Erik inclined his head. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Anyway,” Ulf continued. “The past is the past. I’ve spoken to Personnel, by the way, and they say you can transfer immediately, if you like. They say that all you need to do is go and see them about the special allowances.”

  Erik looked interested. “Special allowances in the new job?”

  “Yes,” said Ulf. “They said that you’re entitled to a specialist duties allowance for the purchase of fishing equipment and clothing.”

  Erik’s mouth opened wordlessly. Ulf watched him: he had never witnessed a lottery winner being informed of a major win, but this, he imagined, was more or less how that would look.

  “Apparently, you can buy yourself a fly rod and all…all the line and reels…”

  “And nets,” interjected Carl.

  “Yes, nets too,” Ulf continued. “All the things you need. It’s so you can blend into the angling community. You’ll need to do that, I imagine, to get information about what’s going on.”

  Erik beamed with pleasure. “This is very cool.”

  “They also said something about magazine subscriptions,” Ulf continued. “They said that you’re entitled to get up to five fishing periodicals so that you can monitor what’s being written in them.”

  “That will be very useful,” said Erik. “This is a seriously good job.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll do it extremely well,” Ulf said, looking about him and seeing that Carl and Anna were both nodding their assent.

  “Well done, Erik,” said Anna. “You’ve really fallen on your feet.”

  “Yes,” said Carl. “This is it, Erik. This is the big one.”

  Erik shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” he said.

  “Kept your nose clean,” said Carl. “Served your time. Rocked no boats. There are any number of reasons why people eventually get what they want in this life.”

  Erik gave Ulf a grateful look. “It’s thanks to you, I suspect.”

  Ulf denied this. “The Commissioner required no convincing. I didn’t have to go out on a limb, or anything of the sort.”

  “But you still made it possible,” insisted Erik.

  Anna glanced at Ulf, and saw that he was feeling embarrassed. “We’re going to miss you, Erik,” she said. “For those four days of the week you’re going to be away.”

  “And I’ll miss you people too,” said Erik.

  Carl smiled. “The department won’t be the same without you at your desk there. It’ll seem…a bit empty, I suppose.”

  “Not as empty as you fear,” interjected Ulf. “It’s policy not to leave desks unoccupied. So there’s going to be somebody sitting there while Erik is off fishing, or whatever the new job entails.”

  They all looked at him. Then Carl asked, “A person?”

  “Of course,” said Ulf. “What did you expect? A dog?” For a moment he pictured Martin sitting at the desk, sniffing at papers.

  Carl looked at Ulf reproachfully. “I was just wondering who it would be,” he said.

  “Somebody from Commercial Crime downstairs. You know how they’re always going on about not having enough desk space.”

  “If you let them in,” said Anna, “you won’t get them out. They’ll gradually encroach on all our space. We’ll be out in the car park before we know where we are.”

  “Blomquist,” said Ulf.

  This was greeted with silence.

  “As you know,” Ulf went on, “poor Blomquist doesn’t have a proper desk. He has, at most, a table, and even then he doesn’t have a complete table. It’s point three-five of a table, I think, or something like that. It has no drawers. None. None.”

  They listened politely. When Ulf finished, with the word none echoing like the tolling of a funeral bell, the silence was a heavy one. Carl was the first to speak: “That’s very sad, I agree. It’s bad luck only having point three-five of a table. I’m glad that we’ll be able to help Blomquist to get more desk space.”

  “Absolutely,” said Erik.

  Ulf told them what he had planned. “Blomquist can sit at Erik’s desk on the days that Erik is off on his fishing duties.” He turned to Erik. “Erik, I’d like you to clear three drawers for him. You have four drawers, I think, and you’re going down to point two-five here in Sensitive Crimes. That means you’re entitled to one drawer, and Blomquist can have the rest.”

  He gave Carl and Erik a glance, as if to ascertain whether anybody was contemplating arguing. Nobody was. They are good people at heart, he thought, but every one of us is capable of unkindness to others, especially to people like Blomquist, especially when it comes to the seemingly petty things of this life: desks, drawers, and the like. And yet those things are of immense importance, because they stand for something much bigger.

  Ulf suddenly found himself on the brink of an emotional wave, carrying him in a direction of which he was quite unsure. Was he upset over Juni? Of course he was, and yet he knew that there had been no acceptable route out of that relationship other than the one he had chosen. He had not wanted recrimination and accusations, and he had ensured that there were neither. Was he worried about Martin? Of course he was, because although he had no reason to believe that the dog would not recover, he did not like the thought of his being in discomfort, even if his pain was dulled by the drugs that Juni had left for him. And then he realised that what he was really missing was his Saab. It was only a collection of metal and wires and leather seats. At one level it was only a somewhat inefficient method of getting from place to place. But at another, it was much more than that. It was his companion. It was his little bit of Swedish engineering history. It was a tiny part of his country’s soul—and he had signed it away for a pile of krona for which he had no particular affection or use. That was what was making Ulf sad.

  * * *

  —

  Ulf had made an appointment for coffee with Irena Falk, his friend from Commercial Crime, that morning at eleven. They would meet, he suggested, in the coffee bar across the road and he would invite Blomquist to join them, if Irena did not mind. She did not.

