‘Liked yours, too,’ said Backman. ‘Sweden’s youth is its future. And thanks for the briefing.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Barbarotti.

  5

  I am Maria, also known as the sparrow.

  I’m Super Tomas’s little sister and people think I’m mental.

  I’ve got no problem with them thinking that. Just the opposite. For me it’s ideal to have them under that impression. Because I know that this is nothing to do with mental illness. It’s to do with evil.

  Or if not evil, then certainly egoism. I think of myself. Other people will have to mind themselves.

  I’m no Hamlet, not by any means. People don’t think you can be evil nowadays. Particularly not if you’re a young woman, nineteen and pretty. One might even say stunning.

  And clever. It surprises them that I’m so clever, with matriculation grades that are actually just as good as the ones Super Tomas left school with, two years ahead of me. Although they changed the grading system from letters to numbers in the interim. The teachers were surprised, at any event, as indeed were my parents. I wasn’t; I know my own worth.

  I was pretty when I was eight, too. That was when I fell off a swing, landed on my head and underwent a personality change. I don’t relate to other people the way you’re meant to. That’s what my psychiatrist says anyway. His name is Douglas Dinesen, I’ve had the same shrink the whole way through. My dad and mum trust him, everyone trusts him except me. I know he’s starting to get the hots for me and I’m not going to see him any more.

  Because I’m off to Uppsala now. As I say, I’m clever but I have a personality disorder. I’m going to read French, initially. They assumed I’d be sharing Auntie Becka’s flat with Tomas, started going on about it back in the spring, but I said no thanks. Having grown up in the shadow of that golden boy, I know it’s high time to move out into the sunlight.

  I might go for law eventually, but I’m starting with French. It sounds suitably irresponsible and I have no set plans for my life. I’m going to take a room in a house in Norrtäljegatan. I’ve put a cross on the map; it’s only ten minutes’ walk from the station. I’m taking the train tomorrow, so this is my last evening up here. My bags are packed. Dad wanted to drive me the whole way, but I said not on your life. I’m leaving the nest and I’m going to do it on my own wings. Don’t they get it?

  Mum’s been crying all evening. Well, maybe not the whole time but the tears well up at regular intervals. They won’t know what to do with that big house, she says. Once Tomas and I have both gone. Didn’t they think we’d ever grow up? Sell the damn thing, I think to myself, and if she doesn’t stop blubbing I shall say it out loud, too.

  Sell the damn thing and move to Spain like Auntie Becka. And like those fucking Friesmans you’re always going on about. Nobody rolling in money like you two has any reason to stay in Sundsvall, do they? In Spain you can play golf and lie by the pool, drinking sweet wine from morning till night.

  I couldn’t care less about them. And that’s my problem. I couldn’t care less about other people. Especially boys. If I’m ever going to meet anybody, something that goes beyond a one-night stand, it’ll have to be somebody as twisted as I am. As twisted and as clever, then we could really make it work.

  I can’t stand all that wimpy, positive stuff. Hopeful, enthusiastic drivel. Life is an arsehole. I am evil.

  I am nineteen years old and stunning and I think only of myself – keep that in mind, people. Tomorrow I shall write a few words from my new life on Norrtäljegatan in Uppsala. Maybe.

  I am Maria, also known as the sparrow.

  6

  ‘Who was it who realized the same thing had happened in the same place thirty-five years ago?’

  ‘Elis Bengtsson.’

  ‘Elis Bengtsson?’

  ‘The chap who found him. He was here last time, too.’

  ‘Wha-at? The same guy who . . .’

  Barbarotti’s phone rang and Eva Backman stopped. Barbarotti dismissed the call.

  ‘Sorry. Yes, he was in the vicinity last time. This time he found the body. He lives near there and was out with his dog . . . both times.’

  Backman eyed him sceptically.

  ‘How likely does that sound, do you reckon?’ she said. ‘For the same person to happen to be – how did you put it? – in the vicinity? On two different occasions, I mean.’

