Things were fairly quiet in the classroom even though the teacher wasn’t there, because they were all doing exercises in their workbooks. But then one of the boys in the double desk in front of her turned round, the one with piggy little eyes and unnaturally white hair. He gave her a nervous sneer of a grin and whispered: ‘I know your cunt goes crossways, that’s the way they have them where you come from. My dad often goes over there to screw birds, so don’t try to tell me otherwise!’

  He gabbled it all in one breath, as if he had sat there practising it first, and when he had finished he turned quickly back round again. Presumably only she and Pig-Eyes’ deskmate heard what he said, but she still picked up her pencil and jabbed it as hard as she could into his back. She pushed it in and gave it a twist, and he yelled his head off just as Snusanne came back into the room.

  Jimmy – yes, that was his name – threw himself onto the floor and whimpered and generally carried on, bawling: She’s out of her tiny mind; She’s dead dangerous; She tried to kill me; She’s a fucking Polish retard; and Fuck, am I bleeding, am I?

  But mainly he just yelped and moaned, and the teacher pulled his shirt out of his trousers and inspected the wound, and the whole time, because all this took quite a while, Anna just carried on calmly filling in her workbook. She was using a different pencil by then, because the point of the first one was stuck in the back of Jimmy Pig-Eyes.

  And when she was asked afterwards to explain why she had done it, because Snusanne and the school counsellor in the sandals and the study advisor and all sorts of people wanted to know, she said nothing. Nothing; not a single word passed her lips. She didn’t even tell Mum, but seeing these yellowed images now, she couldn’t really comprehend how she had done that. She couldn’t have been more than ten, and she had no recollection of ever having been as tough as she was on that occasion. Neither before nor since.

  And Jimmy Pig-Eyes kept well away from her at playtimes, as did his mates, and a few weeks after the incident she changed school, because Mum had once again found something that was both cheaper and better.

  The third film was the strangest of all.

  Her little brother was sick again, and lying in bed in a room she at first didn’t recognize, but she soon saw that it must be the cottage at Lograna. She had just finished painting the walls; for some reason it was important for her to finish the job so Marek could get well. He looked so small and pitiful lying there in the bed, and she realized he was changing size. Whenever she approached the bed, he shrank, but when she stayed at a slight distance he seemed more or less normal.

  She tried to go right up to her brother, because she wanted to touch him, of course, but when she put out her hand he was suddenly so tiny that he was invisible, and she whispered to him not to be afraid, it was only her, his sister Anna, wanting to stroke him and help him get better, but not being able to see him frightened her out of her wits and she hastily retreated to a corner of the room. And then, although not right away, he grew larger and was visible again.

  This film was the scariest and was a constant repetition of this one thing: she approached her little brother, he shrank and vanished and she backed away from the bed, terrified. Worst of all were those seconds after she got back to her corner and couldn’t be sure if he was going to appear again. Perhaps it was too late, perhaps she should never have tried to touch him one last time.

  Sometimes, between the film sequences, she was awake. Or almost awake, anyway, because Valdemar was with her and he was neither a memory nor a dream. He was reality, sheer reality, and part of what was actually happening.

  They were in the car all the time, he in the front seat and she in the back. Sometimes they stopped, sometimes they were on the move; from time to time he helped her out so she could pee beside the road, and she felt freezing cold as she squatted behind some bush, and afterwards she always got the headache.

  He talked to her, said things to her, but she understood hardly any of what he was trying to say. It was simpler to go back to sleep and watch the dream sequences unfold, though she did wish there could be other pictures. But it was always just those three. The beach, Jimmy Pig-Eyes, Marek.

  He listened to the car radio, too, and she could hear it. Usually just music, but now and then there was a news bulletin; she didn’t understand the language they were speaking, but it could be Swedish even so, she thought. She didn’t understand what Valdemar said to her, did she, but he must surely be talking Swedish? Maybe they’d soon be home.

  Home. It was a strange word, meaning different things to everybody in the whole world, yet they all knew what it meant and for her part . . . no, wait, there was one person who didn’t know, and that was her.

  It worried her for a few moments, but then it occurred to her that Valdemar was bound to know. Yes, he definitely would, and she wanted to say it to him, tell him she appreciated it, and that she liked him, and as soon as she got well, she thought, she would explain all that to him and play the guitar and sing to him so he really understood that she meant it.

  Young girl, dumb girl . . . no, not that song, and anyway it wasn’t really a song but just a silly sort of chant. It had to be something else that he’d recognize and like. Maybe ‘Valdemar the Penguin’, that one she wrote for him.

  But if she died instead, she would come and visit him in his dreams. So whichever way it turned out, there could only be a happy ending.

  She could see the butterflies again now, it was amazing that there were so many of them and they could fly so far without having to touch down. She held on tightly to her dad’s ears so she wouldn’t have to get her feet wet, either.

  43

  ‘Explain,’ said Asunander.

