The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Life isn’t easy,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘So you’ve come to me and Saarikoski for some peace of mind?’ said Axel Wallman, scratching his armpits. ‘On your doctor’s advice . . . well, that could mean he’s a wise man after all. On the rubbish heap, we’re all the same. Small and insignificant, I grant you, but all the same.’

  ‘It’s a woman,’ said Barbarotti. ‘My doctor, that is.’

  ‘Yikes,’ said Wallman. ‘Did I tell you I was a virgin?’

  ‘You did mention it, yes.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed on that front since Sunday.’

  Barbarotti reflected for a moment.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ he said. ‘I could do with a bit of exercise. There’s a track along by the lake in that direction, isn’t there?’

  ‘Well there was yesterday, at any rate,’ said Wallman. ‘Though we’ve decided to skip our walk today, Saarikoski and I. So you’ll have to manage by yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  After about half an hour, when he had gone a good way round the edge of the lake and worked up a bit of a sweat, his phone buzzed in his pocket. An incoming text message. Just another reporter trying to winkle out the truth, thought Barbarotti, but he stopped and checked the message anyway.

  Thinking of you. Marianne.

  Marianne, thought Inspector Barbarotti. She’s thinking of me. Wow, thank you God!

  He sank down onto a rock on the shore of the lake. A sudden feeling of fatigue swept over him. It wasn’t at all like what he had felt at the kitchen table, but put him more in mind of . . . of champagne? It was all over in three seconds, however. Thinking of you. Imagine three words carrying such weight. A flock of Canada geese – carrying quite a bit of weight themselves – were sitting there sunning themselves just a few metres from him, but his presence didn’t seem to bother them. The least of these my brethren, thought Barbarotti. Got to answer, this is crunch time. A few well chosen words and my soul is safely in port.

  It took him a good while to compose his message. Finally he keyed it in with trembling fingers.

  As I am of you. Gunnar.

  He was content with the result of his deliberations. No big words; little words expressing big thoughts are better than the other way round, his Swedish teacher had always tried to impress on them in class. (Understatement is more effective than hyperbole in virtually all phases of life, remember that everybody!) He took the opportunity of sending a grateful thought in her direction now.

  Then he stayed on his rock for a while, pondering the remarkable choreography of existence, pondering that form he had completed on his balcony the night before, and the bumpy road he had travelled to his present position in life’s system of coordinates, and Marianne – and whether there would be another incoming buzz.

  But there wasn’t. Oh well, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, I’m happy enough with what I’ve got. I’ve put that bit of distance between myself and the valley of the shadow of death, and one can’t ask too much. He got to his feet and set off back to Axel Wallman’s shack.

  Inspector Backman called at around five to tell him she hoped to show up in a couple of hours’ time. Barbarotti instantly started firing off his battery of accumulated questions, but she interrupted him and said he would just have to wait until they met face to face. There was quite a lot to tell him, the day had been far from wasted as far as the investigation went, but how was he doing himself? And was she really going to have to make the acquaintance of that weirdo Wallman?

  ‘Yes, he’s part of the package,’ admitted Barbarotti. ‘For today, at any rate. I’m spending the night here, but you needn’t. Fresh air and invigorating forest walks, these are the leaves from which I shall weave my cure.’

  ‘Poetic.’

  ‘Yes, but a quotation, unfortunately. But be that as it may, I can’t think of anything better . . . though actually, my brain’s been in touch, and tells me it could do with something to get its teeth into.’

  ‘I can supply plenty of that,’ promised Eva Backman. ‘And you haven’t had any more attacks?’

  ‘Not even a whisker of one,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Welcome to Paradise Scrapheap, lovely lady,’ said Axel Wallman, making the effort when she finally put in an appearance just after seven thirty. ‘I prefer women police officers, just as I prefer women priests.’

  Barbarotti had prepared her for Axel Wallman, as far as he possibly could.

