She did her usual five kilometres on the forest jogging trail and along by the river. Heated a risotto in the microwave and had it with a bit of cheese and a glass of red wine. Luxuriated in the whirlpool bath for forty-five minutes – contrary to her expectations, Ville had got it working – and then climbed into bed to watch an old Hitchcock film she found in their DVD collection.

  The Man Who Knew Too Much.

  My father, she thought. He was young when they made this. Maybe only half the age I am now.

  Why do people have to age so much quicker than the imprints they leave behind them?

  It was a good question, she decided. Time rushing away from us. Could be a suitable topic for a chat with Barbarotti? Over a beer at the Elk, why not?

  As soon as he could manage to drag his damned leg back.

  27

  ‘I don’t think much of the medical treatment in this country,’ said Brother-in-law Roger, opening a can of beer.

  ‘Oh?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘You’ll be walking with a limp for the rest of your life. Give me French or German healthcare any day.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Barbarotti.

  Brother-in-law Roger poked the ring pull through the opening in the top of his beer can and took a deep swig. It was Friday morning. Barbarotti was lying on the living-room sofa with his leg well propped up on a couple of cushions. The leg hurt a bit and was rather itchy. Brother-in-law Roger was sitting in an armchair in underpants and an unbuttoned shirt and was evidently not planning much in the way of DIY that day. Perhaps he was waiting for some particular putty to dry. It had happened before.

  They were on their own in the house. All the other residents had gone to their various jobs and places of learning, and it suddenly hit Gunnar Barbarotti that he could well be sitting – or lying – here with the unemployed traffic warden from Lycksele for . . . well, three to four hours wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

  ‘Jesus Christ, they let anybody train as a doctor here these days,’ the man was saying now. ‘Not to mention all the quacks who come pouring over the border. Poles and Arabs and God knows what. They can’t speak a word of Swedish and they can’t tell the bloody difference between a kidney and a knee. You fancy a beer?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  Good job I haven’t got a pistol to hand, he thought. I’d shoot that tosser if I had. In the leg, say, then the hospital transport people could cart him off to Germany to have it operated on.

  ‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ Barbarotti said. ‘Do you think you could pass me the cordless phone and give me a few minutes?’

  Brother-in-law Roger took another swig and scratched his belly. ‘I’ve only just sat down. You’re not as immobile as you damn well make out, constable. I heard there was a bloke back home they put in plaster for a pulled muscle. Doctor from Iran or somewhere like that.’

  Barbarotti made no comment. After a while, Brother-in-law Roger heaved himself out of his chair and went to get the phone.

  ‘I’ll sit out on the terrace for now,’ he announced. ‘You can give me a shout when you’re done, OK?’

  You can bet your life I won’t, thought Gunnar Barbarotti.

  He got straight through to Eva Backman.

  ‘Thanks for yesterday,’ she said.

  She had been round at Villa Pickford for an hour on Thursday evening to talk over the Sigurdsson case. They’d had a glass of wine, he, Marianne and Inspector Backman – the prize pest had stuck to the TV and a can of beer – and he had found himself thinking that in fact there were only two people in the world in whom he had blind faith: this very pair of women. His wife for the last year, his colleague for the past twelve.

  He also contemplated whether he would ever have dared to ask Eva Backman to marry him. If things had been different, that is; if she hadn’t been occupied with her Ville and her trio of other unihockey players, and if he hadn’t found Marianne on that Greek island.

  It was an old and increasingly hypothetical question, with a tendency to sail swiftly through his head now and then, sort of in through his left ear and out through his right one, requiring no answer. It’s a relief that there are questions in that category, too, Inspector Barbarotti would think to himself.

  Alternative paths through life that one would never have to take.

  ‘It was good to see you,’ he said. ‘And, er, there was something I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind. I shall be coming into work on Monday. You can pass that on to Asunander.’

  ‘No way,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I mean, why on earth?’

  ‘I feel it’s my duty to pull my weight,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  Eva Backman was momentarily reduced to silence. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t your head you landed on in that wheelbarrow?’ she asked eventually. ‘Why come to this madhouse when you can lie at home on the settee, picking your navel?’

  ‘I have my reasons,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘But I’ll be tied to my desk, of course, and if my leg gets too painful I shall go home. You can pass that on to Asunander as well.’

  ‘OK then,’ said Inspector Backman. ‘You must do as you see fit, but legs aren’t first and foremost in our line of work, are they?’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Barbarotti. ‘It’s almost impossible to work with both legs stretched out in front of you.’

  ‘That’s quite enough from you,’ said Backman and hung up.

  ‘I had a word with him.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘He’s my brother, Gunnar. I don’t like being made to feel ashamed of my own brother.’

  ‘He’s a prize pest.’

  ‘I know. But you’ve just got to accept him as an imperfect human being.’

  ‘Unlike you.’

  She shot him a look, presumably trying to detect some kind of sarcasm.

