Martin did not respond, as he had not heard what Ulf had to say. For his part, he was breathing in deeply, savouring the smell of the old leather seats, thinking of nothing in particular, but aware, at some level at least, that he was happy, which is the most that any of us, dog or man, can realistically hope of the world.

  * * *

  —

  The following day Ulf took Martin for his check-up at Dr. Håkansson’s clinic. He had mixed feelings about going—he felt that seeing Juni so soon after their break-up could be as awkward for her as it would be for him, and yet he wanted to thank her personally for what she had done. Even if she had rather cajoled him into agreeing to Martin’s operation, and even if she had preferred Niklas to him, her subsequent behaviour had shown consideration and kindness. People parted—they just did, and there was no point in recrimination. You either loved somebody or you did not—blame did not really come into it, as long as there was no deception.

  She greeted him warmly. “I’m glad you came,” she said. “I’ve been worried.”

  “I wanted to thank you,” he said.

  She lowered her gaze. “Jurien came to see you?”

  “He did.”

  She looked up. “I’m glad he did that,” she said. And then she added, “It was all my fault—the whole thing. The operation was a silly idea. Then letting you sell your car—I can hardly believe I did that.”

  “I did it of my own volition,” said Ulf. “I’m not blaming you for anything.”

  “You’d be within your rights if you did,” she muttered.

  “This is not a question of rights,” said Ulf. “We’ve gone our separate ways. People do that. These things don’t always work out.”

  “No, they don’t, but—”

  He took control. “I think we need to draw a line.”

  He reached across her desk and took her hand. “We can at least shake hands. Friends. All right?”

  Her gratitude was unmistakeable. “Friends,” she said. And then, to Martin, “And you, darling Martin, how are you doing?”

  “He’s feeling a lot better,” said Ulf. “I can tell. He just…well, he just looks better.”

  “I think I can tell that too,” said Juni.

  Dr. Håkansson was of the same opinion. He gave Ulf a further supply of painkillers, but suggested a much smaller dose. “Increase the dose if he looks uncomfortable,” he said. “Otherwise reduce it further after another couple of days.”

  “And the lampshade?” asked Ulf.

  Dr. Håkansson looked thoughtful. “Two more days,” he said. “Then you can try him without it. If you see him scratching at his wound, then put it back on.”

  Dr. Håkansson cast an anxious glance at Juni. “And you two…” he began.

  “We’re being very adult about it,” said Ulf.

  Dr. Håkansson laughed. “That’s a great relief,” he said. “And I’m sure Martin will appreciate that. Dogs pick up tension between people, you know. They can tell.”

  * * *

  —

  That was a Wednesday. On Thursday, Ulf returned to work after his two days of incidental leave. He drove the Saab into its customary parking place and stood for several minutes admiring it once outside. It was a beautiful car. That’s all there was to it, and it would have been a beautiful car even if it were not a Swedish icon. It expressed confidence, purpose, harmony, and, most importantly, courtesy. This was not an aggressive car, as some cars were. Nor was it brutal—as a modern SUV might be. This was a gentle, sympathetic car. And it occurred to Ulf, as he stood there admiring the vehicle, that a car manufacturer looking for the name of a new model might do worse than to call it a Simpatico or, perhaps Simpatica: drivers might choose according to their gender. Yes, that sounded just right. What do you drive? I drive a Ford Simpatica. Or even a Fiat Simpatico. That sounded entirely plausible—a Fiat Simpatico. If I weren’t a detective, Ulf thought, I could be one of those people who names products for market. I could do it, he thought. I could change my career. I could do it right now. For a moment he was tempted. He did not have to spend the rest of his life in the Department of Sensitive Crimes—there was a world out there that had nothing to do with human failings, a world ungoverned by departmental memos and quotas and closely watched leave entitlements; a world in which disagreements about desks, of all things, would be completely unknown. Perhaps he should join that world, and have much more RAM. That odd memory made him smile: people actually were envious of others who had more RAM than they did. It was risible. It was absurd. But then life itself was risible, and even absurd, and there was no point in standing apart from it in a superior way and saying that none of it really mattered. It did matter—at least in the context of our tiny lives and our limited outlook. In so far as there was any meaning in life, it emerged in relation to these small things, these things that made up our daily lives, our local existence.

