The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  Gunnar Öhrnberg and Anna Eriksson’s holiday accommodation took slightly longer to locate. It turned out to be roughly halfway between Mousterlin and Beg-Meil, and they went round in circles for a good while on the dirt roads that criss-crossed the polder area before they found the right place. They had not arranged to meet the owner here, either; Leblanc and Morelius had spoken to him on the phone early that morning, but he claimed to have rented his place out to so many crazy tourists over the years that he couldn’t tell them apart any longer. What was more, he was about to go out fishing and he didn’t intend to let the police get in his way. Des flics et des touristes! Jamais de la vie!

  Cops and tourists, not on your life, translated Morelius.

  When they arrived at Le Clos, which was the name of the third and – on the basis of all their well-founded hopes – most important house, it was four in the afternoon and there still wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The owner, a Monsieur Masson, had promised to show up around five, but had also said that if they happened to get there earlier, they were welcome to just go in through the gate and take a seat. There was a bakery a stone’s throw away, just as it said in the document, and it was about to open again after its lunch break; they trekked over and bought water, fruit, a newspaper and three pains au chocolat. They returned to Le Clos, sat down under the sun umbrella on the terrace and waited. Barbarotti judged it to be at least thirty-three degrees in the shade, and if they hadn’t had a female inspector with them he would have stripped down to his underpants.

  Because no one could have seen in. A rhododendron hedge, tall and dense, surrounded it on three sides. On the remaining side, facing the sea, a meadow stretched away, with grass a metre high. Barbarotti noted that you could hear the sea, even though it must be several hundred metres away. He guessed the tide must be on its way in.

  The house itself was not unlike the Malmgrens’. White, two-storeyed, with gable ends of grey stone. Blue shutters. A terrace with white plastic furniture, a blue and yellow sun umbrella. As though IKEA had laid claim to yet more territory. The gate was exactly the same shade of blue as Sorrysen’s litter bin.

  ‘This is the actual murder scene, then?’ said Inspector Morelius, breaking the neck of a banana.

  Barbarotti looked around him. ‘Presumably,’ he said. ‘Yes, this must be where it happened, on this terrace . . . and over there,’ he pointed, ‘we have the tool shed.’

  It was half hidden by the overhanging branches and leaves of a tree. To Barbarotti it looked like a chestnut, though the leaves were slightly the wrong shape. He drank some water, got up and went over to take a look. It was cooler in the shade beneath the lattice of branches and he lingered there; a slight breeze found its way in, too. He thought that if he lived here, he would undoubtedly spend a day like this in a deckchair under this very tree, whatever kind it was.

  So this was where the old woman’s body was lying, he thought next. While the Swedes sat over there on the terrace and discussed what to do with her.

  A frail old woman, her head smashed in by a Swedish spanner. He stared down into the grass by the corrugated iron wall of the shed. Just here, he presumed, on this little patch of grass and soil, this was where she was lying, a Frenchwoman dressed in black, with a straw hat of blood-red, and . . . a sudden light-headedness came over him, or perhaps it was sunstroke, a result not only of the heat but also of this whole story, incomprehensible yet somehow so tangible, with a protagonist who . . . well, who what?

  Who eluded any attempt to make head or tail of him, thought Barbarotti. That was surely the least one could say? Who had spent a few weeks in this peaceful little house, one summer five years ago, and who had seven people’s lives on his conscience. Maybe his own, too.

  Who are you, he wondered. Or who were you? What is the point of your story?

  Yesterday’s passage from the Bible came back into his mind.

  Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water; but a man of understanding will draw it out.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t that complicated when all was said and done? He had felt obliged to take revenge in order to find restitution, and he had felt obliged to explain himself. Just as he had written in his document. Wasn’t that sufficient explanation?

  His mobile rang. He gave a start, fished the phone out of his breast pocket and answered it.

  ‘Hi Dad! It’s Lars.’

  ‘Hi there, Lars!’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  For one brief second a possible continuation of the conversation played out in his head. If he were to stick rigidly to the truth.

  ‘I’m in France, Lars.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I’m standing on a lawn looking at a spot.’

  ‘What sort of spot is it?’

  ‘It’s the spot where some people put a murdered woman, five years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lars.’

  ‘Why did they? Have they taken her away now?’

  ‘Oh yes. Now the sun’s shining, and it’s all sweetness and light.’

  But no, the truth wasn’t always the best medicine when you were talking to your children.

  ‘I’m on a little trip at the moment,’ was what he actually said. ‘What are you and Martin up to?’

  ‘We just got in from school. Dad, we want to come and live with you. Can we?’

  ‘Of course you can. It would make me very happy to have you here, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh good. We’ll come then. I’ll tell Mum and Martin you’re happy about it.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘And ask Mum to ring me, so we can arrange when you’re coming and so on.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Dad,’ said Lars, and ended the call.

  So there it was, thought Barbarotti. Life and death.

  He put away his mobile and went back to the terrace.

  Henri Masson arrived a few minutes after five, bringing with him a bottle of local cider and a Breton cake as refreshments for his guests from afar.

  He was in his seventies, and sported a straw hat and a moustache of such audacious proportions that you could even see it when his back was turned.