  It was Tuesday afternoon and six of them were assembled in the chief inspector’s office. Prosecutor Sylvenius was sitting on a chair in front of the window, looking as if he had just bitten into a lemon. Asunander himself was enthroned behind his desk. Backman, Barbarotti and assistant Tillgren were squeezed together on the leather sofa while Wennergren-Olofsson preferred to stand. Possibly because there were no other seats in the room.

  ‘We don’t know if this is right,’ said Backman.

  ‘What do you know, in fact, the lot of you?’

  ‘It was just an idea,’ said Backman.

  ‘Stop talking drivel,’ said Asunander.

  Inspector Backman cleared her throat. ‘It could be them, but it could be someone else. It’s much more likely to be someone else, really.’

  ‘Where’s DI Borgsen?’ asked Asunander, as if everything would have been as clear as day if only Sorrysen were present.

  ‘Fatherhood has intervened,’ said Backman. ‘His wife had a little girl last night.’

  ‘Hrrmm,’ said Asunander. ‘I see. Well?’

  Eva Backman sighed and went on. ‘The German police are looking for an unidentified Volvo. Probably an S80, probably dark blue or dark green, possibly Swedish . . .’

  ‘Possibly, possibly, possibly?’ said Sylvenius. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It means exactly what it usually does,’ said Backman. ‘So what’s happened is that a German police officer was brutally attacked at some motorway services . . . on the slip road at the exit from the services, to be precise. He’s on a respirator, unconscious, and they don’t know if he’ll pull through or not.’

  ‘Attacked how?’ asked Sylvenius.

  ‘With some kind of blunt object, apparently,’ said Backman. ‘Could be anything, basically. This all happened yesterday afternoon and a Europe-wide alert has been put out for this car, of course, but they’ve no more specific description than the one I just gave you.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly, possibly?’ repeated Prosecutor Sylvenius crossly, and began polishing his spectacles on his tie.

  ‘Yes, it’s all we’ve got,’ said Backman. ‘I’ll let you all have a copy of the details so you can read them for yourselves. It’s a pretty basic translation from the German, but the gist is—’

  ‘What’s the gist?’ asked Sylvenius.

  ‘Could you please stop interrupting, Mr Sylvenius?’ said Asunander. ‘We haven’t got unlimited time here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Backman. ‘Well, the details are roughly these: the police officer in question, who unfortunately was alone in his car at the time because some sort of emergency had prevented his colleague coming with him – they’re normally in pairs – was found at the edge of the road by his car, just at the exit from a service station. Knocked unconscious by some heavy blunt instrument. They’ve heard from various witnesses that they passed the police car, which was parked there with its blue light flashing, and that . . . that there was another vehicle parked there too. Other witnesses say they passed this Volvo earlier – if we assume it was a Volvo – so before the police car arrived, and the driver evidently had a puncture. It was pouring with rain at the time, and he seems to have taken quite a while over changing the wheel. The car was parked in a rather awkward place and that might have been why the police officer decided to stop and check up on it. His name is Klaus Meyer, by the way.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’ asked Asunander.

  ‘Near Emden,’ said Backman.

  ‘And where’s that?’ said Sylvenius.

  ‘In Germany,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘But why . . . why should it be them?’ asked Tillgren tentatively. ‘I mean there must be thousands of cars fitting this description. Tens of thousands.’

  ‘That’s just what we’re here to decide,’ said Asunander.

  ‘Whether to give them the registration number or not,’ clarified Backman.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Sylvenius.

  ‘But there’s already a warrant out for Roos and Gambowska’s arrest,’ said Wennergren-Olofsson. ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘There certainly is,’ said Backman. ‘But the attempted murder of a police officer on the autobahn carries more weight with the Germans than a couple of runaways from Sweden . . . if you get my drift?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Wennergren-Olofsson.

  ‘Do we believe it could be them?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘I mean, why on earth would he club down a police officer?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ said Backman. ‘But a moment of panic can be all it takes.’

  ‘Plus happening to have an appropriate weapon to hand,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But yes, that’s possible. How do things stand? Could there be more witnesses coming forward who might have seen the registration number and so on? Or be able to confirm the car is Swedish, at least?’

  ‘Could well be,’ said Backman. ‘They’re working flat out on this down there. A lot of people saw that car on the slip road. They’re issuing repeated appeals for witnesses on radio and television, but of course it’s difficult to make out any details if you just go swooshing past in the rain. What shall we do? Release Valdemar Roos’s number to the Germans, or wait a bit?’

  ‘Why would we wait?’ asked Wennergren-Olofsson.

  ‘Because,’ said Asunander, glaring at the assistant, ‘if the Germans think there’s a police killer in that car, they’ll fire the grenade launcher the minute they locate the vehicle. And ask questions afterwards. That’s how it is, so we’ll have to wait at least until we get confirmation the Volvo is registered in Sweden. Backman, keep me updated.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Backman.

  ‘On a continuing basis,’ said Asunander.

  ‘On a continuing basis,’ said Backman.

  ‘Do you want to bet on it?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘By all means,’ said Backman. ‘It’s them, I don’t know how I know, but I’ve got this feeling.’