  He tucked the keys of the Saab in his pocket and turned away. He had arrived early—intentionally—and he was looking forward to a half hour or so in the coffee bar, catching up on the news that he had missed over the last two days. He knew the gist of what the paper would say, of course, but there was always a slightly different angle on the familiar diet of disagreement and political machinations. And, of course, there was Björn’s column, too, which he thought he would only glance at because he knew that it would spoil his day if he read everything that his wayward brother had dreamed up.

  The coffee bar was quiet, and he was able to sit at his favourite table in the window. And he was there, immersed in his newspaper, when he looked up to see Blomquist enter the café, glance around, spot him, and come immediately over to his table.

  “I hoped I’d find you,” said Blomquist.

  Ulf laid aside the newspaper as Blomquist sat down.

  “I see your brother has something to say about climate change,” Blomquist said, nodding towards the paper.

  Ulf groaned. He was unsure what his brother’s views on that issue would be, but they would certainly be controversial. “I haven’t read him yet,” he said. “And, frankly, I’m not sure that I shall. What does my brother know about climate science? Well, I can tell you: nothing.”

  Blomquist smiled. “He says that there should be a special climate tax on beef.”

  Ulf sighed. “Well, he has a point about methane, and I suppose one has to start somewhere.”

  “He also said that air travel should be stopped completely.”

  Ulf digested this. “He goes to Majorca three times a year. And he’s always flying off to conferences. He was in Rotterdam last week at a meeting of the Dutch Semi-Revolutionary Party.”

  Blomquist laughed. “I’ve read about them.”

  “They have a lot in common with the Moderate Extremists,” said Ulf. “Bjorn’s always going on about them.” He sighed. “I wish that my brother wouldn’t…well, just wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t choose your relatives,” said Blomquist. “That’s what they always say, I believe. Mind you, if I had to choose a brother, I think I’d choose you.”

  It took Ulf a moment or two to appreciate the profundity of Blomquist’s compliment. People were slow to express their admiration for others, and it came as a surprise on those rare occasions when it happened. He looked at Blomquist now, and felt a surge of affection for him. “That’s a very kind thing to say, Blomquist.”

  “I mean it,” came the reply.

  “And I would willingly exchange my brother for you,” Ulf went on. Ulf thought: we are like two ten-year-old boys pledging blood brotherhood, but what did it matter? So many men were lonely—there were dozens of articles in the press that made that point. Men had fewer friends than women; men suffered from changing work patterns that gave them fewer colleagues; men were not very good at keeping in touch with one another—the problem was a vast one, and seemingly getting worse. And so, occasions like this, when one man was able to speak frankly and say to another how much he appreciated his friendship, should be savoured and cherished.

  But Blomquist had another agenda, and he now leaned forward and confided in Ulf. “I had a telephone call yesterday from our friend.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Fridolf. He called me at four yesterday afternoon. He wants to speak to you this morning.”

  Ulf raised an eyebrow. “Did he say what for?”

  Blomquist shook his head. “I assume it’s about getting his house back.” He looked at Ulf enquiringly. “Have you decided what to do?”

  Ulf shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Should I put him off, then?” asked Blomquist. “I tentatively arranged for him to come in at ten. I’ve booked an interview room.”

  Ulf hesitated. He would have to make a decision, and putting off an interview with Fridolf was simply delaying the inevitable. “No,” he said. “Let’s bring him in. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “Probably more lies,” said Blomquist.

  “Well, we’re used to hearing those, aren’t we?” said Ulf.

