by Håkan Nesser
‘I don’t mean it like that. But you’re as white as a sheet, and yesterday you had a tan.’
‘Oh?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.
‘Have you got a plastic bag?’
He took one out of the kitchen drawer and she dropped the letter in it. Peeled off the gloves and sealed the bag.
‘How do you feel now?’
He shrugged. ‘A bit better? But kind of muffled, somehow.’
‘Can you follow my finger with your eyes?’
She moved it from right to left in front of his face. ‘No, without turning you head.’
He obliged without protest but she made no comment on how he had performed in the test. What’s she up to? he thought. Does she suspect it really was a stroke?
But then his own opinion on the matter was also shrouded in darkness. She merely sat there for a while, scrutinizing him across the kitchen table. Then she seemed to come to a decision and got to her feet.
‘Gunnar, I’m going to contact Olltman. You stay at home, and I’ll ring you in an hour, OK?’
He took his time answering. Olltman, he thought. Yes, maybe that’s the right thing. Why not?
He hadn’t seen Olltman for a long time. Not since he and Eva Backman had helped Kristoffersson, a colleague of theirs, to her consulting rooms early one spring morning four or five years ago – after Kristoffersson had spent ten hours staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle out in a summer cabin near Kvarntorpa. It had ended with another fellow officer, Nyman, shooting the rifle owner and blowing half his brains out. Some of them had landed in Kristoffersson’s lap, Barbarotti remembered.
Olltman was good. Everybody knew she was good. Even though they rarely talked about her.
He nodded, but realized he would never have agreed but for the fact that Olltman was a woman. Under any circumstances. He wondered why.
23
Her consulting rooms were on Badhusgatan, opposite the tennis courts, and he arrived twenty minutes early. He sat there with an old National Geographic in his hands while he waited. It was all about killer whales; he knew nothing more about killer whales by the time Olltman emerged and shook him by the hand a quarter of an hour later than he had done when he got there.
‘Good to see you, Gunnar,’ she said, showing him into a room with a colour scheme of green and desert sand. ‘I think we’ve met a couple of times before.’
‘Once, anyway,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But it was a few years ago now.’
She nodded, and they each took a seat in one of the stylish and ergonomic Bruno Mathsson armchairs. On the diminutive table between them stood a bowl of grapes and a clock.
Tell me why you’re here.’
‘I’m here because my colleague Eva Backman sent me.’
‘Sent you?’
‘Thought I ought to come.’
‘But you didn’t object to her suggestion?’ He thought about it.
‘No.’
‘Good. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?’
‘I think . . . I think I might be a bit depressed.’
‘Depressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘How does that manifest itself?’
‘I don’t feel good.’
‘I understand. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, the same as I ask everybody who comes to see me. It’s to help me get a picture as quickly as I can of how you’re feeling. You may not think all the questions are relevant, but it would be good if you could still answer them as honestly as you can. Is that all right for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re feeling depressed?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘How long has it been like this?’
‘Not that long. A few weeks, I suppose.’
‘Are you eating properly?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘Breakfast, lunch and dinner?’
‘Usually.’
‘Alcohol? How much do you drink?’
‘Not all that much.’
‘All right. And how’s your concentration?’
‘Conecentration? I don’t quite get . . .’
‘Have you noticed yourself finding it hard to focus properly? Hard to make decisions?’
He pondered. ‘Well yes, I have, actually. I’m not as sharp as usual.’
‘Has this got worse recently?’
‘I think so.’
‘OK. Any problems sleeping?’
‘Not as such. Though . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Though I did sleep badly last night.’
She wrote something on her pad and he couldn’t suppress a yawn.
‘Has anything happened lately that you can link to your not feeling so good?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, a thing or two. Maybe you read the papers?’
She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘Yes, but not Expressen.’
‘But you’ve been informed?’
‘Yes. And you connect this reporter incident with not feeling good?’
He gave a shrug. ‘He didn’t make me feel any better, that’s for sure. And besides . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t hit him, I just gave him a little push to get him out of the door.’
‘And the headlines turned that into assault?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have lost your temper with him, even so. Do you feel that’s been happening more readily of late?’
‘I don’t think so. I consider losing one’s temper with the tabloid press to be a healthy sign.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because things are as they are.’
‘How do you mean?’
He thought briefly and then found the words.
‘They’re infantilizing the whole population. Them and the reality TV shows. We’ll have nothing but morons in this country within twenty years.’
She gave another smile and he assumed she was with him on that point.
‘What’s more, they set themselves up as prosecutors, judges and whippers-in, all in one big jumble.’
‘I can agree with a fair bit of that,’ said Olltman. ‘But something more acute happened today, didn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was that?’
