The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Good,’ said Marianne. ‘We’re agreed on that as well.’

  ‘So you’d like Helsingborg?’

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I asked whether you’d mind living in Helsingborg.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Still only Friday.

  But late. Long gaps between each conversational gambit, and a gentle breeze from the open balcony door. Stretched out on the floor by candlelight. Cristina Branco playing faintly in the background. He had discovered fado music, Portugal’s blues, less than a year ago, but he already had fifteen CDs in his rack.

  A state of grace, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. There was no other word for moments like these.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What do you mean by “Hmm”?’

  ‘Well, I’ve lived there for ten years, you know,’ she said, running her hand over his chest and stomach. ‘And I reckon I could be ready for a change. So it’s like a new start for us. But I’d have to talk it all over with the children, of course.’

  ‘You haven’t dropped any hints to them that we might be . . . moving in together?’

  ‘No,’ she said, sounding slightly concerned. ‘I have to be sure I know my own mind first. And getting married is my decision, not theirs. But I’ve got to give them some say in where we’re going to live.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Barbarotti. ‘On that note, shall we go for a stroll? Then you can see what this town looks like on a warm night in late summer.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Marianne. ‘Do you think we ought to put a few clothes on first?’

  ‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  She stayed all of Saturday and half of Sunday. On the Saturday evening, he told her about his three days in Brittany, and eventually about the case as a whole. It was not something he had planned to do but, after all, everything had started when he opened the first letter, that lovely summer morning at Gustabo in Hogrän, so she had a point when she claimed the right to be informed.

  ‘So what do you think then?’ she asked when he had finished. ‘Deep down.’

  ‘That’s the worst of it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think anything, basically. We generally get some sense of where things are leading, but not in this case. Though I have to admit I’ve never come across any business quite like this before.’

  Marianne frowned. ‘There could be something in that idea of them being caravanning tourists, couldn’t there? There were a couple of references to the girl and her grandmother having a foreign accent, weren’t there?’

  ‘The grandmother, at any rate. Well yes, that could be right. But the murderer himself seems so . . . well, what can I say? Unlikely?’

  ‘You mean the way he’s provided a written account of it all?’

  ‘Yes, amongst other things.’

  Marianne considered this. ‘But don’t you think there’s a certain logic to it? He was made into a scapegoat and forced to take responsibility for everything – though it was really just an accident that started it all off. I don’t think it’s particularly odd for all that to have given him a restless soul.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti gave a quick smile. ‘A restless soul? It sounds a bit old-fashioned, but it pretty much sums him up.’

  ‘Perhaps we can see this written account of his as a healthy sign,’ suggested Marianne. ‘In spite of everything. The fact that he feels a need to explain himself?’

  ‘Well yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘That’s occurred to me as well. But what about these letters? It’s a bit harder to see them as a healthy sign, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  Half a minute passed in silence and he could see she was brooding on the puzzle. Then she pulled her fingers through her hair and shook her head, as if trying to banish all these bizarre speculations and replace them with something brighter and more normal. ‘It’s a terrible story, that’s one thing for sure,’ she said. ‘Do you think the police will be able to solve it? By which I mean, do you think you’ll catch him?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti gave a laugh.

  ‘I put my finger in the Bible and asked for a bit of guidance while I was down there,’ he said. ‘Can you guess what came up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Proverbs 20:5. Do you know it?’

  She thought for a few seconds. ‘Something about man’s heart and deep water, isn’t it?’

  ‘Christ Almighty, that’s impressive.’

  ‘I do read it sometimes, you know that. And I quite often read Proverbs. What’s the full text?’

  ‘Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, ‘but a man of understanding will draw it out.’

  ‘Well, off you go, then!’ laughed Marianne. ‘It doesn’t come much plainer than that. Draw out his counsel! Discover his plans.’

  They parted on Sunday afternoon. They agreed to tell all the children involved, plus ex-spouses and anyone else directly affected, and promised one another they would celebrate Christmas together as man and wife. That was four months away, but surely quite a small wedding in quite a small church, presided over by quite a small vicar, couldn’t involve that many preparations?

  Once Marianne had gone, he couldn’t help feeling it had been foolish of him not to tell her how things stood with Lars and Martin – though he could always pretend he had just heard the news when he rang her in the week. Nor had he said anything on his thoughts about changing jobs, but then he hadn’t been thinking along those lines himself this past week, either, so that, too, was probably just as well.

  It was four o’clock when he switched on his phones, which had been off since Friday evening. He had four messages. Two from journalists who wanted to interview him, one from Helena, and one from Eva Backman.

  He took the journalists first, his promise to Marianne fresh in his mind: that he would cultivate his relationship with the press. They were from Dagens Nyheter and the family magazine Vår Bostad. He told them both, politely but firmly, that he was more than willing to make himself available for interview, but only once the current case was over.

  Then he called his former wife. It struck him that those were precisely the terms in which he preferred to think of her. Not Helena. Not My children’s mother. More was the pity.