  ‘Thank you,’ was her simple reply. ‘Is dinner ready then, as I was promised?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘You’re married, I suppose?’ said Wallman.

  ‘Big beefy husband and three kids,’ said Backman.

  ‘I’m single myself,’ said Wallman.

  ‘I guessed that,’ said Backman.

  ‘How the hell could you guess that?’

  ‘My feminine intuition.’

  ‘That’s what terrifies me,’ said Wallman. ‘You women, you have this way of seeing straight through a person. You’re a mystery to me. How does it feel, being so mysterious?’

  They spent about an hour eating and chatting, including a rendition of a couple of fairly short poems by their host, and then he and Saarikoski withdrew, leaving the two DIs in peace on the verandah. Backman produced a file from her briefcase, and this time it was blue.

  ‘First of all, congratulations,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘You’re no longer suspected of a crime. Expressen withdrew its complaint. In principle, you can come back to work first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Though as I understand it, I’m signed off sick. What’s all this about the press and their sources? I saw the newsstands on my way out here.’

  ‘They told us the way it happened,’ said Backman. ‘Expressen and Aftonbladet, both of them. He sent them letters, too.’

  ‘Handwritten, left-handed?’

  ‘No, these weren’t, actually. They’d been printed out on a standard printer. They were sent to a named reporter at each paper, Göran Persson and Henning Clausson respectively. But they apparently can’t be traced back. In this latest instance, identical copies were sent to each paper, about half an A4 page . . . have you read what they wrote?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti shook his head.

  ‘Well, forget it. I think I can safely say we’ve found the relevant Gunnar though, and that’s the main thing. We’ve been talking to friends and acquaintances of Anna Eriksson all day, and they confirm she had a relationship with a guy called Gunnar Öhrnberg.’

  ‘Öhrnberg?’

  ‘Yes. They were together for most of 2002, evidently. They never lived under the same roof, but were considered a couple even so . . . from March to sometime just before Christmas, it seems. He lived in Borås at the time, and she was here in Kymlinge. And they went to France together that summer, somewhere in Brittany. She sent cards to a couple of her friends, and one of them’s postmarked Quimper.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Yes, and our witnesses in Gothenburg claim the Malmgrens were somewhere in Brittany too, that summer . . . five years ago, that is.’

  ‘Brittany,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘No,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Have you?’

  He nodded. ‘I have, actually. Impressive scenery, quite wild, amazing cliffs . . . seafood paradise. Hydrangeas everywhere, with enormous blooms that look like cauliflowers. We were there once, before the boys were born, early nineties, just Helena, Sara and me . . . go on.’

  Eva Backman leafed through her file. ‘There were a couple of pictures of Gunnar Öhrnberg in Anna Eriksson’s album, too, but we didn’t know then . . . including a nude shot.’

  ‘You said you’d found him.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by found. We know most of what there is to know about him: he’s thirty-seven and lives in Hallsberg these days, works as a teacher at
an upper secondary called Avenue School, history and social studies. Term started on Monday, well just for the staff . . . but I’m afraid he didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Didn’t turn up?’ repeated Barbarotti.

  ‘No, he didn’t. And in fact, it seems nobody’s seen him for the past week.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  She stared out into the darkness for a few moments before answering him.

  ‘It seems there are grounds for suspicion, yes. He’s got no family. He’d been away travelling during the summer holidays, apparently. Particularly the west coast. He’s a diving instructor too, based at a place called Kungshamn. But he came home to Hallsberg at the start of August, we know that for sure. A couple of us are going up there tomorrow to check over his flat . . . Jonnerblad said you could tag along if you felt like it.’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Me and Astor Nilsson. Some forensics officers from the Örebro force are meeting us up there.’

  Barbarotti thought about it for two seconds.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a date with my psychiatrist, but I’ll cancel it.’

  ‘I’d be very glad personally to have you along.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Barbarotti. ‘You’re a great cop. If a bit soft . . . anything else?’