  “I like Blomquist,” she said to Ulf. “I know there are others who…” She left the sentence unfinished.

  “I know what you mean,” said Ulf. “People are unkind to him just because he has a tendency to go on a bit.”

  She did not mind that at all, she said. “A lot of what he says is really informative, you know. The problem is that there’s just a little bit too much of it. If he could only divide by four, or something like that, then that twenty-five per cent would be very interesting—even useful.”

  “Oh, I know,” sighed Ulf.

  “But one thing I’d say is this,” Irena continued. “If I had the option of having Blomquist in Commercial Crime, I’d take him like a shot.”

  Ulf was surprised. “Would you really?”

  “Yes, because he’s a first-class detective. He has a better nose for what lies behind things than virtually anybody else in the force—present company excepted, of course.”

  Ulf laughed. “I’m very happy to yield to Blomquist. And I’d agree with you, you know. He comes up with unexpected solutions. He’s done it time and time again—but he very rarely gets the credit.”

  “Because life rewards the wrong people,” Irena said. “That’s one of the first lessons I learned. I was eight, maybe nine, at the time, and we had a boy in our class at school called Tommy Sunderberg. He wasn’t very bright, but he was terrific at copying other people’s work. He got top marks in everything as a result. And he was in all the sports teams because he would hang about near the goal and intercept somebody else’s shot so that it looked as though he’d scored it.”

  “I know the type,” said Ulf. “What became of him?”

  “He went to Uppsala and came out covered in academic honours—all thanks to plagiarism, I imagine. His career thereafter was a great success. He had promotion after promotion—all unmerited, from what I heard. An ascendant star is an ascendant star, you see, even if there’s nothing behind it.”

  Ulf shook his head. “What can one say?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Irena. “Except, possibly, ‘Oh, well.’ ”

  “And then there are people like poor Blomquist,” said Ulf, “who do all the work and get none of the credit.”

  They had reached the café by now, and through the window Ulf saw Blomquist sitting inside, waiting for them. “We can continue our discussion some other time,” said Ulf. “There’s Blomquist over there.”

  Blomquist rose to greet them. Irena took his hand and then leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’re looking so well, Blomquist,” she said.

  It was the wrong thing to say—Ulf knew that, and he realised that Irena probably understood that too, as it triggered an immediate response from Blomquist.

  “That’s very good to hear,” he said. “We’re on a new regime, my wife and I. We’re eating a lot of kale. You’ve probably read about how kale can lower cholesterol. Have you?”

  Irena sat down. “That’s news to me. Actually, I rather like kale.”

  “So do I,” enthused Blomquist. “We used to have it now and then, but now…well, we have it every day—sometimes twice. Kale goes quite well with poached eggs, you know—just as spinach does. So we have kale at breakfast time—and we also have kale tea. Did you know that you can buy that now? You don’t have to make it yourself.”

  “That must be more convenient,” said Irena. “I must say that I tend to have coffee at breakfast time.”

  “Which is no bad choice,” said Blomquist. “People used to be defensive about drinking coffee, but there are plenty of benefits. Same thing with chocolate—as long as you stick to the ninety per cent brands. The others have far too much sugar in them—far too much.”

  Ulf cleared his throat. “Irena probably has information for us,” he said.

  “Not about chocolate or kale or anything,” said Irena, with a laugh. “Not as interesting—but interesting nonetheless.”

  Ulf signalled to the woman behind the bar while he asked, “Coffee everyone?”

  The order was taken, and he turned to Irena.

  “Anything about our friend Fridolf?”

  She reached into an attaché case she had brought with her and extracted a piece of paper. “Fridolf Bengtsson,” she announced, “is Mr. Bacon—or one of the several Mr. Bacons we have in this country. His outfit started in a smallish way, but he now employs eighty-five people. That makes him medium-sized, I suppose.”

  She glanced at the paper. “As far as I can see, the company is not in trouble—at the moment, at least. However…”

  Ulf looked interested. “However, it had a rocky patch about three years ago. They were badly advised as to tax liability—very badly, apparently. It was in the financial press, and there were red faces in one of the big accounting firms. They might have been able to sue the accountants, but these things are bitterly contested and can take years to resolve. So Fridolf decided not to, and instead he got his father-in-law to bail the company out with a long-term commercial bond—more or less interest-free but with a flexible repayment term. I managed to get the details—effectively the father-in-law could pull the plug, demand repayment, and liquidate the company if he so desires. He hasn’t, of course—he seems happy to let things go on as they are.”

  “So they’re out of the woods?” asked Ulf.

  “As long as father-in-law is happy,” said Irena.

  Blomquist was stroking his chin. Ulf thought he might be about to ask a question, but he did not.

  “Where does the father-in-law get the funds?” asked Ulf.

  “Pulp,” said Irena. “Nothing exotic—just pulp for paper mills. He supplies several big mills in Austria and southern Germany.”

  “I see.”

  “So, let’s get this straight,” Ulf said. “According to what you’ve discovered, there’s no evidence of financial difficulties in the Bengtsson household.”