  But his back was only briefly turned, while he closed the gate and checked the mailbox. After that, he was all sociability and bonhomie. And very willing to do his bit. Leblanc had given him a rough outline of the matter at stake, and perhaps it was Leblanc he was quoting once he had filled four tall glasses and was proposing a toast.

  ‘Pour la lutte contre la criminalité!’

  He didn’t have a word of English, but took an instant liking to Inspector Morelius and clearly enjoyed having his every word interpreted by such a delightful and striking woman.

  ‘So,’ said Tallin. ‘We’re interested in a Swedish man who rented this house from 27 June to 25 July 2002. His name was Erik Bergman. He may well have had someone else sharing the place with him, too, and we’d be grateful for any information you’re able to give us.’

  ‘I remember,’ declared Henri Masson, not without a hint of pride. ‘I’ve been renting out this house for many years, since the 1970s, but the summer of 2002 was actually the last time. I only had one more tenant after Monsieur Bergman.’

  Finally, thought Barbarotti once Morelius had finished translating, finally a bit of good fortune in this recalcitrant mess.

  ‘Naturally I always leave my guests in peace,’ Masson continued, twirling the tips of his moustache between finger and thumb. ‘But I come and cut the grass and take out the bins once a week. My wife and I live in the centre of Fouesnant, you see.’

  ‘Why did you stop renting the place out in 2002?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘I won the football pools,’ announced Masson, even more proudly than before. ‘I didn’t need the money any longer. These days I let my children and their families come and stay here. A group of them left yesterday, but some more are coming on Friday. I’ve got five children and thirteen grandchildren, and as long as
they clean up after themselves, I don’t care what they get up to here.’

  ‘This Monsieur Bergman,’ Tallin prompted him. ‘What do you remember about him?’

  Masson shrugged. ‘Not all that much, of course. I was here to meet them when they arrived, I saw them when I came to cut the grass one week, and I checked up on the cleaning and so on when he left. My wife was with me on that last visit; women have a better eye for that sort of thing than we men do, naturellement.’

  He gave Inspector Morelius a knowing wink, which she calmly returned.

  ‘You say “them”?’ queried Tallin. ‘So there were two of them staying here, then?’

  ‘There were two of them to begin with,’ said Masson. ‘But Monsieur Bergman was alone when he left.’

  ‘This other person, was it another man?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘Oui, it was a man. I suppose they must both have been in their thirties. I’ve never cared about any sexual preferences but my own, so . . . well, it doesn’t bother me.’

  Another wink at Morelius. Another one from her in return.

  ‘So you think they were a gay couple?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘No, far from it. That’s to say, I didn’t bother to think anything.’

  ‘All right, we understand,’ said Tallin. ‘What was the other man’s name?’

  Barbarotti found himself closing his eyes and clenching his fists. This is it, he thought. Yes or no?

  Henri Masson gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘No idea.’

  Morelius’s translation was superfluous but she gave it to them anyway. It’s no more than I expected, thought Barbarotti. Why would he have been so careless as to leave his name behind? This, too, matched what they had learnt from the Mousterlin document.

  ‘You’re sure you never found out his name?’ asked Tallin, and cautiously sampled his cider.

  ‘Absolutely sure,’ Henri Masson assured him. ‘I never knew what his name was, so I haven’t forgotten it, either.’ He tapped the top of his straw hat with one finger. ‘Monsieur Bergman was responsible for the house. And everything was in good order when he left.’

  ‘You didn’t notice whether there was an adjustable spanner missing from the tool shed?’ Barbarotti asked.

  ‘An adjustable spanner? No, I didn’t. But there’s so much junk out there that it wouldn’t be missed.’

  ‘I see,’ sighed Barbarotti.

  ‘This other man,’ said Tallin. ‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’

  Henri Masson took a large glug of cider and thought about it. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Inspector Barbarotti carefully took one of the photographs out of the folder. He slid it across the table to Masson.

  ‘Is he in this photograph?’ asked Tallin.

  Henri Masson begged their indulgence while he extracted a pair of glasses from a shiny metal case and positioned them very deliberately at the end of his substantial nose. He took the picture between finger and thumb and studied it for five seconds.

  ‘Oui,’ he said, and pointed. ‘This is him. I don’t recognize the other two.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti realized he had been holding his breath throughout the proceedings.

  36

  When Gunnar Barbarotti woke up on Thursday, the sky was swathed in dark clouds, and he remembered it had been just the same, that summer in the 1990s. Brilliant, cloudless days interspersed with storms and cold Atlantic winds. Somewhat reminiscent of Helena’s mood swings, in point of fact. As he showered and dressed he wondered how their life together would have looked now, if they hadn’t got divorced nearly six years ago.

  It didn’t feel like a particularly appropriate line of thought for a new, optimistic day, and he soon knocked it on the head. He realized he had got up far too early; he had arranged to have breakfast with Tallin and Morelius at about half past eight, but it was barely eight by the time he was ready. Pointless to sit there on his own over the croissants for half an hour, he decided, and then another thought popped into his head.