He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. ‘I don’t know what happened. It all just went, kind of . . . black. And then I couldn’t move. It’s hard for me to describe.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At home. I was sitting at my kitchen table.’
‘Having breakfast?’
‘No . . . no, I’d just read a letter.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes. You’re bound by professional confidentiality?’
‘Of course.’
‘To everyone and in all contexts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you familiar with these murders that have been committed in Kymlinge recently?’
‘Roughly speaking, yes.’
‘Are you aware, too, that the murderer writes letters saying who he intends to kill?’
‘So I understand.’
‘I received another one of those letters this morning. I think that was what triggered . . . whatever it was that happened.’
‘I see. You received a letter telling you to expect another murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. We’ve just had two other victims confirmed, from Gothenburg. We have four people dead . . . plus this fifth one in my letter today. That’s a lot.’
She nodded thoughtfully, stroking her cheek with one finger. He found himself wondering what sort of age she was. Between fifty-five and sixty, presumably, but because she was so slenderly built, she could pass for considerably younger. At least from a slight distance.
And she was at a slight distance, sitting a metre and a half from him. He could see he had rattled her. Of course, he wasn’t a standard patient, he realized that; here he sat, rabbiting on about five dead bodies
as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and they weren’t figments of his imagination, either. This was real, it was actual. And yet . . . and yet it wasn’t about those dead people, he thought, just at that moment, it was actually about him. Temporarily suspended Detective Inspector Gunnar Barbarotti. He somehow felt he had to keep reminding himself of this at regular intervals.
‘Can you tell me in a bit more detail how it felt when this happened, at the kitchen table?’
He went through it again for her. He didn’t feel he was finding the right words, but she listened and nodded as if she understood, some of it at least. Or maybe she was just trying to encourage him?
‘What did the letter say? You needn’t give me chapter and verse of course, but was it different from those you’d read before? You’ve had . . . how many is it now?’
‘Five in all. This was the fifth. Yes, it was a bit different.’
‘In what way?’
‘For one thing, he said it was the last letter, and there was only one more person left to murder . . . and for another, it felt as if he was addressing me more directly than before.’
‘I don’t really understand what you mean.’
‘Sorry. It was just that for a moment I got the impression it was my turn next.’
‘That he intended to kill you?’
‘Yes, though I’m sure that isn’t the case. And it wasn’t obvious at the time, either. But it just came washing over me, and . . . well, then my colleague indicated the possibility. Or at least I thought that’s what she was doing.’
‘That all seems a bit unclear.’
‘And so it is, but nonetheless, that was the thought that brought on my paralysis.’
‘Paralysis? Do you think that’s a good expression for the way you felt?’
He thought about it.
‘Yes, that feels pretty right to me.’
More nodding, as if she was discreetly rewarding him for giving several right answers in a row.
‘Are you finding it painful to talk about this?’
‘Not particularly. I . . . I have confidence in you.’
‘Thank you. But there is one other thing I’ve got to ask you . . . to go back to your feelings of depression. Have you ever felt so depressed that you’ve considered taking your own life?’
‘No,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Now or previously?’
‘No, I don’t think it would ever occur to me.’
‘You’ve never had any thought of that kind?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s look at your situation more generally. Are there other factors that you think might be playing some role in your feeling down? Things that have happened in your life recently?’
He took a long time to answer, but she didn’t rush him. She just sat there calmly, not moving, leaning back in her armchair, her right leg crossed over her left, waiting patiently. He thought that was a quality he admired, patience. Maybe because he didn’t possess very much of it himself.
‘Hrrm, yes,’ he said finally. ‘There are a few things, when I come to think about it. Though I don’t normally think about it.’
She gave another of her fleeting smiles.
‘No, we don’t always think about things,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it’s time now. Can you tell me what’s been having a negative impact on you recently?’
‘My daughter, for one,’ he said.
‘And what about your daughter?’
‘She’s left home. She’s nineteen, finished upper secondary last summer, and now she lives in London and has got together with some shaggy musician.’
‘A shaggy musician?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen him.’
‘But you’re worried about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very worried?’
‘Worried as hell. I’ve been divorced for nearly six years. Sara’s been living with me since my wife and I separated, and I miss her. I’ve got two sons as well, but they live in Denmark with their mother and her new guy.’
‘So you have a closer relationship with Sara than with your sons?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long is Sara staying in London?’
He gave a shrug. ‘Who can say? I mean I know she’s left home, I get that, but I’m worried about her. I suppose she’s going to come back to study at some stage, this is one of those gap years they like to give themselves these days. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, I realize all parents go through this.’
‘Have you been over to see her?’
‘Planning to go in September.’