  She gave a laugh. ‘Well, there’s been a lot of discussion about whether the Gothenburg force should take over the investigation, or the whole thing should be passed to the National CID. But as we’ve already got people from both of those helping us out, Sylvenius decided we’re going to carry on as we are. Though we’ve had to rely on more help from Gothenburg with the Malmgrens, of course.’

  ‘Excellent. You can’t change the line-up mid-match. What about the husband, by the way, has he surfaced anywhere?’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘No, not yours. Henrik Malmgren, I mean.’

  ‘Ah. No, he hasn’t surfaced. Neither has mine, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I see. And those photos, I assume you’ve got them with you?’

  Eva Backman took a pile of papers out of the folder. ‘They’re not the originals, you’ll have to make do with scanned copies. But they’re just as sharp.’

  She spread them out on the table. Barbarotti leant forward and started studying them.

  There were seven of them, as she’d said. Seven holiday snaps, a bit amateurish, a couple of them slightly out of focus. Format ten by fifteen centimetres. Unless anyone had accidentally shrunk or enlarged them in the scanning process.

  Three of them – and the focus of these was relatively sharp – showed the outdoor seating area of a restaurant. In the middle of the day, judging by the light. People round a table, others in the background. A climbing plant in flower against a wall. Without a moment’s hesitation he identified four of the individuals. They were the four victims: Erik Bergman, Anna Eriksson, Henrik and Katarina Malmgren.

  ‘Which one’s Gunnar Öhrnberg? Him?’

  He pointed to a physically fit-looking man in his thirties, with dark hair and a prominent nose. He remembered what she had said about Zlatan Ibrahimović. She nodded.

  He checked the other pictures. Gunnar Öhrnberg featured in four of them in total, but there was only one in which the entire quintet appeared, and that was one of the restaurant pictures. It was also the only one in which Katarina and Henrik Malmgren could be seen together.

  ‘It was their camera . . . wasn’t it? The Malmgrens’, I mean.’

  Eva Backman shrugged her shoulders. ‘We think so.’

  ‘There’s a sixth person here, a guy in the restaurant and boules pitch shots.’

  Backman nodded and checked her watch. ‘The sixth man, yeah.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘That’s what we’re calling him. Know what, Gunnar, I’ve been staring at these photos all day. If we’re driving up to Hallsberg tomorrow, I could do with a good night’s kip. I’ll leave you to pore over them and draw your own conclusions in peace and quiet. Then we can discuss them in the car tomorrow. Is that OK for you?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Barbarotti. ‘What time are we leaving?’

  ‘Eight o’clock from police HQ. Are you really going to sleep here tonight? I mean . . . here?’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I shared a flat with this lout for three years. I’ll be there at eight sharp tomorrow morning.’

  Eva Backman studied him for a few seconds with a deep frown, then she got to her feet and went off into the darkness. He heard her start the car, saw the cones of light from her headlights briefly rake the trees as she backed round, and thirty seconds later, silence again reigned supreme over Paradise Scrapheap.

  26

  He decided it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more systematic. He got a pen and a notepad from the briefcase he had with him and numbered the seven photos. The restaurant pictures ended up as 4 and 5, the cliffs 6 and 7.

  Thoroughness is a virtue, he thought. Picture by picture, there’s a murderer hidden here somewhere.

  Picture 1

  Setting: Restaurant, outside tables. Small group of people round a table. Wall with climbing plant. Plates of food, wine bottles and glasses on the table.

  Time: Day.

  People: Erik Bergman, Anna Eriksson, Gunnar Öhrnberg, Henrik Malmgren, Katarina Malmgren.

  Taken by: Unclear. Could be the Sixth Man?

  Comments: Some other restaurant patrons visible in the background, plus half a waiter in black and white. Everyone round the table looking into the camera except Anna Eriksson who seems to be staring at something above the photographer’s head. All smiling like you do when you know a picture’s being taken, looking a bit strained. Empty chair on the right of the table nearest the camera, could be the photographer’s?