  ‘Not particularly likely,’ said Barbarotti, with a glance at his watch. ‘But we’ll be seeing him in ten minutes, so perhaps we can reserve judgement until then.’

  ‘And we still don’t know the name of the new corpse?’

  Barbarotti shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘What was its name in 1975?’

  Barbarotti consulted a piece of paper on the desk. ‘Maria Winckler,’ he told her. ‘Aged twenty-five. On a short-term teaching contract at Kymlingevik School. English and French, and she’d only been working there just over a month when it happened.’

  ‘Was she local? Did she live in Kymlinge?’

  ‘She’d moved here,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And only a short time beforehand.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eva Backman, wondering what it was she saw.

  ‘There was a group of people out in the forest looking for mushrooms, apparently,’ Barbarotti elaborated. ‘Or lingonberries. She fell down a sheer drop; there’s a fault scarp out there. A fall of at least twenty metres. It’s known locally as Gåsastupan – Goose Drop.’

  ‘Goose Drop?’

  ‘Yes. It’s supposedly one of those clifftops that old folk were meant to have thrown themselves off in the old days, so they wouldn’t be a burden.’

  ‘That’s just a legend,’ said Eva Backman. ‘That sort of thing never really happened.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Well, be that as it may, it’s now happened twice within a space of thirty-five years.’

  ‘But they decided to classify it as an accident in the end?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could she have jumped?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Could she have been pushed?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  Eva Backman thought for a moment. ‘Do you remember this?’ she asked. ‘Or weren’t you living in Kymlinge at the time?’

  ‘I arrived the year after,’ said Barbarotti. ‘When I started at upper secondary. No, I hadn’t heard anything about it. Not until now. Shall we go and talk to Mr Bengtsson, then?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ said Eva Backman.

  Mr Bengtsson had a white shirt and a tie. According to their information he was seventy-seven but Eva Backman would have guessed at sixty-seven. He seemed full of vim and vigour, and she imagined it must be the dog-walking that kept him in good shape. His choice of outfit pointed to the fact that he viewed a visit to the police station as a delicate operation.

  Barbarotti switched on the tape recorder and went through the formalities.

  ‘I think we’ll take things chronologically,’ he said, once this was completed. ‘If you don’t mind. Can you tell us what happened in 1975, as far as you can remember it?’

  ‘It’s in your files,’ said Elis Bengtsson.

  ‘I know that,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘We’re busy going through them. But perhaps you could give us a potted version, even so. Neither I nor Inspector Backman was here back then.’

  ‘It was thirty-five years ago,’ said Elis Bengtsson.

  ‘Almost to the day,’ said Barbarotti. ‘A young woman had died. How did you come to be involved?’

  Elis Bengtsson shrugged. ‘I was out with the dog. Just like this time.’

  ‘Go on,’ Barbarotti instructed him.

  ‘Though it was a different dog.’

  ‘I had a feeling it must have been,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Madame Curie. A scent hound.’

  Younger in body than in mind, thought Eva Backman.

  ‘Go on,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘I got there earlier last time.’ He slid two fingers between his neck and his shirt collar and tried to create some space; perhaps the shirt was new and digging into him. Perhaps his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. ‘Just after it had happened. This body definitely looked as if it had been lying there longer.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You could kind of tell by looking. I think the doctor confirmed it, too. The one who came out.’

  ‘Was it you who found the body in 1975, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘There was already a group of people staring at it when I arrived. I got there last. It had just happened.’

  ‘How many people were there?’

  ‘Including the one who died, there were seven of them.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Yes. They’d been out looking for mushrooms. They hadn’t found a single one, as far as I could see. And it was hardly surprising; there aren’t any, not just round here. You have to go to the damper places, over towards Rödmyren.’

  ‘What had happened?’