  Irena shook her head. “None. And just to be on the safe side, I asked a financial journalist friend whether he knew of anything, and the answer was pretty much the same. He’s more than solvent. He gave some money to the Nationalmuseum last year, and this year he part-funded a scholarship at the University of Agricultural Sciences—for potential bacon people, I suppose. So he’s not hard up—not specially wealthy, but comfortable, one might say. If you’re looking for a financial motive for whatever it is you’re investigating, then I doubt if there is one.” She shrugged. “Which leaves the other obvious area of enquiry.”

  Ulf frowned, but Blomquist looked up with a broad smile. “Exactly,” he said. “Sex. If it’s not money, then it’s sex. Always, always. Or, almost always.” Their eyes turned to him, and his smile broadened.

  “What you’ve just said, Irena,” he began, “very much ties in with what I’ve discovered.”

  Ulf was surprised. He had not been aware that Blomquist had been doing any private investigations into the case—there was no reason why he should not, but it was customary to tell one’s colleagues, and he had not done so.

  “So, Blomquist—tell all.”

  Their coffee had arrived, and Blomquist took a sip of his. The milk left a small white moustache on his upper lip, and Ulf signalled this to him.

  “Sorry, Blomquist,” said Ulf. “But it’s best to tell people about these things.”

  Blomquist wiped at his lip with his handkerchief. “I should avoid full fat milk,” he said. “They’ll do coffee with soya milk, you know, but I’ve been avoiding that for the last few months. They’re cutting down trees in South America to plant soya. It’s going to end in disaster.”

  “What about almond milk?” asked Irena. “I rather like that.”

  “Almonds require a lot of water,” said Blomquist. “And they grow them in the wrong places—where the water table is depleted anyway.”

  “You were going to tell us something,” Ulf interrupted.

  Blomquist took another sip of coffee. “You told me that you heard at your school reunion that—”

  “That Fridolf had a girlfriend? Yes.”

  “And that your friend…”

  “Harald. Yes, he told me that she worked in a coffee bar called the Bar Tirana.”

  Blomquist nodded. “I happened to find myself driving past it, so I went in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Any information helps,” said Ulf.

  “Well, I went in and it was full of Albanians—all talking in Albanian. One or two of them looked at me a bit suspiciously. They don’t like strangers, I suppose.”

  “You have to be careful in unfamiliar bars,” Irena said.

  Blomquist nodded. “I was. There was a woman behind the bar—a young woman. Blonde. Lots of make-up. A…” He looked apologetic. “A brassy type, I suppose one might say.”

  Irena laughed. “I’d use the same words myself, Blomquist. You don’t have to worry.”

  “It’s just that there are so many people ready to jump down your throat if you say the wrong thing. It’s difficult to describe anybody—or anything—if you’re not allowed to be judgemental.”

  Irena snorted. “Ignore all that,” she said. “If somebody looks like a thug, don’t be afraid to say it. Don’t assume that they are, of course—treat them fairly, but for heaven’s sake, if we’re to suppress all personal observations, how can we possibly do our job?” She thought of something. “We had a fraudster in the other day; we brought him in for questioning. You should have seen him. He looked like a weasel—nasty little eyes.”

  Ulf was cautious. “You still have to be careful. Lots of murderers look very mild. They don’t look as if they’d hurt a fly.”

  “That’s true,” said Irena. “But I still think Blomquist should be allowed to say that this coffee-bar woman looked brassy. We all know what that means. She might be a part-time student at theological college, but she could still look brassy.”

  “She was no theologian,” said Blomquist. “I talked to her. I told her I was a friend of Fridolf. I took a risk, but it paid off.”

  They waited.

  “I said that Fridolf had invited me to go round for a meal in a week or two at his country place.”

  Ulf’s eyes widened. There were police rules about lying, but they were vague at the edges. This was probably all right.

  “I mentioned where it was. I said I knew somebody who lived nearby.”

  Ulf frowned. “Do you mean where the house is now, or where it used to be?”

  Blomquist had the air of one about to make a dramatic disclosure. And it was. “Now,” he said.

  Ulf wanted to be absolutely sure. “After the theft?”

  Blomquist nodded. “She said that she was looking forward to seeing me up there. She said that she was very fond of the house. She said that Fridolf was the best of hosts and loved firing up the barbecue.”

  “She sounds like quite the talker,” said Ulf.

  “Yes. She’s that, all right. And all of this, of course, ties in with what I found when I went there with him yesterday. I was writing up my report when you asked me for coffee, and so I thought I would just give it to you when we met.”

  Ulf invited him to give them the details, and Blomquist re-ported on his visit to the house with Fridolf. “I came away certain of three things,” he said. “The first was that he knew exactly where the house was. And the second was that he’s been using it. And the third thing is that he’s been going there with somebody who likes Albanian food. The fridge was full of it, including a special sort of Albanian skinless sausage.”

  Ulf thought about this. There was only one conclusion, and he now advanced it as a theory. “He’s having an affair,” he said. “It’s perfectly obvious. He’s been taking his girlfriend there.”