  They drank their coffee. Blomquist had a story to tell Ulf about how his neighbour had caught a high heel in the grating of a drain and was suing the local council. Ulf listened with half an ear—he was mentally rehearsing what he knew he would have to say to Fridolf, and weighing, too, the evidence that he had against him. The solution to the disappearance of the house, as suggested by Blomquist, seemed feasible enough, but what actual proof did they have? The idea that Fridolf had gone to all that trouble simply to cater to a girlfriend’s desire to have continued use of a favourite love nest—or wolf’s den, perhaps—seemed ridiculous, and yet middle-aged men with younger girlfriends did behave in ways that were utterly ridiculous. That’s what they did; it never occurred to them that their conduct would strike others as pitiful—Ulf had seen so many cases of it. Passion distorted judgement, made children of mature men, ruined the lives of the innocent. There were no limits to the power of sex to upend the rational and the considered, and Fridolf’s behaviour in this case was just another illustration of that. Nobody should be surprised by it. And yet proof was still needed. It was all very well to say it was quite possible that Fridolf had acted in this way, but that was only the beginning of the proving of the case.

  At the conclusion of the story about the heel stuck in the drain, Ulf shook his head in sympathy. “Poor woman,” he said. “It can’t have been easy.” He looked at his watch. He needed time to gather his thoughts and prepare for the interview with Fridolf. He would invite Blomquist to sit in, as he was entitled to do as one of the investigating officers. “We’ll think of something to say,” he told Blomquist. “We might even just let him dig a hole for himself. An awful lot of people do just that, you know.”

  “We had someone near where I live,” Blomquist began, “who was digging a hole in his garden. He was planning to plant a mature tree, you see, and so he started digging this hole—”

  Ulf rose to his feet. “Perhaps later, Blomquist. I don’t want to be rude, but we need to get back over the road.”

  Blomquist took a last quick sip of his coffee. “All I was going to say was that he dug down deep and then discovered he couldn’t get out. He’d dug himself into a hole.”

  Ulf stopped. “How very unfortunate,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Blomquist.

  “But they got him out?”

  Blomquist shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear about it directly, you see.”

  Ulf made towards the door. How odd it must be to be Blomquist, he thought; how odd to inhabit that particular universe. But then all of us were odd in our own way, and getting through life was mostly just a question of managing our oddness. That was the secret, Ulf thought—if there really was a secret, which he sometimes doubted.

  * * *

  —

  Blomquist showed Fridolf into the interview room. Ulf was already seated behind a small rectangular table; there was a seat for Blomquist beside him and one for the interviewee on the other side.

  Ulf noticed that Fridolf was formally dressed, in a pearly-grey suit, dark tie, and scrupulously polished shoes. He wondered whether that was his normal working dress, or would he change into the apron and jaunty white hat of the sort that butchers wore. For that, in effect, was what Fridolf was: he was a butcher, even if a very successful one. Not that Ulf looked down on any honest occupation: his distaste was reserved for those who did nothing, or who leeched on the hard work of others. He had no reason to suspect Fridolf of anything like that. And yet, as Fridolf came into the room, Ulf found himself thinking, I don’t like you, after all. He was careful about such conclusions, as they could cloud and interfere with detective work, but occasionally his intuitive ability to judge the moral stripe of others asserted itself. And it was rarely wrong, Ulf reflected.

  Fridolf sat down, at first crossing his legs uneasily, and then uncrossing them.

  “There are a few questions I need to ask you,” Ulf began. “I was going to get in touch with you, but then—”

  “But then I contacted you,” interjected Fridolf. “Yes, there are things I need to say.”

  Ulf paused. “Would you like to go ahead, then?”

  Fridolf cleared his throat. Ulf noticed that he was looking up at the ceiling, avoiding direct eye contact with both him and Blomquist.

  “I’ve come to apologise,” Fridolf said. “Unreservedly.”