  Picture 2

  Setting: The same restaurant. Time: A bit later. Coffee cups on the table.

  People: Erik Bergman, Anna Eriksson, Gunnar Öhrnberg, all sitting along the left-hand side of the table, same positions as in Picture 1.

  Taken by: Henrik or Katarina Malmgren. Or the Sixth Man. The picture is taken from their side of the table.

  Comments: They are unaware of being photographed. Erik Bergman is looking to the right at something outside the shot. Gunnar Öhrnberg is lighting a cigarette for Anna Eriksson. The hand and half the lower arm of someone else, probably male, visible in the bottom right-hand corner. An unknown woman is standing behind Erik Bergman, leaning forward slightly, but is presumably not a member of the group.

  Picture 3

  Setting: The same.

  Time: Roughly as in picture 2.

  People: Henrik Malmgren, the Sixth Man, Gunnar Öhrnberg.

  Taken by: Katarina Malmgren?

  Comments: Picture taken sideways, from the end of the table.

  None of the subjects seem aware of being photographed. Gunnar Öhrnberg is not on the same side of the table as the two other men, and looks to be leaning forward to say something to the Sixth Man.

  Barbarotti took a break and stared out into the darkness. He tried to remember the title of a film he had once seen, a thriller – the whole thing revolved round identifying individuals in some old photos in order to find a murderer – but its name escaped him. He couldn’t remember much else about the film, either, except that it involved enlarged, grainy pictures, faces of unfamiliar but significant people who stayed in the observer’s mind. The enigmatic quality in the identity of a face, the strange process of something living being captured, forever a fixed point in the flow of time. It must have been at least twenty years since he saw the film, black and white if he remembered rightly, it could even have been a really old one.

  He pushed these reflections aside and bent to his work again. His eyes homed in on the unknown figure, the sixth guest at the table. Picture 3 was undoubtedly the shot in which he could be seen best. A tall man of about thirty, quite tanned. A white, short-sleeved shirt, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. Short hair, browny blonde, and a
thin face with a few distinctive features: wide mouth, longish nose, regularly shaped jaw.

  He looks, thought Inspector Barbarotti, he looks like just about anybody.

  Anybody at all. He picked up his pen and his classification list again.

  Picture 4

  Setting: A park.

  Time: Early evening.

  People: There are at least twenty people in the shot, most at some distance. A group of men playing boules, two elderly ladies chatting on a park bench, a shaggy dog nosing a tree trunk. In the foreground, 4–5m from the camera, Henrik Malmgren, Anna Eriksson and Erik Bergman are standing. Anna Eriksson is licking an ice cream. Henrik Malmgren is taking a drag on his cigarette.

  Taken by: Katarina Malmgren?

  Comments: On the left of the picture, the corner of a small building and the edge of a striped awning, which could be an ice-cream kiosk. The three group members could be waiting for the others to buy their ice creams. The picture is slightly out of focus.

  Picture 5

  Setting: The same park.

  Time: Same time or soon afterwards.

  People: Erik Bergman, Anna Eriksson, Gunnar Öhrnberg, Henrik Malmgren, the Sixth Man. They are in a row, watching the game of boules. Several boules players and a few other people are also in the shot.

  Taken by: Katarina Malmgren?

  Comments: This picture is not quite in focus either. Gunnar Öhrnberg’s arm is round Anna Eriksson. There’s a degree of uniformity about the men. All are wearing pale-coloured, short-sleeved shirts, knee-length shorts and sandals without socks. Fairly tanned, all in their thirties. Henrik Malmgren maybe stands out slightly, a bit shorter than the other three and the only one with glasses. Anna Eriksson is still holding an ice cream.

  Picture 6

  Setting: Cliffs, a flat rock overlooking the sea.

  Time: Day.

  People: Anna Eriksson, Erik Bergman, Katarina Malmgren, all three in swimwear, sitting with their backs against the cliff and sunbathing.