by Håkan Nesser
If you were allowed to think about councillors in those terms? But perhaps you were. Hadn’t some female minister stuck her head above the parapet a few years back and said politics was the sexiest thing she knew?
He closed his eyes to banish such thoughts. Focused in on the three names again and tried to think of any unfinished business he might conceivably have with any of them, but to no avail. He gathered up all the sheets of paper, put them back in the plastic wallet and glanced at the time. Twenty past eleven. He had agreed to see Jonnerblad after lunch, at one o’clock.
Time to put his parental hat on for a little while, he thought, and rang the number of Kymlingevik School.
It was no problem at all. There were plenty of spaces in years four and six. Barbarotti didn’t bother going into the reasons for the sudden move, simply explaining that an unexpected change of circumstances meant Lars and Martin would be living with him from now on.
The deputy head, whose name was Varpalo, didn’t enquire, either. Perhaps it was normal for kids to move from one place to another just any old how these days, thought Barbarotti. And the school was glad to have two new pupils, of course, because apart from anything else it must mean a chunk of extra money in the budget.
If his understanding of the current school funding system was correct. At any event, Varpalo promised to find suitable forms and form teachers for them and to be back in touch the next day.
He had just hung up when Inspector Backman knocked on the door and stuck her head round it.
‘I’ll treat you to lunch at the King’s Grill,’ she said. ‘If you tell me the murderer’s name, that is.’
‘The King’s Grill sounds good,’ said Barbarotti, ‘but I’ll pay for my own lunch.’
I’ve got sixty-two whole kronor in my bank account, he thought but didn’t say.
‘Negative, then?’ said Backman.
‘I reckon so,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Do you know which of them have got alibis?’
‘I haven’t got it all in my head,’ said Backman. ‘But in principle. Can I guess which ones you picked out?’
‘I’ve got to report back to Jonnerblad at one o’clock. Won’t you be there?’
‘Depends if you’ve got anything interesting to say. Shall I guess, then?’
‘Fire away,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Three of them,’ said Backman. ‘Your neighbour, the guy from the gym, and Möller.’
Barbarotti stopped chewing. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I spend all morning slogging over it, and then you come along and just . . .’
‘Sorry,’ said Backman. ‘I got it right, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti glumly. ‘You got it right. And I assume you’ve checked these three out?’
Backman nodded. ‘Jonnerblad doesn’t know about it, but I did it yesterday. Möller had already been checked, of course, but I did the other two during the unihockey matches. Only on my mobile, you know, but I’m pretty sure I can rule them out as well . . . though I don’t want to disappoint those National CID types, so let them do it again, that’s my advice.’
‘So you’re not coming to the meeting?’
‘No,’ said Backman. ‘I’ll give it a miss. Got a few other old leads to follow up instead.’
‘And what are they?’
‘The beef stew wasn’t bad at all,’ said Eva Backman.
‘Right, that’s you cut out of my will,’ said Barbarotti.
‘People are crazy,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Somebody rang this morning and said his brother could be the perpetrator.’
‘Nothing wrong with shopping your brother,’ said Tallin. ‘A murderer’s a murderer, after all.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘But this brother happens to be seventy-five and lives in Los Angeles. Blind from birth, what’s more.’
‘I suggest we cross him off the list,’ said Sorrysen.
‘All right,’ said Jonnerblad, looking a little bewildered again. He cleared his throat and turned to Barbarotti. ‘So you know who these three people are, I assume?’
Barbarotti nodded.
‘Möller’s already in the clear,’ said Jonnerblad. ‘What about that neighbour?’
He looked at Tallin. Tallin looked at Sorrysen. Sorrysen consulted a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘It can’t have been him,’ he said. ‘He was in Greece for the last two weeks of July.’
‘The fellow at the gym?’
‘Hasn’t been checked yet,’ said Sorrysen. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon.’
‘Who reported him?’ asked Barbarotti.
Sorrysen looked it up. ‘His wife. They’re going through a divorce, I gather.’
‘Good grief,’ groaned Astor Nilsson.
Inspector Barbarotti left Kymlinge police station just after five on Monday, in a frame of mind reminiscent of . . . well, what exactly? The depression that readily presents itself when you find you’ve just failed the same exam for the sixth time?
Or not passed your driving test at the tenth attempt?
Or proposed and just been laughed at?
Despite having done everything in your power to get it right. We’re not going to solve this, he thought. Not ever. We’re . . . he searched for the words as he unlocked his bike and pedalled off . . . we’re in the hands of a murderer so much smarter than we are, so many steps ahead, that in actual fact it’s pointless to carry on. He toys with us. He sends us letters and entire narratives, he lies or doesn’t, as he sees fit, and we dance to his tune like marionettes with no will of our own, our thoughts paralysed. He’s murdered five people in the space of a month and he’s going to get away with it. At least five people. Maybe seven, maybe eight. Shit.