  ‘There could be fifty thousand dark-coloured Volvos in Europe.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Backman.

  ‘The chances are awfully slim.’

  ‘Argue back, then. You wanted a bet.’

  Barbarotti sighed and lifted his leg onto the desk. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can’t do it. I think the same as you. Although . . .’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘I still think we’re doing the right thing in keeping the information to ourselves for a while. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Why?’ said Backman.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’ve just thought of something. Don’t they have CCTV at German petrol stations? To stop people making off without paying.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Backman. ‘On the autobahn I’m sure they do.’

  ‘And if this driver filled up before he drove on and got a puncture . . . well, they’ll have the car on camera? All they need to do is check.’

  ‘I don’t know how it works,’ said Eva Backman. ‘They haven’t given us a list of numbers to check up on, at any rate.’

  Barbarotti thought about this. ‘Would they need to?’ he said. ‘Would they have to go via the Swedish police if they’re looking for a Swedish car? Couldn’t they just ring the vehicle registration authority direct . . . ours, I mean?’

  ‘Well yes, I should think so,’ said Backman. ‘If they’ve got anyone who can speak Swedish, that is. And . . . well, there’s already an alert out for our getaway Volvo, so as soon as they find it, and if they’ve got a CCTV image as well, they can . . .’

  ‘Get out the grenade thrower without any reference to us,’ supplied Barbarotti.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Backman. ‘That could happen. But perhaps they didn’t fill up. They might have just stopped for a coffee, mightn’t they? And then they wouldn’t be on camera.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And we mustn’t forget that it’s still only a one-in-fifty-thousand chance.’

  Inspector Backman nodded and sat there looking glum. Then she glanced at the clock.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could drag that foot as far as the King’s Grill?’

  ‘I’m prepared to give it a go,’ said Barbarotti.

  After lunch he got down to the final act of the graffiti case. The files filled two carrier bags. A bin bag would have been more appropriate, thought Barbarotti, but they were destined for the archives of course. Even though no one would ever open them again. Perhaps they would be thrown out in fifteen or twenty years’ time, when more space was needed on the shelves. For yet more files.

  He stuck a yellow sticky note on one of the bags – Archives – and put them out in the corridor. Then he rang down to the switchboard to find out if the individuals he had asked to come in had arrived.

  He was told they were waiting for him, so he picked up a tape recorder, pad and pen and left the room.

  Hope I can pull this off, he thought.

  Because if I can’t, Asunander’s going to throw me to the wolves.

  Just before five he looked in on Backman again.

  ‘Anything new?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, that wasn’t how I meant it. It’s a bloody awful business.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘Not that? What do you mean?’

  She hesitated. ‘Have you got five minutes?’

  He came in, closed the door behind him and sat down. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  She did not answer. Did not look at him at all but sat staring out of the window instead. It was what she had been doing ever since he stuck his head round the door. Christ, he thought. Something’s happened. I’ve never seen her like this before.

  He lifted his foot onto the other visitor chair and waited.

  ‘It’s Ville,’ she said in the end, still not turning her head. ‘Gunnar, I just can’t stand it any longer.’

  He cleared his throat but said nothing.

  ‘I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it.’

  She pronounced each word, each letter, as if it were a matter of chiselling her announcement into a rune stone.

  Which presumably it was.

  Irrevocable. The thought ran through his mind that if this were a charade, he would have guessed the word straight away.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘I mean . . .’

  She finally turned her head and looked at him. ‘I’m still here because I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘Can you believe it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. What’s wrong, then?’

  ‘Everything,’ she said.

  ‘Everything?’ he said.

  ‘I can give you a list if you like, but telling you what isn’t would be quicker.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ he asked.

  She thought about it. ‘Neither of us has been unfaithful,’ she said, adding, ‘I don’t think so, anyway. And we both love the children. And, well, I guess that’s all.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Not a great deal to build on, I suppose. A lot of sport too, am I right?’

  ‘So . . . much . . . sodding . . . sport,’ said Backman, chiselling her rune stone again. ‘I’m living with four fundamentalists. As if it wasn’t enough for them to be out training and playing in their blessed unihockey matches eight days a week, they have to watch every single bit of sport on TV as well. Whether it’s football or hockey or handball or athletics or swimming, and now they’ve started watching golf and trotting races as well . . . NHL hockey from America in the middle of the night. Boxing! We’ve got a hundred channels on our TV, and sixty of them are showing sport round the clock. And they work out bets together, I mean on ATG . . . sit there coming up with systems, talking about odds and doubles and Harry Boy and God knows what. Gunnar, I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it! Not one second longer!’

  ‘Have you talked to Ville about this?’ Barbarotti asked cautiously.

  ‘For fifteen years,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But now I’ve had enough of talking.’

  ‘You mean you’re actually . . .?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘. . . going to leave him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told him?’

  She seemed to falter for a moment. Then she gave a laugh.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I thought I ought to tell you first.’

  ‘I . . . I appreciate the confidence,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But . . .?’

  ‘I’m going to call and tell him now,’ said Eva Backman.