‘Good. My son pushed off to Geneva after he finished upper secondary. I was worried too, but once I’d seen him in his new surroundings, it passed.’
‘It’s worse with girls.’
‘I can see that. But I think it would be good for you to see her in her new habitat. Are there any other things worrying you?’
He ate three grapes before answering her.
‘I’ve proposed to this woman, but I’m scared she’s going to say no.’
‘Ah? Have you known her long?’
‘About a year.’
‘And you want to marry her?’
‘Why else would I have proposed?’
‘OK. And she lives here in Kymlinge?’
‘Helsingborg. She lives in Helsingborg.’
‘I see. And when did you propose?’
‘A week ago. She was meant to be giving me her answer today, but now an official complaint’s been lodged against me for punching a reporter from Expressen, she’s put it off until Saturday.
Dr Olltman looked surprised, then she changed legs. Crossed the left over the right instead, and appeared to be considering.
‘Are there any other negative elements in your life?’
‘The fight with the reporter wasn’t good. People think I’m a police bully.’
‘Mhmm?’
‘I’ve been suspended from work.’
‘You’re not working on the case any more?’
‘No.’
‘More? Is there anything more?’
‘I don’t know if I really want to be a police officer any more. I . . . I’m sitting there on my own in my bloody flat, feeling like a pig on tarmac.’
She gave a laugh. ‘A pig on tarmac, I haven’t heard that one before.’
‘Nor me, it just came to me. Though I’ve no real idea whether pigs are unhappy on tarmac or not. I know hardly anything about pigs.’
‘That makes two of us.’
He could see she was finding it hard not to burst out laughing, but then she took a deep breath and assumed a serious expression. She quietly watched him with her intensely blue eyes. Interesting that it’s possible still to have such blue eyes at that age, he thought. They look more as though they belong in the skull of an eighteen year old.
‘So if I can just summarize for a moment,’ she said, stretching a little in her seat, ‘a variety of things have exercised a negative influence on your life in recent months. Your daughter’s left home. You feel lonely and aren’t happy with your job. You’ve found a new woman, but you’re not sure whether she really wants to live with you. You’re receiving strange letters from a murderer. You’ve been reported to the police for hitting a reporter and you’ve been suspended from work. Have I got that more or less right?’
He toyed with adding that he kept wondering about the meaning of life, but decided to leave it. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s right, by and large,’ he said.
She smiled and the blue in her eyes seemed to spill over a little. ‘Do you find it so surprising that you’re not feeling good . . . in the circumstances?’
He considered this. ‘No, you’re probably right. But it would still be nice if something could be done about it.’
‘We can always try. If you were to weigh up all these things, which one would you say was worst?’
‘Marianne,’ he said instantly. ‘Or Sara . . . though Sara’s sort of out of my reach.’
‘I assume so.’
‘But Marianne is the woman you’ve proposed to?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s going to give you her answer on Saturday?’
‘I hope so.’
‘What’s the worst thing that could happen?’
‘Her saying no, of course.’
Dr Olltman folded her hands. ‘But if she says yes, then you could live with all the rest?’
‘Yes . . . ?’
‘The murderer’s letters and the Expressen reporter and the unsatisfactory work situation . . .’
‘Yes, in that case I could live with them.’
‘Good,’ said Dr Olltman. ‘I think I understand the way things are for you. If I signed you off sick for two weeks and we met for another session on Friday, how would that sound to you? Same time?’
‘No medication?’
‘We’ll wait and see after Saturday. But I want you to take this form home with you and fill it in this evening or tomorrow. It’s a sort of scale for estimating how you feel. It’ll take ten to fifteen minutes but it’s important that you sit down quietly somewhere and take it seriously. Then we can look at the results together on Friday, if that’s all right with you?’
She handed over a stapled sheaf of paper. He took it, rolled it into a tube and put it in his jacket pocket.
‘And I want you to ring me at once if you feel it’s all too much for you. Or if you find yourself suffering from those acute symptoms again. My mobile number is on the last page of the form. How are you feeling now?’
‘Like a pig in a muddy puddle.’
She laughed again. At least I’ve put her in a good mood, thought Inspector Barbarotti.
‘One more thing,’ she said when they were already back in the waiting room. ‘If you’ve a good friend you could go and stay with for the next few days, I really would recommend it.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘See you on Friday, then.’
‘Yeah, see you.’
They shook hands and parted.
24
By the time he got back home it was already three thirty. His mobile had been switched off for almost three hours, but when he put it back on there was only one message. No irate lead investigators. No journalists. My five minutes of fame, thought Barbarotti.
The message was from Eva Backman and she said he was welcome to ring if he felt like it. He made some coffee and took his cup out onto the balcony before he called her.
