So, the mid-range Mercedes-Benz parked second closest to the entrance would be Dr. Ebke’s, the car parked closest to the entrance being that of the administrator, who would, of course, have arrived first in order to open up the building. That left two cars, one of which had tinted windows in the rear. That car belonged to one who had something to hide, and was therefore the car driven by Olaf, who had troubling impulses. Shame, it seemed, could dictate the choice of a car every bit as much as could pride. The final car could now be allocated to Henrietta. It was a Spanish car, a Seat ... Salsa dancing, thought Ulf, which confirmed his diagnosis.

  Inside, he found the participants gathered around Dr. Ebke, drinking a cup of coffee in the meeting room.

  “A preliminary meet and greet,” said Dr. Ebke, shaking Ulf’s hand. “I thought we might get to know one another a bit before our first session.” He paused. “Your bio, by the way, was very brief. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but it was rather short, don’t you think?”

  “One doesn’t want to burden people,” said Ulf.

  “No, of course not,” said Dr. Ebke hurriedly. “But you didn’t tell us what you do, did you?”

  “Is that necessary?” asked Ulf.

  Dr. Ebke took a sip of his coffee, fixing Ulf with an intense stare. “Our work defines us, don’t you think?”

  Ulf shrugged. “If we choose our work, yes. But don’t you think many people are doing things they didn’t choose to do? Don’t you think that many people fall into their occupation because ... well, by chance, or even by heredity? Farmers are like that, I think. Farmers are farmers because their parents were farmers before them.”

  Dr. Ebke laughed. “I can see that you’re going to keep me on my toes,” he said. “But tell me, what do you do?”

  Ulf did not reply immediately. There was something about Dr. Ebke’s manner that irritated him. And what right had he to information that Ulf might choose not to impart?

  “I’m an engineer.” He had no idea why he said this, other than in an attempt to protect his privacy. It was childish, of course, but now that he had said it, he could hardly correct himself.

  But that was not needed. “An engineer?” echoed Dr. Ebke. “How strange. I thought you were a detective.”

  Ulf stared at the therapist. “Then why did you ask? If you already knew, why did you ask me?”

  The direct retort appeared to fluster Dr. Ebke, who suddenly looked pointedly at his watch. “My goodness,” he said. “Look at the time. We must start.” He rose to his feet. “We shall have plenty of time to talk later, Ulf.”

  Ulf watched as Dr. Ebke mustered the participants. A set of easy chairs had been arranged in a circle near the meeting-room window, and it was here that they all sat down and were formally introduced to one another by Dr. Ebke.

  “Ulf will no doubt tell us more about himself later on,” Dr. Ebke said when he got to Ulf. The therapist gave him a sideways glance as he said this, and Ulf looked away. He had decided that he was not going to like Dr. Ebke, but he would stick it out in deference to Dr. Svensson. It was a waste of a Saturday, he thought, but then what else would he have had to do? There was nothing, really—other than a longer than usual walk with Martin, perhaps, or a visit to his cousin, who had just had her second baby and was keen to show him off because he had been named after him. “Ulf is such a lovely name,” said the cousin. “Both Otto and I thought it perfect.” He would have to find a present for the young Ulf. What did one give a baby? He would choose something silver, he thought, and would have it inscribed: Ulf from Ulf, with the date. Mind you, silver was expensive—and there had been those costly new chairs. So perhaps young Ulf would get something made of pewter rather than silver—and a baby would never be able to tell the difference. Even the expense of the engraving could be cut down if he were to decide on U from U, or even just U.

  Olaf said: “I want to share something with you. I’ve never talked to other people about this—never.”

  Dr. Ebke nodded encouragingly. “Well, Olaf,” he said, “this is why we’re here. The whole point of a group approach is to share the burden. That’s what we call it: sharing the burden.”

  Henrietta said, “Yes. Yes. I’ve always believed that sharing the burden makes it lighter. It really does. That’s been my experience, at least.”

  This appeared to please Dr. Ebke. “Henrietta is quite right, you know. It’s always easier to carry something if you have others helping you. This applies to anything—a parcel, a rucksack ... anything.”

  Ulf frowned. How exactly could more than one person carry a rucksack? The whole point of a rucksack was that you strapped it onto your back. That was the way they were designed and it would be impossible, surely, to get two people into those straps. They would end up facing away from one another, with the rucksack suspended in between them, the straps entangled in their arms.

  Olaf had more to say. “I know I should say what I have to say quickly—I mean now, as opposed to later.”

  Henrietta leaned forward. “Yes, Olaf. I want to hear. I really want to hear.”

  Olaf looked at her with concern. “Why?” he asked. “Why should you be so keen?”

  Henrietta gave him a look of injured innocence. “Because we want to help you,” she said. “That’s why we’re here—to help you with these improper impulses of yours.”

  Olaf turned to Dr. Ebke. “Improper? Who said anything about improper?”

  Although the question had been addressed to Dr. Ebke, it was answered by Henrietta. “You did, Olaf. You told us about them in your bio.”

  “I didn’t,” protested Olaf. “I said I was troubled. I said: troublesome thoughts.”