  ‘Well, she’d fallen. Twenty-five metres, straight down into Gåsaklyftan. Died instantly, poor little thing.’

  Eva Backman cleared her throat.

  ‘Why was there a police investigation, do you know?’

  Elis Bengtsson stretched his neck. ‘Because they suspected someone had pushed her.’

  ‘And why was that?’ said Barbarotti. ‘What gave rise to those suspicions?’

  Elis Bengtsson pursed his lips and kept his answer to himself for a few moments. ‘I suppose it was because of what she cried out,’ he said.

  ‘She cried out?’ said Backman.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘She shouted something before she hit the ground and died. Some of the others heard it, and I heard it, too. I was a fair distance away but I had good ears in those days.’

  ‘What did she shout?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘I mean to say, isn’t it pretty natural for someone to cry out, if they’re falling off a cliff?’

  ‘That was the point,’ said Elis Bengtsson.

  ‘What was?’ asked Backman.

  ‘What she shouted,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘Some people thought it was some kind of message.’

  ‘Message?’ said Barbarotti with a frown. ‘So what did she shout . . . or cry?’

  Something with a long aahh or uuhh sound,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘I heard that much, I was about a hundred metres away. Those who were closer had their own ideas.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Backman.

  Elis Bengtsson allowed himself another pause for effect.

  ‘Some of them thought it was just one long syllable, an aahh, a kind of groan.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘But a couple of them claimed she’d cried out “Murderer!” or “Murderers!”’

  ‘Murderer?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Murderer, yes,’ said Elis Bengtsson, and ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them. ‘They thought she’d shouted it to let people know she’d been murdered. The last thing she did.’

  Barbarotti and Backman exchanged looks and said nothing for a moment. Elis Bengtsson managed to undo his top shirt button.

  ‘But she didn’t shout the murderer’s name?’ asked Barbarotti.

  Elis Bengtsson shook his head. ‘No, she didn’t. That would have been more sensible, but I don’t suppose you think about being sensible in a situation like that.’

  ‘Presumably not,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Do you know if there was anything else to indicate she’d been pushed?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘You’ll have to look in your files. There was a Detective Inspector Sandlin; I talked to him several times . . . we both had the same breed of dog, as well. Scent hounds.’

  ‘We’ll be going through every word,’ Barbarotti assured him. ‘I’m afraid Sandlin has passed away.’

  ‘I know. His pooch was called Birger, I remember. What a stupid name for a dog. Mine was called Madame Curie. I always name them after famous people.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Right, shall we move on to what happened yesterday?’

  It took Elis Bengtsson ten minutes to give an account of his macabre find in Gåsaklyftan.

  He had been out on his daily circuit with Luther. They’d set out from home – Källviksgård farmhouse in Rönninge – after lunch and the radio news, at around five past one. Luther had disappeared after twenty minutes, when they were level with the power lines, and he heard him barking about half an hour later, while he, Elis, was sitting down for a few minutes’ rest on the way to the top of Gåsaklinten. The dog turned out to be standing at the bottom of the sheer drop, guarding the dead body but not touching it. Elis Bengtsson had immediately called home to his wife, who had alerted the police. He, meanwhile, had climbed down and stayed there until the police – in the form of a patrol car containing Olsén and Widerberg – plus a doctor and the ambulance staff arrived, just after three. It had taken a while to get them to the right location, and without a mobile phone it would have taken even longer. After he’d spoken to the police and the doctor, Dr Rislund, Elis Bengtsson had left Gåsaklyftan. By then it was around a quarter past four.

  ‘Have you anything else to add, for the time being?’ Barbarotti had asked when they had listened to his account. ‘I’m sure we’ll need to contact you again in due course.’

  ‘Well, there is, in fact,’ Elis Bengtsson had replied. ‘This isn’t only the second time things have happened in that place, you know. A hundred and fifty years ago a mother and child lost their lives up there. And further back still, the old folk threw themselves off that crag to help their families. Gåsaklyftan is a grim place, you all need to know that.’

