The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘It’s entirely possible,’ said Klasson. ‘When you find him, I’ll be happy to take him on for a couple of weeks, but until then I don’t really know what to say about him. He’s something of an enigma to me, as I presume he is to all of you.’

  The briefing dragged on for a further half hour, but it seemed to Gunnar Barbarotti that nothing new emerged. Nothing that hadn’t already been said, one way or another, and he took Klasson’s term as the best summary of the perpetrator’s character.

  An enigma.

  A little later that afternoon, two emails went off to the French police. A short one in French – Tallin turned out to have some acquaintance with the language – and then a longer one in English. Barbarotti and Backman, meanwhile, drew up a six-page outline of the case, in English, including a summary of the Mousterlin document; around four thirty, they emailed it up to the National CID for language checking, and at five it was time for the press conference and the release of the Sixth Man’s photograph.

  Gunnar Barbarotti didn’t take part in the conference, but he knew they were going to stress that this didn’t mean they were hunting for a murderer. Only that the police urgently wanted to contact the person circled in the picture.

  It was taken in Brittany in France in the summer of 2002, and it was possible that he was in possession of information vital to the investigation into the five murders committed in various places around Sweden – with Kymlinge as a kind of grim hub – over the past month.

  That was how it would be presented and then it would be up to reporters, readers, listeners and viewers to interpret the message as best they could.

  Fat chance, thought Gunnar Barbarotti as he pulled his Crescent out of the cycle rack and set off home. For his part, he was under no illusions, and had no trouble visualizing the next morning’s headlines:

  THE MURDERER?

  And the picture of Gunnar Öhrnberg, Henrik Malmgren and the Sixth Man at that restaurant table.

  The first two of them murdered. Perhaps by the third, the one whose face was circled in white.

  Not a halo. Just the opposite.

  When I get home I’ll ring Marianne, and Sara as well, Gunnar Barbarotti decided. I’ve got to stop thinking about this. Get it out of my head, basically, or it’s going to burst. But before he had time to ring either of them, he had a call from the third woman in his life.

  Helena. His ex-wife. It took him a fraction of a second to remember that she existed, and he wondered what to put that down to.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Nice to hear from you.’

  ‘I hope it is,’ she said, ‘because there’s something we need to have a serious talk about. But only if you’ve got time.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ he assured her, and sank onto the sofa. He remembered the previous week’s conversation with Helena after the Göran Persson incident, and assumed that was still on her agenda.

  But it wasn’t.

  ‘Ulrich’s had this amazing offer.’

  Oh, he thought. And who the hell is Ulrich?

  He didn’t say it and that was just as well, because Ulrich was Helena’s new other half, of course, and his sons’ current father. When he came to think about it, he knew that was his name, of course – not Torben as he’d been imagining – and he’d just happened to repress it.

  ‘They want to put him in charge of a completely new yoga centre in Budapest. He’ll get a two-year contract and a flat in the middle of town. It’s ideal, and we’ll never get another chance like this again, but we’ve got to make our minds up within the week.’

  What is she talking about? thought Barbarotti. ‘Why is it ideal?’ he asked.

  ‘Because Ulrich speaks Hungarian, of course.’

  ‘Why on earth does he speak Hungarian?’

  ‘Because he’s Hungarian, you daft idiot.’

  ‘You’ve never told me that.’

  ‘I’m sure I have.’

  ‘I was convinced he was Danish. How the heck can a Hungarian be called Ulrich?’

  ‘His mum’s Danish. But he was born in Debrecen and he lived there until he was ten.’

  ‘All right,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I believe you. So what has this got to do with me?’

  He could feel himself getting tetchy and took a deep breath to try to calm down.

  ‘The boys, of course.’

  ‘The boys?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve discussed all the options, and it doesn’t seem very practical to drag them off to Budapest. I’m sorry about that, I really am, but the flat’s too small. There’s a wonderful view of the Danube, though.’

  ‘So you mean . . .’

  ‘Yes. I think it would be best for Lars and Martin to live with you for a couple of years. But only if you think so too, of course. Now Sara’s moved out and everything, I thought it might suit all parties.’

  All parties? wondered Gunnar Barbarotti. I know which party you represent.

  But he took two deep breaths and thought about it. The maturity that had been afflicting him lately was continuing to make its presence felt. Keeping things nice and cool through all the phases of his life.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And what do they think about it?’

  ‘We haven’t told them yet. I wanted to sound you out first.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d discussed all the options?’

  ‘Ulrich and I have, not the children.’

  ‘OK,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Talk to Lars and Martin tonight, then, and ask them to give me a ring. I might be getting married soon, but presumably that’s not a problem?’

  The line went very quiet and he thought they must have been cut off.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m still here. Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I wanted to discuss it with my wife-to-be first.’

  It sounded unnecessarily petulant and he bit his tongue.

  ‘All right. If that’s the way you want it, then fine. But I’ll talk to the boys. And tell them that little bit of news as well. Has she got a name?’

  ‘Marianne.’

  ‘Marianne? That was the name of the girl you’d just broken up with when you and I met. It isn’t her, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘It isn’t her.’

