan. Known exactly what he was going to do, and, suspected Gunnar Barbarotti, something more besides. He must . . . he must have known the Malmgrens.

  Mustn’t he? In order to kill them, he would surely have had to separate them first, and why should a married couple allow themselves to be sepa
rated by a stranger on a ferry in the middle of the night? It would have taken a good deal of ingenuity to achieve. Sleeping pills in their cocktails or something even more artful and manipulative.

  Though of course there was no guarantee he had used the same MO on Henrik Malmgren. He could have shot him first, for instance, and then taken his time tackling the wife. It wasn’t impossible . . . and yet, thought Barbarotti, there was still a lot of food for thought in the notion of them recognizing each other. The murders had, in all likelihood, been committed somewhere on the open deck, and why would anyone go out on deck with a stranger in the middle of the night? If they were travelling with their other half, that is. The thought persisted.

  First him, then her. Or the other way round.

  Both at the same time?

  No, that simply didn’t seem possible.

  Though the fact that they were acquainted, the murderer and his victims, wasn’t news to anybody. They had already decided that there must be some kind of motive behind it all, hadn’t they? That the targets were not merely chosen at random.

  As he reached this point in his deliberations, Gunnar Barbarotti heard rustling sounds from out in the hall. The day’s post had arrived, and five minutes later he wasn’t sure whether he had really had a premonition or was just imagining it.

  But one thing was in no doubt: Our Lord had two well-earned points in the bag.

  Gloves on again, and the envelope propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table.

  Pale blue, a long thin rectangle, just like numbers three and four.

  His name and address written in those same clumsy capitals. The stamp from the same archipelago set, a stylized sailing boat against a blue sea and sky.

  He tried to work out how many days had passed since he held the first letter in his hand, that morning when he took it from the postman out on the stairs, on his way to Gotland and Marianne. Twenty-two, he counted. Only just over three weeks, in fact. Four letters so far, four murders. If you included Henrik Malmgren, that was, and surely you had to?

  And now number five. A fifth person was waiting to be killed – or already had been killed, realistically speaking. The murderer’s cool calculation was already well documented, thought Barbarotti, but the idea that the unopened envelope might contain the name of a person who was still alive – and in some way linked to the other victims – was hard to swallow. Very hard.

  Unopened, yes. Neither slit open nor read. What should he do?

  Yes, what should he do?

  And here, thought Detective Inspector Barbarotti, here we have the crux of the matter. No two ways about it. What should he do? With a view to his future career – and his promotion prospects in the CID – it was extremely clear what he should do. Call Superintendent Jonnerblad on the spot and ask them to come and get the letter. Since his removal from the case he had been given no new instructions on how to deal with any further letters, not explicitly, but it would be tricky to claim he had opened it in good faith. Both Jonnerblad and Tallin would be bloody furious if he did that again. They would interpret it as him blithely going his own way. Every constable knew that, and they would never let him back into the team.

  He stared at the envelope on the kitchen table. Suddenly, Birgit Cullberg came into his head. He wondered what on earth she thought she was doing there, he felt no connection either to her or to modern dance of any kind – but then it dawned on him. A few years ago, he had happened to see an interview with the ageing dance legend on TV. The young interviewer had asked her one of those so-called clever questions that require some careful manoeuvring, she had reflected on her answer for quite a while, presumably hoping to improvise a response on some delicate cultural-political issue and avoid saying the wrong thing.

  Finally, her face split into a wide smile and she delivered the most sublime of answers:

  ‘You know what, I don’t give a damn.’

  That’s the way to tackle it, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. I don’t give a damn! Thank you, Birgit Cullberg. I shall blame you when they start on at me.

  He pulled the gloves on again, got a kitchen knife and slit open the envelope. I’m changing job anyway, he thought for the umpteenth time since his return from Gotland and Gustabo. I’m going to be a gravedigger or the like, somewhere round Helsingborg.

  DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE FOUND THE MALMGRENS YET. ONLY ONE TO GO NOW, GUNNAR. THANKS FOR YOUR INVOLVEMENT.