  ‘Thank you for that insight, too,’ said Barbarotti, and switched off the tape recorder. ‘And now Inspector Backman will show you out.’

  ‘No need,’ said Elis Bengtsson. ‘I know the way.’

  7

  Rickard Berglund stopped at the florist’s in Kyrkogårdsgatan and bought three yellow roses.

  ‘Bit nervous?’ asked the sales assistant as Rickard fumbled his change and dropped a couple of coins on the floor.

  He picked them up and felt himself blush. The insinuation was obvious. The assistant assumed the roses were for a girl. And why shouldn’t he? It was Saturday afternoon and Rickard was dressed up – or looking a bit smarter than usual, at any rate; he’d even splashed on a bit of aftershave, which was far from usual for him.

  ‘Yes, just a touch.’ He laughed, trying to play along. ‘You never know.’

  ‘First date?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  He nodded goodbye and beat a hasty retreat from the shop. Sort of? he thought. What on earth was that supposed to mean?

  He looked at his watch and registered that he was early. He decided to take a stroll round the English Park and through the cemetery first. Five, Tomas had said. Come at about five. We thought we’d start off outside, sit in the garden for a couple of hours.

  It was only 4.30. Rickard had paid one brief visit to Sibyllegatan previously and knew the way; it wouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to get there, twenty at most. Arriving too early was simply wet; Rickard’s foremost priority was not to come across as a drip. Not today, and not any other day, either.

  He set off diagonally across the park towards the building that housed the philology department. The grass beneath the old elms and larches had grown almost half a metre tall; presumably they didn’t bother cutting it over the summer. A lot of things came to a standstill in Uppsala over the summer months, he’d come to realize. It was still two weeks until the students would be back to take over the place; today was 16 August, a beautiful, warm Saturday in late summer, and as he opened the old iron gate into the cemetery he felt as if life couldn’t get much better than this. At least not if you were happy to make do with the more superficial aspects.

  Twenty years old, on your way to a crayfish party in the company of good friends. Three roses in your hand. What else could you wish for?

  But they weren’t red, and the assistant had doubtless noted the fact. If they’d been flowers for a meeting with a girl, they wouldn’t have been yellow. Would they? thought Rickard Berglund. Yellow roses had nothing to do with romance.

  He sighed. The girl problem waxed and waned. There were times when he didn’t care, and other times when it felt suffocating. Still being a virgin at twenty wasn’t normal; two months at the Army College for Non-Commissioned Officers had taught him all sorts of things, including this. Of course there were a few others among the new intake who were in the same predicament as he was, he knew that. But they were in a minority, a glaringly small, covert and embarrassing minority. Most of his comrades had girlfriends back home, others had met new young women in Uppsala – at the nurses’ home on the other side of Dag Hammarsköldsväg, for example; it offered a smooth and convenient solution for all parties. Some did a bit of both. And they all seemed to be looking forward to the day when 10,000 female students would hit town.

  Girls? Women? Ten thousand!

  Temptations?

  Sweden, the country of free love. Staffan, one of the boys at the barracks, had been in London for a month before the call-up, and claimed that was what they called good old Sweden out in the wider world of Europe. The country of free love? My God, thought Rickard Berglund, who hadn’t seen any of those notorious Swedish sex films of recent years. Am I part of reality or not?

  He pushed these gnawing doubts aside, stopped in front of an unassuming little grave and read the inscription on the stone.

  Henrik Aurelius

  Born 1851

  Died 1874

  That was all.

  Twenty-three, thought Rickard. A young man who died nearly a hundred years ago. He was only three years older than I am right now.

  He stood there trying to interpret the minimal information. A name and two dates, nothing more. Who were you, Henrik Aurelius? Why didn’t you get beyond twenty-three?

  And more: What did you die of? Did you get the chance to be with a woman before your time ran out? Did you have a God?