  ‘Good. We’ll be in touch later this evening, then.’

  ‘You can tell the boys I’d enjoy having them with me.’

  Helena promised to do so and they ended the call.

  I didn’t mention that I might be moving to Helsingborg, thought Barbarotti, and went into the kitchen to put on a pan of water for some pasta.

  But then again, Helsingborg wasn’t in Hungary.

  He had finished eating and was on the point of calling Sara when Tallin rang.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Tallin here. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Barbarotti. ‘How did the press conference go?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ said Tallin. ‘They got their juicy bone, didn’t they, so it was all over in half an hour. How’s your French?’

  ‘I can count to twenty on a good day,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you and I are flying down there tomorrow morning. A female colleague who speaks fluent French is coming with us to be on the safe side. An inspector from Gothenburg.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to the police down there?’

  ‘Only by email. But it seems to work well enough. We’re off to Quimper to meet a commissaire called Leblanc.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Barbarotti. ‘Why . . . why isn’t Jonnerblad going?’

  ‘Because his wife’s having an operation on Wednesday. Cancer. He’s going up to Stockholm tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Nor me. He didn’t say a thing until yesterday. We’ll just have to hope it all goes well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti, and was suddenly struck by how little he knew about his temporary colleagues. Nothing about their
families, hobbies or leisure interests. Not even what football teams they supported.

  Almost the same as with the murderer, he thought.

  ‘We think three days should do it,’ said Tallin. ‘Back home on Friday. Does that work for you?’

  ‘I’ve got something really important on Friday evening,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘No problem,’ said Tallin. ‘We’ll be home by then. The flight leaves from Landvetter at 10.50 tomorrow. A car will pick you up at quarter past eight. We’ll leave our planning and so on for the way down. Right then, that’s that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Barbarotti.

  After this conversation with Tallin, he realized he didn’t feel up to talking to either Sara or Marianne. So he put on some fado music, made a cup of tea and started reading the notes from Mousterlin for the third time. Just as well to be as prepared as possible, he thought. If we’re going to be treading in the murderer’s footsteps.

  He carried on right to the end this time, too, and it was after twelve by the time he fell into bed. Just as he put out the light, he realized he’d heard nothing from Lars or Martin.

  This simple fact kept him awake for at least another hour after that.

  34

  At Landvetter he caught sight of the first headlines, and they more or less matched what he had anticipated.

  But none of the papers actually used the word ‘Murderer’. They had gone with ‘Wanted’ and ‘Who Are You?’ instead. Thank heavens for small mercies, thought Barbarotti. Perhaps Jonnerblad and Tallin had made some impact with their appeal for self-control at yesterday’s press conference, after all.

  Or perhaps they had simply lied.

  ‘Nice to get away, today of all days,’ commented Tallin. ‘Look, here comes our French companion.’

  Carina Morelius didn’t look very French. Barbarotti had unconsciously been expecting an elfin figure with short black hair, soulful eyes and sharp wits; Inspector Morelius was more reminiscent of a Norwegian women’s skiing champion. Or a former Norwegian women’s skiing champion; she looked to be in her forties and was tall, blonde and powerfully built.

  ‘I’m glad you were able to make time for this,’ said Tallin once the introductions were out of the way. ‘Our commissaire supposedly speaks English, but you never know.’

  ‘The pleasure’s mine,’ said Carina Morelius. ‘On principle, I never turn down a trip to France. So you’re the famous Barbarotti?’

  She actually said it without irony or undertone, so he accepted it at face value. ‘Oui,’ he said. ‘The bloke who makes short work of jumped-up reporters and who’s given police violence a face of its own.’

  She laughed. ‘There are all sorts, I assume. Police and journalists, I mean.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘This is an absolutely shocking story. I’ve only had it from the papers and TV, of course, but I expect you’ll have time to put me in the picture on the way down.’

  ‘We certainly will,’ said Tallin, checking the time. ‘It’s six hours until we land in Quimper and you’re going to need it all. We’ve got a document of sixty-four densely written pages for you to study, amongst other things.’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Inspector Morelius, and Barbarotti could detect no irony there, either.

  At Quimper airport, it was raining.

  They were met by a young policewoman in uniform, holding a sign that said Talain, and Inspector Morelius immediately engaged her in conversation in a French that made her sound more or less like a native. As far as Barbarotti could judge, at any rate. But then she had lived in Lyons for five and a half years and been married to a Frenchman, a professional cyclist, until she left him for a masseur from just outside Gothenburg. She had given them this and other assorted pieces of information on the plane from Gothenburg to Paris, where they had all been sitting together. From Charles de Gaulle to Quimper it was full to bursting and the seats unnumbered, so they had to sit apart.

  Though of course the majority of their travelling time had been devoted to information and study material, just as Inspector Tallin had said.

  Tallin also addressed the occasional comment to the young policewoman as she piloted them into the town; he had already shown that he knew a bit of the language. Barbarotti, for his part, spent the journey staring out at the rain through the side window from his back seat. What am I doing here? he thought. What are they talking about? I’m going to be the country bumpkin for three days.