  Ulf had not expected this. He glanced at Blomquist, who shrugged. He had obviously also been unaware of Fridolf’s intentions.

  “Yes,” Fridolf continued. “I have wasted your time. I have misled you.”

  “Perhaps you can tell us how you’ve done all this,” suggested Ulf.

  “My house was never stolen,” said Fridolf. “I moved it myself.”

  Ulf did not want to give the impression that they had already worked this out. He remained impassive.

  “I did this because I’ve been having an affair,” Fridolf went on. “My…my friend very much liked the house, and yet my…my wife liked it too. You cannot have two ladies sharing the same—”

  “Same man,” uttered Blomquist.

  Fridolf gave him a sideways look. “The same house. So I decided to move it and then tell my wife—”

  “Lie to your wife,” muttered Blomquist, adding “and to us.”

  Fridolf faltered. “This isn’t easy for me.”

  Ulf gave Blomquist a nudge. “Let him be,” he said.

  “So I moved the house and pretended that it had been stolen. That way, everybody was happy—in a manner of speaking. My wife thought the house had been stolen, and my friend was able to enjoy it in its new setting.”

  “And insurance?” asked Ulf.

  Fridolf shook his head energetically. “I have never made a false insurance claim,” he said. “And I made no claim in this case.”

  Ulf sat back in his chair. “What do you expect us to do?” he asked. “Do you imagine that we’ll condone this waste of our time—this making of a false complaint? Do you really think that?”

  Fridolf hesitated. He was now looking directly at Ulf, and Ulf saw that there was an imploring look in his eyes.

  “I have ended my affair with Adriana,” he said. “I have gone back to my wife. I shall not let her down again.”

  Ulf remained impassive. “From what I understand, you are no stranger to affairs.”

  Fridolf looked down towards the floor. Then, raising his eyes to meet Ulf’s gaze, he said, “Yes, that’s true. But I want you to know something. I had ended the affair before I was…” He hesitated, and Ulf could see that it was hard for him to say what followed.

  “Before?” Ulf enquired.

  “Before I was found out.”

  “Before your mother discussed it with you?”

  Fridolf looked away. “How did you know that?”

  “We know things,” said Ulf. “And we aren’t at liberty to tell people how we know them. It’s best just to assume that we know everything.”

  “My mother made me act, but I had already made up my mind to end the affair even before she spoke to me.” He paused. “The truth of the matter is that Adriana isn’t easy. She’s very demanding, you see. She threatened me.”

  Ulf frowned. “How did she threaten you?”

  “She said that she would get some of her friends to deal with me if I didn’t do what she wanted. She made me steal the house, you see. I agreed to do it, but then there were more threats. These came the day after I had moved the house. It all happened so quickly. She said that I would have to leave my wife.”

  “And you didn’t stand up to her?” asked Blomquist.

  “She’s very persuasive,” said Fridolf. “You have to be careful with her.”

  “I see,” said Ulf. “And when you ended the affair—how did she react? Did she put her friends, as she calls them, on to you?”

  Fridolf sighed. “I paid her off,” he said. “I gave her eight hundred thousand krona. I sold a painting I owned. I did it discreetly. There was a dealer who had asked me several times if I would sell. He took it on the spot.”

  “Your wife wouldn’t have wondered why you were selling the painting?” asked Ulf.

  Fridolf shifted in his seat. “I’m having a copy made. There’s a Polish art student in Gothenburg who can copy anything. Most people would be unable to tell the difference between the original and the copy—he’s extremely talented. I told my wife I was having the painting cleaned.”

  “You lied to her?” said Blomquist.

  “Yes. A final lie, though.”

  “Carry on,” said Ulf.

  “I’ve commissioned this student. He’s making it now. I should get it in a couple of weeks.”

  Fridolf gave Ulf a challenging look. “I’ve done nothing illegal,” he said. “I haven’t defrauded anyone. The painting was mine to dispose of if I wished.”