  “No, you didn’t,” interjected Peter. “Look, it’s here.” He extracted the administrator’s letter from his pocket and unfolded it. “Yes, it says troubling impulses. See? Impulses, not thoughts.”

  Dr. Ebke raised a hand. “I don’t think we should take an accusing tone with one another, everybody. The important thing is what Olaf says here—in our presence.”

  “I’d like to know the difference between an impulse and a thought,” Peter interjected. “Is there one, do you think?”

  “It’s really a question of—” began Olaf.

  Peter interrupted him. “I was asking Dr. Ebke,” he said. “Not you.”

  Olaf looked injured. “You don’t need to take that tone with me. It’s my thoughts we were discussing.”

  “Your impulses,” said Henrietta.

  Ulf observed. He had his eye on Olaf and was wondering whether he had encountered him somewhere before—professionally. It would be a tricky matter, he thought, if one of these people started to talk about having done something criminal. Would he have to act? Would he have to suddenly extract his police ID card and say, “Enough group therapy—you’re under arrest”? He tried not to stare too hard at Olaf, but the more he looked at him, the more he suspected that the conversation would have to be about impulses rather than thoughts—and it might not be an easy one.

  But then Olaf rose to his feet. “I’m leaving, Dr. Ebke. I’m sorry, but I’m withdrawing.”

  “You’re being impulsive,” said Peter, and laughed. This brought a stern look of disapproval from Dr. Ebke.

  “There’s no call for levity,” said the therapist. “And we must not laugh at one another. This is very, very serious.”

  Ulf tried not to laugh. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. That helped.

  Dr. Ebke accompanied Olaf from the room, trying to dissuade him as he strode out. But Olaf, it seemed, was adamant in his decision to withdraw. From where he was sitting, Ulf had a good view through the window of the car park outside. He noticed with some satisfaction that Olaf went to the car with the shaded windows, climbed in, and drove off. He noted with even greater satisfaction that Dr. Ebke, who had accompanied Olaf out of the building, still pleading with him, now went to fetch something from his own car. And that, of course, was the Mercedes-Benz.

  Ulf turned to Peter. “Do you drive that Porsche out there?” he asked.

  Peter nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s a nice car,” said Ulf appreciatively.

  Of course you drive it, he thought. Of course you do.

  * * *

  —

  After Olaf’s departure, the atmosphere changed and the remainder of the session went smoothly enough. When Ulf’s turn came to discuss his problems, he restricted himself to talking about the distress that he felt in having to deal with bad behaviour. Since Dr. Ebke had revealed that Ulf was a detective, he was able to talk about the stresses of work. He warned the group, though, that he could not talk about any details, and that any remarks he made about his work would be at a high level of generality.

  Henrietta followed Ulf. Her concern was self-knowledge, she said. “I know that I have reasons for the things I do,” she explained. “But sometimes I ask myself: Why did I do that? I mean that rather than that. That’s the really interesting question, I find. That’s why I started seeing somebody. I didn’t want therapy to solve any issues for me—I wanted it to show me what the issues are.” She paused, looking in turn at each of the other members of the group. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “You want to find out about yourself.”

  “Yes,” Henrietta enthused. “How many of us really know ourselves—I mean, really know?”

  The discussion of Henrietta’s quest took about half an hour. At the end she seemed pleased with the result. “I feel as if I’ve really got into myself, you know. I feel that I understand a bit better what brought me here today. I see it in its context, I suppose. That makes a difference.”

  Then it was Peter, who spoke for more than twenty minutes on a domestic ritual he had to perform before he could leave the house. “I know this sounds absurd,” he said, “but I have to take all my shirts out of the wardrobe and put them away again. Twice.”

  “What would happen if you didn’t do that?” asked Henrietta.

  “My plane would crash,” Peter answered.

  Ulf stared at him. Did airlines not have strict medical requirements? Was there not a psychiatric examination for pilots?

  “Oh, I know that’s ridiculous,” said Peter. “I know what you think.”

  “It’s superstitious behaviour,” said Dr. Ebke. “It’s very common. Many people have to perform little rituals or they think something dreadful will happen. We’ve all probably done that at one stage or another. You say to yourself, If I don’t do this, then something awful’s going to happen. It’s simple superstition.” He looked at Peter. “But here’s an interesting thing: Talking about those beliefs to other people, shining a light on them, completely defuses them. They go away.”

  “So the dreaded thing never happens?” asked Henrietta.

  “Never,” said Dr. Ebke.

  Peter looked relieved. “Good,” he said. Then his face fell. “But it could happen, couldn’t it?”

  Dr. Ebke gave a reassuring smile. “Of course, anything can happen—anything at all. But if the feared event did happen in a case like this, it would be pure chance. It would not be a case of post hoc ergo propter hoc. In other words, there would be no causal link between the failure to perform a superstitious ritual and the occurrence of the dreaded event.” He smiled again, tolerantly. “It would be no more than an act of what people used to call God.”

  Henrietta drew in her breath. “Used to…”

  “I don’t wish to lead us into theological discussion,” said Dr. Ebke. “Our plates are full enough as it is.”