  ‘I genuinely meant that,’ he clarified to be on the safe side. ‘I think you’re perfect.’

  ‘And you are as you are,’ was all she offered. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No. Not much, anyway. But I’m more aware of it when I’m not concentrating on something else. I need distractions, you might say.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  It was five to midnight and they had finally got to bed. The offending leg was propped up on pillows and was aching slightly; he assumed he had stumped about too much in the course of the evening and over-stimulated the circulation. Could they make love, he wondered. It seemed a daunting undertaking and would probably just have to wait a few days. Or weeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The prize pest is as he is, too, but I ought to have learnt how to deal with him. He’s helped us more than anyone could expect. Can’t we talk about something else?’

  She switched off the bedside light. ‘Sure. But I did just want to tell you he’ll be staying one more week. We agreed on that. If those materials for the jetty come on Monday like they’re meant to, he’ll need three or four days, then he’ll head home next Saturday or Sunday. You’ll just have to put up with him, and preferably try to be nice as well.’

  ‘I know,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’m ashamed of the way I’ve treated him. And I’ll be back at work on Monday, anyway.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ said Marianne. ‘You’ve got a broken foot to lug around with you, you know.’

  ‘Only desk duties,’ he assured her. ‘I’m as well off at work digging around in paperwork as I am at home being irritable with your brother, aren’t I?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Marianne.

  She sounded a bit fed up. Or perhaps just tired. Both would no doubt be justified. They lay there quietly for a while before she switched the light on again, extended a hand and pulled out the drawer of the bedside table.

  She took out the Bible and held it in both hands for a few moments, closing her eyes and taking deep, calming breaths. Then she put in one finger and opened the book about halfway through.

  He nodded. ‘A bit of guidance?’

  ‘A bit of guidance.’

  She ran her finger down the page, stopped at random, looked at the text and gave a little smile.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  Marianne cleared her throat and read aloud.

  ‘The fool folds his hands together and ruins himself. Better is a handful, with quietness, than two handfuls with labour and chasing after wind.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti considered this for a few seconds.

  ‘Chasing after wind,’ he said. ‘I like that expression. Though I don’t see what it’s got to do with the prize pest.’

  ‘It could be he’s not the one needing the guidance,’ said Marianne.

  ‘A handful, with quietness?’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well yes, that’s about all the quietness I really want. I assume that’s why I’m going into work on Monday. What’s this text?’

  ‘Ecclesiastes, also known as the Preacher,’ said Marianne. ‘He’s not exactly cheery, but I agree with you. The bit about chasing the wind is good. That’s not what we’re doing, are we?’

  ‘Most definitely not,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And I’m going to be nice to your brother, I promise. Just one more week, you say? Seven days?’

  ‘Ten at most,’ Marianne assured him.

  Then he told her about Alice Ekman-Roos and her missing husband. He wasn’t sure why he was doing so, but Marianne was instantly interested.

  ‘So he’s been gone since Sunday?’

  ‘Yes. That’s to say, I don’t know, he could have turned up by now.’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. Before I came out of hospital.’

  ‘And at that point she still didn’t know anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she hadn’t informed the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t understand her. He could have been killed or anything.’

  ‘Seems unlikely. And she’s got this sense of shame because he’s been pulling the wool over her eyes for quite a while.’

  ‘You said he gave up his job about a month ago?’

  ‘At least a month.’

  She thought for a while.

  ‘There’s only one theory then,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there? That he’s run off with the other woman.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘That seems the most plausible explanation.’

  Marianne lay there, thinking in silence.

  ‘But say that’s wrong?’ she went on. ‘Then it would be very much a police matter. It would mean some kind of crime must lie behind it. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I think I’d better check it out on Monday after all.’

  ‘Promise,’ said Marianne. ‘In fact, I think you should call her tomorrow. Poor woman, she must be going through hell.’

  He adjusted the pillows under his leg and pondered.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But bearing in mind the way she described him, she might well be thinking how nice it is to be rid of him. She compared him to a piece of furniture.’

  ‘Furniture?’

  ‘Yes. A sofa, to be precise.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Marianne. ‘I’m sure it’s a bit more complicated than that. Women whose husbands have been unfaithful have a particular psychological take on things.’

  ‘Now we’re getting into areas I’ve no chance of understanding,’ observed Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But I can call her tomorrow by all means and check how things are.’

  Five seconds passed. She switched off the light.

  ‘I’ve got an idea Johan might have started smoking on the sly.’

  ‘I’ll check that out as well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marianne. ‘I love you. In fact I love this whole horde we’ve surrounded ourselves with, but right now I can’t keep my eyes open a moment longer.’

  She yawned and rolled over onto her side.

  ‘I love you too,’ said Barbarotti. ‘The whole show, just as you say. And I feel in my bones that we’re not chasing the wind.’

  ‘Mhm?’ said Marianne.

  28

  Chief Inspector Asunander looked sceptical.