And now he had finished. If there was one thing that seemed clear, it was that. The last sign of life from him had been two weeks ago, when he posted the Mousterlin document from Cairo. Barbarotti had read somewhere that if you wanted to vanish into mid-air, discreetly disappear from the surface of the earth, there was one city in the world that particularly lent itself to the procedure. Cairo.
Since the Tuesday before last he had been silent. Case closed. The killer was done with killing and had nothing more to say on the matter. Bloody hell, thought Barbarotti, I almost wish there was another letter waiting for me on the hall rug. Even if it meant a new name to deal with.
Just so he had another lead. A fresh opening, a chance to start from a different angle. Leblanc’s promised report had not arrived by the end of the day, but Barbarotti sensed that when in due course it did, it would constitute another blank. And the long shot about the girl and her grandmother being foreign tourists with a caravan . . . well, however would they be able to investigate something like that? Or what if they were Romanian gypsies and not on any register anywhere on the planet? Why not? It wasn’t hard to imagine the whole case expanding endlessly in space and time – nor to see himself and his colleagues in his mind’s eye, still poring over the same papers and lists and documentation in five or ten or fifteen years’ time. Shit was the word for it, all right.
On the other hand, I gave Our Lord twenty-four hours, he reminded himself. Though there was plenty to indicate it would be a tough deadline to meet.
A new coffee place had opened on the corner of Skolgatan and Munkgatan. Aware that no one was waiting for him at home, he applied the brakes, propped his bike against the wall and went in. He ordered a cortado, half espresso, half milk, picked up a local listings magazine and started idly flicking through it. Got to do something else, he thought. Got to be like Leblanc, leave my work at work. He had managed it for the two days of Marianne’s visit, but now he was back to the usual. Everything simmering away inside his head like some old ragout nobody would ever want to eat, and if he didn’t do something about it, it would presumably bubble away all evening until he finally managed to get to sleep. Sometime way past midnight, he was sure of that.
And it would all still be there in his dreams. The case, the investigation and the mocking murderer in some fiendish ‘new’ con
fection – or ragout, indeed – to add to the other ingredients in his muddled life.
Marianne. The boys. Sara. Göran Persson.
Göran Persson, he thought. No, fuck it, not Göran Persson.
His mobile rang.
It was Asunander.
What in hell’s name? thought Barbarotti. Asunander? He never rings.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said.
And that was equally unusual.
‘Just having a coffee in town.’
‘When will you be home? There’s something I’d like talk to you about in peace and quiet.’
Barbarotti was suddenly aware of all the racket going on around him. And of the fact that he was double the age of the next oldest customer in the cafe.
‘What about?’
‘I’ll tell you later. If it’s all right to ring you at home, that is?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Of course. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.’
‘Good. I’ll speak to you then,’ said Asunander, and hung up.
Gunnar Barbarotti drained his cup and left the cafe.
‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Uh huh?’ said Barbarotti.
‘To do with the case.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wasn’t at work today. I stayed at home to read and think. I’ve got a theory.’
Gunnar Barbarotti pinched himself. He seemed to be awake. He was talking to Asunander. He thought back over the day and realized he hadn’t seen the chief inspector at all.
But a theory? Asunander?
‘I suggest you come round to my place, so we can discuss this. If you’re not busy, that is?’
‘Er, no, I mean yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘No, I’m not busy. When shall I . . .’
‘Can we say eight o’clock? I’ll mix you a grog. I’m in the high street, number fourteen, and the front door code is 1958. Year Sweden hosted the World Cup.’
‘OK,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’ll be there.’
After he rang off it suddenly struck him that he had not heard a single click of false teeth for the duration of the call.
39
A grog, thought Gunnar Barbarotti as he headed for the high street on foot. It was only ten minutes from his own flat, and quite a narrow road, but perhaps it had been more of a main thoroughfare in the past. Why on earth is Asunander offering me grog? And presenting me with a theory?
About the case.
He had never been to Asunander’s before, and he doubted any of the others had, either. Not Backman, Sorrysen or Toivonen. Possibly one of the other departmental chiefs, but he didn’t really think so. Asunander wasn’t the sort to invite people round. Or at least, not with the way things had turned out. Since the accident. The baseball bat and the unfortunate new teeth.
Barbarotti calculated. It was eleven years now. 1996. Asunander had just taken over as their chief; he came from Halmstad and hadn’t been in post more than six months when it happened.
Bellas Gränd, the alleyway behind the station. An evening in November, four thugs, a hefty blow. He had been on duty but not in uniform, but the perpetrators claimed at trial that it had not been mere coincidence that the victim was a high-ranking police officer.
After that he had been on sick leave for four months. Then his wife had left him. They’d had a house over on the Pampas side of town, and after the divorce Asunander had bought this flat in the old high street.
To cut a long and dismal story a little shorter, he hung onto his post as head of the CID and grew increasingly isolated as the years went by. But he stayed on. He never went into the field. If you’d got your teeth knocked out on active service, you could at least be sure of one thing. You’d never get fired.
What a bloody depressing fate, thought Barbarotti. Why have I never thought about it before? Has anybody ever cared about Asunander?