  He sat staring at it for a good five minutes. Reread it. Counted the words. Eighteen. Read it again, striving to understand, but there was . . . there was some malfunction of his own perception; or of his ability to understand written Swedish, perhaps? What did the message mean? What was the information being conveyed by these eighteen words?

  In actual fact.

  Only one to go now, Gunnar. There was a comma between the words ‘now’ and ‘Gunnar’. What did that indicate in terms of meaning?

  Was there one last victim, whose name was Gunnar?

  Or was the ‘Gunnar’ a direct address to him, Gunnar Barbarotti? From the murderer?

  Or . . . and it was probably this astonishing potential interpretation that had knocked his perception and linguistic comprehension off-kilter . . . did it mean . . . ?

  Thanks for your involvement?

  Everything went black in front of Inspector Barbarotti’s eyes; the kitchen seemed to lurch, he hung onto the edge of the table, and the sensation that slowly spread through him was like the ice forming on a lake on a dark, cold November night.

  An indeterminate amount of time passed – perhaps ten minutes, perhaps more – before he was able to get to his feet and stagger over to the phone.

  22

  ‘Sorry, what did you just say?’

  He repeated what he had said without changing a word.

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And you opened it?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I asked if you were out of your mind.’

  He cleared his throat and tried to summon a rational word or two, but none came.

  ‘It just happened.’

  ‘It just happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What the hell are you saying? Who am I even talking to here?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Oh my God, what’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I . . . I had a stroke. You can tell Jonnerblad that.’

  She was saying nothing. His eye fell on his left hand, which was resting on the dark-stained kitchen table, and for a moment he felt as though it belonged to someone else. How could one tell?

  ‘OK then, I’ll tell him that. You got a letter, then you had a stroke. Is that what you want me to say?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Gunnar, you . . . you’re not serious, are you? And what does the letter say this time? Try to get a grip. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No I bloody haven’t.’

  ‘Good. You sound like yourself at last. You know what, I think I’ll come round and pick up that letter personally.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You can borrow my gloves. I don’t suppose you brought any of your own?’

  ‘Gunnar, what on earth’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I imagine I . . . I had some kind of mental collapse.’

  ‘Mental collapse? Why?’

  ‘No idea. I don’t normally. It felt as if . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As if I just froze to the spot.’

  ‘Froze to the spot? Where were you?’

  ‘Here, at the kitchen table. I must have been stuck here for a quarter of an hour before I managed to call you. Couldn’t move.’

  ‘And now? Do you feel any better?’

  ‘Yes. I’m starting to thaw out.’

  ‘You look pretty ropey, I have to say.’

  ‘Tha
nks.’

  ‘You ought to go to the doctor. It could . . . it could be something neurological.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Here, read the letter.’

  Detective Inspector Eva Backman regarded him critically for a few more seconds, then did as he had said. She read the short text, frowned, shot him a glance across the table and read it again.

  ‘Gunnar?’ she said. ‘He writes Gunnar, nothing else.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And that he’s going to be the last one?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s talking directly to you. It could be that as well.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti nodded. Inspector Backman sat in silence for a few moments and then something appeared to occur to her. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. She leant a little closer to him.

  ‘Is he going to kill someone else, a person called Gunnar? Or is he going to kill someone else, called we don’t know what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Or . . . ?’

  He gave a start. ‘What?’

  She shot him a quick glance, furtive almost, then turned her attention to the letter and studied it carefully again.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s discount that possibility. I think . . .’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think he’s going to kill someone else and it’s someone called Gunnar. Or rather, he’s probably already done it.’

  He drummed the fingers of his left hand gently on the table, and she gave him that motherly, womanly look again. What possibility is she talking about, he wondered. What’s up with me? I feel as if I’m in an aquarium.

  ‘You agree with that interpretation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She leant closer still. He was aware of the scent of newly washed hair.

  ‘Gunnar, did your . . . that thing you described happening to you . . . has it got some connection with this letter? It happened when you were reading it, didn’t you say?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You don’t look quite normal.’

  ‘I never have. It’s hereditary.’