  He generally did, but today it was even more obvious than usual.

  ‘A man who’s run off with some woman he loves?’ he said. ‘And you’re telling me it’s something worth spending our valuable time on?’

  ‘Things may not be as simple as they initially appear,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I thought it might be worth taking further . . . a bit further, anyway.’

  ‘Has his wife reported it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are there any other theories besides this lover hypothesis?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Barbarotti, squirming slightly. It isn’t very easy to squirm when you’re in plaster, so this one was more the internal variety.

  ‘You suspect some sort of crime?’

  ‘I can’t rule it out,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘It isn’t by any chance that you think you can do what you like, just because you’ve shown up here with that club foot?’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  Chief Inspector Asunander gave a snort. He’s grown eloquent since he got those false teeth of his to stay in place, thought Barbarotti. Annoyingly eloquent, in fact – things were better before.

  ‘As it happens,’ continued Chief Inspector Asunander, ‘I have a task that’s pretty much tailor-made for an eager inspector with a club foot.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘I think we’ll do it like this: you solve my little spot of bother first and once that’s done you can turn your attention to this runaway. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Roos,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Ante Valdemar Roos.’

  ‘Interesting name,’ said the chief inspector. ‘But presumably that’s the only interesting aspect of the whole thing.’

  ‘What spot of bother did you have in mind?’ asked Barbarotti, suppressing a sigh.

  ‘The graffiti problem,’ said Asunander, and Barbarotti could have sworn he saw a smile tug at the corner of the chief inspector’s mouth for a fraction of a second. For his own part, he felt a surge of pain in his leg.

  ‘The graffiti problem?’ he said, trying not to sound as though he felt like throwing up. ‘I don’t think I—?’

  ‘It’s time to put an end to the whole saga now,’ the chief inspector interrupted as he lifted a corner of his desk blotter and fished out a sheet of paper. ‘We’ve been after this bastard – or these bastards – for nearly two years now, and with Inspector Sturegård going on maternity leave for at least eight months, I need someone to take over.’

  This time Barbarotti couldn’t hold back the sigh. He was well aware of how things stood with the Graffiti Master. Or Masters, as the case might be. Or Those goddamned petty hooligans who deserve to be burnt at the stake. They (or he, but scarcely a she) had been on the rampage in Kymlinge for at least two and a half years, but not much attention had been paid to the problem until the editor of the local paper, one Lars-Lennart Brahmin, had moved into Olympia, one of the old fin-de-siècle buildings on the east side of the river. He had immediately been elected chairman of the residents’ association, and it so happened that the pale-cream-coloured facade of Olympia was one of the Graffiti Master’s favourite locations for his offensive tags.

  Then each time he had been in action, about once a month for the past year, the subject got an airing in the local paper. A very prominent airing.

  ‘That bloody Brahmin’s been ringing me seven times a week,’ said Asunander. ‘I’ve cancelled my subscription to the paper – its editor brings me out in a rash.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘I thought Sturegård would get it sorted out in no time, but something’s gone awry, apparently.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Barbarotti.

  He didn’t know Inspector Malin Sturegård very well, but he knew she had been put in sole charge of putting a stop to the vandalism. He also knew she had got nowhere, despite dogged efforts over an extended period of time – and he seemed to remember hearing a rumour that she had got pregnant just to escape the whole mess. She was over forty and already had three or four children, so he felt there could be a grain of truth in such speculations.

  These dismal facts ran through Inspector Barbarotti’s mind as Chief Inspector Asunander clasped his hands on the desk and regarded his officer with an expression that . . . well, it was hard to say. And that was rare with Asunander. But it was plain in any case that it did not contain any sympathy for a subordinate who had fallen off a roof and broken his foot on a wheelbarrow.

  Nor had Gunnar Barbarotti expected any sympathy of that kind. He cleared his throat, fumbled with his crutches and hauled himself to his feet.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure to get Sturegård’s material sent to my office.’

  ‘I’ve already given the order,’ said Asunander. ‘I expect the files are there by now. Just get this damn nuisance sorted out once and for all.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Barbarotti as he hobbled out of the chief inspector’s office.

  ‘Then you’ll have your hands free to get to grips with that Roos,’ Asunander reminded him, just as he was closing the door.

  Thanks boss, thought Barbarotti. Very nice of you. I’m not so bloody sure the prize pest wouldn’t have been a better bet after all.

  ‘How did it go?’ said Eva Backman. ‘What are these files?’

  ‘Graffiti,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Inspector Sturegård’s one-woman investigation.’

  ‘What are they doing in your room?’

  ‘I needed something to prop my leg on,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Don’t think I’ll fall for that,’ said Eva Backman, and her face suddenly broke into a smile. ‘You don’t mean to say . . .?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Barbarotti, ‘and if you laugh I shall clout you with this crutch.’

  ‘Sturegård?’ said Backman. ‘Oh my God, of course, she went off on maternity leave last week.’