  ‘Lars called,’ he said. ‘He told me he and Martin are prepared to live under the same roof as their old dad.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Helena. ‘Yes, I think they’ll cope with that.’

  ‘Glad to hear you think so,’ said Barbarotti, and took a deep breath. ‘So you’ve definitely decided on Budapest, then?”

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Ulrich’s going over on Wednesday, and I’ll be following on as soon as we’ve sorted things out for the boys.’

  ‘What’s all the hurry?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she retorted. ‘If they’re changing schools, it’s just as well to do it as near the start of term as possible. Isn’t it?’

  ‘When were you thinking of?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Could you manage it by next Monday?’

  ‘Next Monday? Hey, that’s only a week.’

  ‘I know, but it’ll be best for all parties not to spin it out. I’ll talk to their school here tomorrow, and you can do the same in Kymlinge, I hope? Then we can get back to each other tomorrow evening, OK?’

  I’m surprised she’s not just going to ring the doorbell and dump the two of them on the mat with their suitcases, he thought. But then he remembered his new, grown-up approach, shut his eyes, counted to three, and said he thought that sounded a first-rate plan.

  Once he had hung up, he thought for a while about how they would organize themselves in the flat. Would the boys insist on a room each, or could they share Sara’s old room, as they did whenever they came to stay for a few days? Sara had generally slept on the living-room sofa while they were there, or gone to stay with one of her girlfriends.

  Oh well, it would work out somehow. And he would call Kymli
ngevik School the next morning. A week from now he would be responsible for a ten year old and a twelve year old again; say what you liked about life, it was full of variety.

  He rang Eva Backman’s number. She was busy getting dinner and asked if she could call him back two hours later.

  And she did.

  ‘I heard what happened with the French police,’ she said.

  ‘I bet you did,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘So what does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Eva Backman. ‘And I don’t like things I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know,’ said Barbarotti. ‘For me, it’s pretty staple fare.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Eva Backman.

  She seems on good form, thought Barbarotti. ‘But you lot haven’t exactly been covering yourselves in glory here at home either, I gather?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a right old mess,’ conceded Backman. ‘I don’t get why we had to publish that picture. Hundreds of innocent Toms, Dicks and Harries are now suspected of being mass murderers, and that’s the only thing we’ve achieved. If we don’t find the right man, the whole lot of them will be under suspicion for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘But most of them won’t have any problem establishing an alibi?’

  ‘Of course not. But you think the papers are going to bother publishing pictures of the ones we’ve ruled out of our enquiries? Kenneth Johansson in Alvesta didn’t murder five people, nor did Gustaf Olsson or Kalle Kula in Stockholm. The damages claims are going to go on for ten years, believe me.’

  ‘You sound a teensy bit furious.’

  ‘You bet I am. And I’ve had to sit through six unihockey matches thinking about it.’

  ‘Ah? The season’s started again?’

  ‘The pre-season,’ said Backman. ‘But never mind that. This girl and her granny are what interest me. You must have uncovered something?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well, one thing. I think the girl’s name was made up.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Either the girl or the murderer.’

  ‘And what makes you think that?’

  ‘The fact that Inspector Leblanc had never heard of the name. And then . . .’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then there’s that play on the letters. The Root of All Evil. It’s too much of a construction, that’s all.’

  Backman thought for a moment. ‘If it’s a construction, it could hardly be the girl who constructed it.’

  ‘No, hardly,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But there’s something in all this that doesn’t add up. And I’ve also been thinking about what happened between Erik and the girl when they took that walk on the island.’

  ‘That’s pretty easy to work out, I’d have thought. He screwed her, that’s what. And maybe she wasn’t entirely unwilling, either.’

  ‘A twelve year old?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘That might not be correct either,’ said Backman. ‘But don’t think I’m defending him.’

  Barbarotti had no comment.

  ‘So why haven’t they found them in the archives?’ Backman went on. ‘Regardless of whether all the details are right or not.’

  ‘There are various possible explanations for that,’ said Barbarotti. ‘In a few days’ time we’ll be getting material from France about people still recorded as missing and if we don’t find them there, well, then we’ll need to come up with some other solutions.’

  ‘Other solutions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Can we do this tomorrow?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘And there is one thought I’d very much like to discuss with you.’

  ‘It’s good to know you’ve still got some thoughts in that skull of yours,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Yes. Because tomorrow morning you’re going to solve this case. You’re going to go through all the Sixth Men who’ve come in and remember one of them from your past. That’s the general plan.’

  ‘Oh is it, indeed?’ said Barbarotti. ‘In view of the letter writing, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And once you’ve done that, I can finally take my holiday.’

  ‘I promise to do my best,’ said Barbarotti, and they ended the call.

  At half past nine that evening he had a small whisky. It was something he hardly ever did, especially not on a Sunday evening. But the purpose was medicinal. There was just too much going on in his head, and he needed something to help him get it under control.

  And he needed a bit of fire in his belly, too. He sipped his drink and tried to sort out what was most important.