  He hadn’t spoken to Sara for . . . well, it must be a fortnight now. He’d been on the point of ringing her several times, but something else had always got in the way.

  Now, though, he had a bit of time on his hands. Admittedly she would probably still be asleep but surely that consideration was outweighed by the chance of starting the day with a considerate and loving father as her alarm clock?

  He called her number. He heard it ring, six times, before her recorded message cut in. He rang off and tried again.

  This time, she answered.

  At least he thought it was her. It sounded roughly like treading on a meringue. Not that he ever did such a thing, but it was that sort of brittle shattering.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Your loving dad.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yep, it’s me.’

  ‘Why . . . why are you ringing . . . what time is it? Seven! Why are you ringing me at seven in the morning? Is anything the matter?’

  ‘It’s eight,’ he told her.

  ‘But it’s seven over here,’ objected Sara. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Er yes, of course,’ Barbarotti had the presence of mind to say. ‘Well, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from you for a while, and I had half an hour to spare.’

  ‘Half an hour to spare? Are you that busy?’

  He considered this for a moment. ‘Yes, actually,’ he said. ‘Things have been pretty hectic. But we can hang up if you need to sleep. I’ll ring you tonight instead.’

  ‘Well you’ve woken me now,’ said Sara. ‘And there was something I wanted to tell you, as it happens . . . I was going to call you today.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Barbarotti. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘I . . . I need to borrow a bit of money.’

  Christ, thought Barbarotti. Something’s up.

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  Sara wasn’t in the habit of asking for money. He had good reason to suspect there was a problem. It didn’t mean he was an over-protective dad.

  ‘Why?’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t want . . . no, I don’t want to tell you,’ she answered slowly, her voice full of remorse. ‘But I thought I could pay it back over the autumn. By Christmas, say?’

  Christmas, he thought with foreboding. ‘How much were you thinking of?’ he asked.

  ‘Four thousand kronor,’ she said. ‘Or five, if you can.’

  ‘Five thousand? What on earth do you need five thousand for, Sara?’

  ‘It’s just something,’ said Sara, and she sounded really unhappy, he noted. Not just tired. ‘But I can’t tell you what it is.’

  ‘Sara, love . . .’

  ‘It’ll only be this once. You know I’m not always asking you for money, and I promise I’ll pay it back. I don’t want to ring Mum, because—’

  ‘I’d prefer to know what you need it for,’ he said. ‘You must see that?’

  ‘If you’re going to insist on that, I’ll have to try somewhere else,’ said Sara.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Of course you can borrow the money. How are you feeling?’

  ‘So-so,’ said Sara. ‘But it’ll sort itself out. There’s no need for you to worry, Dad.’

  ‘Have you still got your job?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘At that pub?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that musician? Have you still got him, as well?’

  Why am I asking, he wondered. I only want to hear the answer if it’s no.

  ‘Can I call you in a couple of days, Dad?’ she said. ‘It’s a bit hard to talk right now.’

  Why, he wondered. Why was it hard to talk? Because Malin had woken up and was listening in? Or that . . . what the heck was his name . . . Robert? Richard?

  Right, that’s bloody it, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. I’ll give her the money and a week, and then I’ll go over and fetch her.

  ‘I’ll transfer the money today,’
he said. ‘I’ve got your account number, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Sara. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Try to get back to sleep for a while.’

  He rang off. Then he checked the time. Quarter past eight. He hadn’t even told her he was in France.

  But he had enough time to ring his bank and transfer five thousand kronor. When he asked the friendly sounding woman at the other end how much that left in his account, she told him he had sixty-two kronor and fifteen öre.

  Leblanc was engaged in crime fighting of his own that morning, so they had a couple of hours for sightseeing – but as the rain started pouring down just as they finished breakfast, they shelved the idea. They gathered in Tallin’s room instead, ordered a pot of coffee and sat down to mull things over.

  ‘Anybody come up with any new ideas during the night?’ asked Tallin. He had asked the same thing at breakfast, but something had happened to Tallin, thought Barbarotti. He seemed to have deflated since they got to Brittany; it had struck Barbarotti yesterday and he seemed the same today. As if he had toothache or had just lost all his savings at poker.

  ‘Afraid not, as I said,’ said Carina Morelius, pouring coffee. ‘But I see myself more as an observer in all this. And interpreter, obviously. You’ve been working on this case for the best part of a month now, haven’t you? It was on the twenty-fifth it all kicked off, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The twenty-fourth or the thirty-first,’ said Barbarotti. ‘It rather depends how you calculate it.’

  ‘New ideas?’ persisted Tallin.

  ‘Well, what can one say?’ said Barbarotti. ‘At least we’ve been able to confirm that the Sixth Man really was staying with Erik Bergman . . . and that he’s the one in the photo. Haven’t we? And that certainly ought to count as a breakthrough, but I just find it a bit hard to actually see it as one.’

  ‘Did you have doubts about it all tying in?’ asked Tallin.

  ‘No,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Not really. Well, we’ll have to see how it goes this afternoon, but if neither the girl nor her grandmother have been reported missing anywhere in France, then the whole story looks . . . pretty convoluted. In my view, at any rate.’