But there was another side to it, too. Asunander wasn’t an easy person to get along with. That had been true even in the short time before the baseball bat, and it certainly didn’t improve afterwards. Barbarotti remembered Backman doing her best to get a bit closer to him, and perhaps there were others who had tried. But it had proved essentially futile.
This was how Barbarotti summed it up in his mind as he emerged from the railway underpass and turned right along the high street. And if he had thought they had come to the end of all the remarkable features in this investigation, he had been proved wrong: there was one strange thing still to come.
A grog and theory session at Asunander’s.
Asunander shook him by the hand and bade him welcome.
‘Thank you,’ said Barbarotti. ‘You know what, I think this is the first time I’ve seen where you live.’
‘I know,’ said Asunander. ‘I’ve become a bit of a recluse, unfortunately. That’s just the way things have turned out.’
It was the most personal comment Barbarotti had ever heard the chief inspector make. And there was more.
‘There was the dog, of course, but I had to have her put down in the spring. She only made it to eight.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Barbarotti.
‘It was her hip joints, she could barely walk by the end. She’d had too many puppies, you see. Oh yes, I know you all think I’m a bit odd. And I’m well aware I have my strange ways.’
Gunnar Barbarotti nodded and followed Asunander into a large living room. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three of the walls. Just a single picture on display. A large oil painting between the two windows, its subject a lone, windswept tree on a desolate, yellowish plain.
‘But it’s still three years before I can draw a reasonable pension, so I’m afraid you lot won’t be rid of me before then.’
‘Look, I’ve never—’ began Barbarotti, but the chief inspector waved his hand and interrupted him.
‘No need to protest. I know how the land lies and so do you. That’s not what this evening’s about. Would you like whisky or brandy?’
‘Whisky,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And just a drop of tap water with it, please.’
‘Excellent,’ said Asunander. ‘We’re on the same wavelength there. I’m sorry I called it grog.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Barbarotti assured him.
They each took a baggy leather armchair. The little table between them was of a wood that looked almost black, ebony perhaps? How could both the armchairs have got so well worn, wondered Barbarotti involuntarily. Did he swap over each evening? Or had one of them been his wife’s . . . yes, that seemed more likely, they looked a fair age. Asunander had already set out bottles, glasses and a carafe of water. Two little bowls, as well, one of olives and the other of nuts. An ashtray with a pipe and matches. He poured a few centilitres into the glasses and indicated that Barbarotti should add his own water to taste.
‘You said you had a theory,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Correct,’ said Asunander. ‘By the way, did you notice that my teeth aren’t clicking today?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Barbarotti.
‘I’m trying a new adhesive. Seems to work pretty well, touch wood.’
‘Why don’t you bring it up with Jonnerblad and the others,’ asked Barbarotti. ‘The theory, that is.’
Asunander was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘Two reasons. I don’t like Jonnerblad. I like you and Backman better. But you can’t invite a woman round for whisky.’
‘Hmm,’ said Barbarotti.
‘And I had a feeling we’d need a drop of the hard stuff.’
‘Oh, Backman’s fine with a whisky,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Is that a fact? Anyway, the other reason is that I’m not entirely convinced by it. My theory. And I don’t feel like getting laughed at by those damn goons from Stockholm. I wanted to try it out on you first.’
‘You’re making me curious now,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Good,’ said Asunander. ‘You’d be a bloody bad policeman if you weren’t. Cheers!’
&n
bsp; ‘Cheers,’ said Brabarotti.
They drank. The chief inspector pulled his face into a grim sort of smile and set down his glass. Barbarotti looked at the windswept tree and waited quietly for Asunander to light his pipe. He took a few pleasurable puffs and blew a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling. Barbarotti suddenly felt unsure whether he was awake or lying in bed asleep. The whole situation felt distinctly like the opening scene in a nightmare.
‘I’ve been making a few discreet checks during the day, as well,’ explained Asunander. ‘And I’m pleased to say they point in the right direction.’
‘You really had better tell me the whole story now,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Willingly,’ said Asunander. ‘So, my starting point is that there are a damn lot of weird things about this case.’
‘Agreed,’ said Barbarotti.
Asunander leant forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘Now listen and let me recapitulate a little. The murderer writes you letters. He communicates with the press. He announces whom he’s going to kill, though in most cases they’re already dead by the time you get the letters. He doesn’t kill one of the people he names. He writes a long screed about some strange events in Finistère five years ago. He posts it to you from Cairo. So the question is: why does he do all this?’
‘He kills five people as well,’ Barbarotti reminded him.
‘He certainly does. But why bother with all the other things? What’s his motivation?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Barbarotti.
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Yet we’ve been trying to identify that motivation from the very start,’ Asunander observed, putting his pipe down on the table. He tossed a couple of olives into his mouth. ‘And his motivation has been correctly identified several times in our discussions.’
‘Has it?’ said Barbarotti, starting to wonder if the chief inspector was having him on. Or had received another baseball bat to the head, maybe.