  Marianne? In a month or two they would be married and living together. Was he really ready for that step?

  Stupid question. Of course he bloody was.

  The boys? Next Sunday, a week from now, he’d be putting them to bed on the eve of their first day of school in Kymlinge. It felt so odd. But it was the same as with Marianne: if there was anything that wouldn’t help here, it was hesitation and doubt.

  Sara, then? This one really got to him. What on earth did she need five thousand kronor for? What had happened? He made a huge effort and submerged her in his subconscious again.

  And Johan and Jenny? He scarcely knew them, having only met them five or six times, and yet he was going to assume parental responsibility for them. The cop who brawled with journalists, what sort of replacement dad was he going to make?

  Ah well, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. He could only do his best, and put his hope and trust in things turning out all right. He took another sip of his whisky and closed his eyes.

  And finally, the case. This whole damned case that he couldn’t make head or tail of. Troaë, a drowned girl, who felt more and more elusive and inaccessible – and her grandmother, an old woman who turns up one evening outside a house in Finistère and gets herself killed with a Swedish spanner. Where did the pair come from? Were they ever going to find out their true identity?

  Or, as Marianne had asked, were they ever going to solve this?

  His whisky glass empty, he prayed an existence prayer.

  O Lord, send a beam of clear, pure light into a befuddled copper’s brain. Never mind all this idle talk of counsel and deep waters. You’ve got twenty-four hours to sort this, but if enlightenment isn’t forthcoming by tomorrow evening, you’ll lose a point. Help me out, though, and I’ll award you three. This is important, are you listening? Three points!

  Our Lord, who was currently at plus eight in the existence stakes, replied that despite it being strictly against the rules – because this involved an ongoing police investigation and they were not part of the deal – he would think it over.

  Gunnar Barbarotti expressed his gratitude. Then he found an old Michael Caine film on one of the cable channels. It started at ten and by quarter past he was fast asleep on the sofa.

  38

  ‘How can I be expected to recognize him today, when I didn’t recognize him in the Brittany photos?’ objected Barbarotti.

  ‘It’s not his face you’re supposed to recognize,’ Superintendent Jonnerblad patiently explained. ‘It’s his name. In any case, we haven’t got photos of most of them.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ said Barbarotti. ‘How’s your wife?’

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘Tallin said she was having an operation on Wednesday.’

  ‘Thanks for asking,’ said Jonnerblad, his eyes and mouth suddenly assuming a softer look. ‘Yes, the operation went well, but they don’t know if they got it all out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well, we must hope for the best. OK then, I’ll take these lists to my room and get down to it. Shall I start with the top priority group?’

  Just for a moment, Jonnerblad looked as if he couldn’t really remember where he was.

  Then he said, ‘No. And we’re not telling you which of them has an alibi, either. It’ll be better to lea
ve you to work without any preconceptions.’

  He passed over a sheaf of paper in a soft, transparent plastic folder.

  ‘Do you really think there’s a link between me and the murderer?’ asked Barbarotti from the doorway.

  ‘Well we can’t exclude the possibility, that’s all.’

  ‘How many have we got here?’

  ‘Only five hundred and fifteen,’ said Jonnerblad. ‘We weeded out a hundred and fifty loonies, so it wouldn’t be too much for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Barbarotti.

  He sat at his desk and spent two and a half hours going through the names. Jonnerblad had told him to work calmly and methodically, and he did. He studied the details provided: name, year of birth, domicile and profession, keeping the photographs of the Sixth Man in front of him as he did so, and when he finally got to the end, his conclusion was that he knew who three of them were.

  They were all from Kymlinge. One of them worked at the gym where he went to work out, all too infrequently; one lived on the same staircase in the block of flats on Baldersgatan; and one was a police officer.

  He couldn’t help being taken aback by the last two. A neighbour and a colleague? What could it signify? Their names were Tomas Jörnevik and Joakim Möller. He tried to summon up their appearances and compare them with the restaurant scenes in Bénodet, but couldn’t make anything match particularly well. Jörnevik was more powerfully built, he seemed to recall, with a much rounder face, and Möller was darker-haired, much darker, and didn’t have the same sort of eyes, either. No, Barbarotti found it hard to see any similarities.

  So his slight surprise was more to do with the two individuals’ links to himself, and that, after all, was the whole point. This was what Jonnerblad was after. He wondered who had rung in about them. No doubt this had been recorded somewhere, but not on the lists he’d been given. He tried to recollect what he knew about Jörnevik and Möller, but soon realized it amounted to virtually nothing. They were both thirty-six, the information was next to their names; he thought Jörnevik worked as a taxi driver, and they would say hello when they saw each other on the stairs, but that was basically all. Maybe he was studying for something, too, and Barbarotti had an idea he lived alone. Möller worked in the youth task force, mainly on mapping and combating the flow of drugs. Married to a local councillor, wasn’t he? He seemed to think she was with the Social Democrats, and blonde and quite pretty, in fact.