  Peter was clearly not convinced by the answer he had been given. “But if the dreaded event materialises, how would you know that it was not caused by the non-observance of what you call the ritual…”

  “And which others might call a precaution,” muttered Ulf.

  “Yes. If I failed to take the precaution of taking out and putting away my shirts, and my plane came down, how would you know—in the firm sense of the word know—that this was not a result of my not doing what I always do? How would you?”

  Dr. Ebke waved a hand dismissively. “I’d apply the normal rules of scientific causation—as we understand them. We know from experience that the folding of shirts has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with aviation disasters.” He looked at Peter, as if to challenge him. “I would have thought that with your training you would know that too.” He paused. “I take it that you understand Bernoulli’s Principle.”

  “Of course I do,” Peter snapped. “I’m a qualified pilot.”

  “Then you rely on science, don’t you?” Dr. Ebke retorted. “And your only hope of dealing with your OCD, if I may be permitted to say this, is through psychological intervention—and psychology is a branch of science.”

  Peter stared dumbly at the floor. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Henrietta was sitting next to Peter, and now she reached out and laid a hand on his forearm. “We’re all with you,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Thank you,” said Peter. “I try and try, you know. I try really hard.”

  Ulf felt a pang of sympathy. “Of course you do,” he said. “And remember, we all have our problems. All of us. Even Dr. Ebke here—he’ll have problems.”

  Henrietta seemed interested. “That’s a point,” she said. Turning to Dr. Ebke, she asked, “What are your problems, Dr. Ebke? Could we talk about those, do you think?”

  * * *

  —

  Time passed quickly, and before they knew it it was five o’clock, and the meeting broke up. Ulf accompanied Ebba out into the car park, where they chatted briefly before she let herself into the Fiat Bambino. Ulf had found her the most interesting of the participants—Henrietta went on for far too long about herself and her personal quests, and Peter was simply too anxious to engage with in any meaningful way. Ebba, by contrast, spoke about her difficulties in a balanced and unindulgent way.

  “I know that my problems are nothing compared to those of others,” she had said. “It’s just this inability to make up my mind. It’s odd. It strikes at strange times—over comparatively small matters. Often not big things—just little decisions, such as whether to have one slice of toast or two. That sort of thing.”

  Dr. Ebke had led that discussion. He blamed Ebba’s mother, who they had been told had been in charge of the nursing staff in a large teaching hospital. “I don’t wish to disparage your mother in any way,” he had said. “But she might well have been a perfectionist—in that position. And that might have led her—I’m not necessarily saying it did—but it might have led her to imposing very high standards on you. So, you can’t choose because your mother’s there, still looking over your shoulder.”

  Ebba listened carefully. “She lives in Finland now. Her second husband was a Finn.”

  Dr. Ebke smiled. “I didn’t mean that she’s there physically. I meant she’s there as a presence.” He looked at each member of the group in turn. “We are surrounded by presences, you know. They are always there. Our parents, our grandparents, and even more distant ancestors, handing on their psychological burden, their unresolved issues.”

  In the car park at the end of the day, Ulf said to Ebba, “Well, I hope you feel that was helpful.”

  She said that she did. “And you?” she asked.

  “A bit. I suppose it was useful to talk to all of you about my feelings for my work.”

  She nodded. “I found what you had to say very interesting. Your job must be extraordinary—and put you under real stress at times. This department you work in—this Department of Sensible Crimes…”

  “Sensitive,” Ulf corrected her. “Department of Sensitive Crimes.”

  “Yes, of course. You must see some very distressing things.”

  “Sometimes,” said Ulf. “But not very often. There’s very little gore, if that’s what you mean. We don’t do murder and such things. If we see distress, it’s usually over some very minor thing, some odd criminal activity that doesn’t fit any of the big categories. It’s all very polite stuff. Very Swedish. I don’t think there’s another Department of Sensitive Crimes anywhere in the world. It’s just us.”

  He looked at her. She was an attractive woman, and she was of just the right age for him—mid-thirties, he thought, perhaps a touch older. He wondered whether it would be appropriate for him to suggest dinner, if she was going back to Malmö. He was not sure of the etiquette: If you met somebody suitable in a group therapy session, was it inherently coercive to invite her to dinner? One had to be so careful these days, when dating was a minefield for the unwary.

  He started to say, “There’s a new restaurant opened up. I was keen to give it a try and—”

  Ebba cut him short. “I really must be on my way,” she said, looking at her watch. “Nils is expecting me to pick something up on the way home. We share the cooking, and it’s my turn tonight.”

  “Of course,” said Ulf, sighing inwardly. People assured him there were plenty of unattached women and he would find no difficulty in meeting one, but all the women he met seemed to be attached. Anna was. Oh, Anna, if only you weren’t so ... so attached. If only ... He wondered what Nils was like. They shared the cooking, Ebba had said, which meant that he was a considerate and helpful type. It would be a strong and stable relationship, he suspected; to imagine anything else was wishful thinking—fired by envy, perhaps.

  He watched as she got into her car. He saw her put the key in the ignition and start the engine. Then she sat quite still, her hand poised over the gear lever. And he realised at that moment that she could not decide whether to engage a forward or reverse gear.