  But Commissaire Leblanc really did speak English. With a pronounced French accent, admittedly, but there was nothing wrong with his vocabulary. He was short and bald, and wore rimless glasses with little round lenses. He reminded Barbarotti of an actor whose name he couldn’t remember. Leblanc greeted them eloquently and served coffee, announcing that the CID at the Quimper préfecture de police, of which he was head, would do everything in its power to support its Swedish colleagues in their work.

  But he would require a fuller briefing on the case. He had read the faxes and Barbarotti and Backman’s overview, but they needed a little more meat on those bones, yes?

  For a good half hour, Tallin and Barbarotti did their best to provide this – with the occasional interjection in French from Inspector Morelius – and when they had finished, Leblanc took off his glasses, started polishing them with a little green cloth he took out of his desk drawer, and declared himself somewhat perplexed.

  ‘Dérouté. Betwixted, yes?’

  ‘Bewildered,’ decided Carina Morelius. ‘He says he’s a bit bewildered.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Tallin.

  ‘Because,’ said Leblanc, checking the shine on his glasses by holding them up to the strip light on his ceiling, ‘I do not remember a missing persons case that involved two people in the summer of 2002.’

  The room went very quiet. Inspector Tallin raised his right hand and lowered it again.

  ‘But there must have been a case,’ said Barbarotti.

  Leblanc gave an expansive Gallic shrug.

  ‘I understand that you believe this,’ he said. ‘But I have checked in our archives and there is no record of any such report.’

  ‘No missing girl, no missing grandmother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How strange,’ said Tallin.

  ‘We had a couple of Dutch tourists reported missing that summer, I do remember that,’ Leblanc went on. ‘A young man and woman, but they turned up later, somewhere near Perpignan. Drugs were involved in some way, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘But surely it’s impossible for the disappearance of two people to go unreported?’ asked Tallin.

  ‘Unfortunately not as impossible as we might wish,’ said Leblanc somewhat apologetically, putting his glasses back on. ‘There’s also a chance that it was reported to some other police authority. But tell me, do you get the impression that this girl’s grandmother had her own house near Mousterlin?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Tallin.

  ‘I’m not so sure of that,’ objected Barbarotti, ‘I actually think there could be other readings.’

  ‘Other readings?’ queried Leblanc.

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘The girl is the only one to mention the house, the first time they meet. But then it’s implied at various points that the girl isn’t really reliable. I read through his notes again last night, and—’

  ‘I don’t really know if I agree with this,’ Tallin interrupted, but Leblanc ignored him.

  ‘Could she have been renting a house?’ he asked. ‘If they were here on holiday, I mean?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But the grandmother is never referred to by name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And we don’t get any idea of where this house is?’

  ‘No.’

  Barbarotti glanced over at Tallin, who gave a vaguely affirmative nod. ‘This house question isn’t entirely clear, it’s true,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I assumed when I read the notes that the old woman and her granddaughter lived in a house somewhere near Fou
esnant, and that the woman owned the house, but of course it’s possible that Inspector Barbarotti is right.’

  ‘He writes at one point that he thinks the girl is a compulsive storyteller,’ Barbarotti pointed out. ‘The first time I read his account, I thought for a while that there might not be any grandmother at all, and it was just something the girl made up. But then she appeared, so my suspicion was unfounded.’

  ‘Appeared and met her death,’ said Tallin.

  ‘It’s a horrible story,’ Inspector Morelius said in French.

  ‘All right,’ said Leblanc. ‘I think I’m starting to get a clear picture now. If a woman who has a house in Fouesnant goes missing with her grandchild, this matter will naturally come to our attention sooner or later. However, if we assume that it was not the grandmother the girl invented, but only the house, where does that leave us?’

  Barbarotti scratched his head and exchanged another vacant look with Tallin. ‘Yes, where does that leave us?’ he repeated. ‘It could even be the case that they weren’t staying in a house at all, but . . . ?’

  ‘At a campsite?’ supplied Tallin. ‘There are plenty of those in the area, aren’t there?’

  ‘Mais oui,’ said Leblanc enthusiastically. ‘Between Bénodet and Beg-Meil, the area behind Beg-Meil, that is, there are at least twenty of them. At that time of year, the middle of July to the end of August, we have enormous numbers of tourists here. Including thousands of campers. Mostly French people, of course, but also many from other countries. Britain, Holland and Germany. Some from Scandinavia, I really do hope there’ll be some time for you to see our wonderful scenery, not just to work. Ooh-la-la, le travail, le travail, toujours du travail . . . that is how it is in the French police, and I assume you are tormented the same way in your country?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Inspector Morelius in French. ‘Ça arrive.’

  ‘We’re staying until Friday,’ said Tallin. ‘So hopefully we’ll find time to see a few things. But if we go with the idea that the girl was staying with her grandmother at a campsite . . . what does that change? Their disappearance ought to have been reported, in any case?’

  Leblanc turned his hands palms up. ‘Of course. It’s bound to have been reported somewhere in the country. But going missing from a house and going missing from a tent are still two entirely different things.’