They thanked him, shook his hand and left Keymerstraat.

  They were sitting in Backman’s hotel room when they opened the letter.

  Barbarotti was aware of his heart beating overtime and he could see that Eva Backman felt equally tense.

  The large envelope, addressed to ‘The Kymlinge Police’, contained two smaller ones. One of them was thick and sealed and had ‘Anna Gambowska. By hand’ written on it. The other, thinner envelope only had its flap tucked in and was not addressed to anyone.

  Eva Backman glanced at Barbarotti. He nodded, she opened the flap and took out a folded sheet of paper. The letter was handwritten and almost covered both sides of the paper.

  ‘Read it out loud,’ said Barbarotti.

  Eva Backman cleared her throat and did so:

  ‘I am writing this in full possession of my mental faculties so that everything is clear and there can be no misunderstanding.

  As a human being I have been rather a failure. Since my father died, I don’t think anyone has liked me, and I was twelve then. There has been no good reason to like me, I know, and I have not had any great fondness for other people, either, so there is no more to be said on that subject.

  But I have three lives on my conscience and they must be declared. The first is that boy at Lograna. He was a bastard, threatened Anna and bashed her on the head with an iron bar, I don’t know where he found it. I got there in the nick of time, stabbed him because I had no choice, and I don’t regret it.

  The second life is that policeman at the motorway services near Emden. I lashed out in panic, he would not leave us alone and was trying to take the girl away from me. It happened in an instant and I know I did wrong. It was an unforgivable act.

  The third life is my own. I am sick and tired of it. I have lived for almost sixty years, and it’s only very recently I have been able to see any meaning to it at all. But I realize that this good time is over and have chosen to die by my own hand, as they so poetically say. Knowing now what this past month has brought me, I am glad I put the decision off for so long.

  And I also have a fourth life on my conscience, but in an entirely different way. From my heaven, because I believe there is a heaven for everyone, I will always hold a protective hand over Anna Gambowska, that figure of light. The money in the other envelope is for her. It is my own money, won on the football pools, and I am completely within my rights to do what I want with it. Also in the envelope are the keys to two left luggage lockers at Maardam central station, where I have put her guitar and other belongings.

  I also want the girl to have Lograna – she can sell it if she wants so she can afford to carry on studying and get on in life as best she can. She is the only person since my father who has meant anything to me.

  I expect Alice and the girls will lay claim to my other assets, and they deserve them. Perhaps Greger should have a small share, too. They will have to discuss it.

  I am writing this in a hotel room in Maardam on the night of 7 October and it is my last will and testament.

  Yours faithfully,

  Ante Valdemar Roos’

  She passed the letter to Barbarotti and he read it through to himself again. As he got to the end he saw that Backman was standing over by the window, looking out. It was dark now, and a thin drizzle was falling on the town; she had her hands clasped behind her back and was rocking slowly back and forth on her heels and toes.

  He cast about for something to say, but for some reason failed to find any words.

  She was clearly in the same boat, and they just stayed there like that for quite a long time, she at the window with her back to him, he sitting on the edge of the bed with Ante Valdemar Roos’s letter in his hands and in his head, thinking that he would always – for reasons he did not fully understand – remember this moment. An imprint or tableau was slowly but inexorably etching itself in his memory, and it would never allow itself to be forgotten.

  Eventually she turned round. She gave him a mournful look and said: ‘One of those nice pubs Inspector Rooth mentioned, what do you say?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘We should probably try to analyse this.’

  50

  The one-eyed woman did not like the police.

  This was made abundantly clear, and he wished he had introduced himself as a family member instead.

  ‘So what?’ she said. ‘I could see the girl was sick, so I rang for an ambulance. What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘We’re really more interested in the man,’ explained Barbarotti. ‘He said he was her father when he checked in, is that right?’

  ‘That was what he said, yes,’ the woman agreed truculently, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘How did he behave when he got back? After the girl had been taken off to hospital, I mean?’

  ‘Behave?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘What did he say? What did he do?’

  ‘Has he broken the law? Why are you asking me this?’

  Barbarotti thought for a moment. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘We’re looking into the circumstances of his death and some others. Please just answer my questions. This will only take five minutes if we do it here and now, four hours if I have to take you to the police station.’

  That did the trick. To some extent, anyway. ‘You don’t say?’ she said irritably, taking a couple of drags on her cigarette. She tapped the ash into a sort of bowl on the desk in front of her. The bowl looked like half a shrivelled brain and Barbarotti hoped it was an imitation, but couldn’t be entirely sure.

  ‘Yeah well, he came storming in here,’ she went on. ‘He was in a right state. He shouted: where’s the girl? Luckily there was another client in here – a retired boxer, his name’s Bausten, he sleeps here now and then. He strong-armed the old guy into a corner and told him to shut up.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And what then?’

  She took another drag on her cigarette and shrugged.

  ‘Well, then he went off to their room. I thought it would be best to leave him alone. Half an hour later I saw him drive off.’

  ‘And he didn’t come back?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. I checked the room a bit later. There was no one there, but he’d paid in advance, so I wasn’t worried.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he was heading next?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Barbarotti paused for thought again.

  ‘And the girl?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

  ‘She was completely out of it,’ said the one-eyed woman. ‘An overdose or something, I don’t know.’

  ‘It wasn’t an overdose,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Did the man ask which hospital they took her to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything else you want to add?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  Bloody hell, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. I hope Backman is having better luck.

  Eva Backman observed the girl, who had just opened her eyes. The thought ran through her mind that she looked like a sparrow.

  ‘So this is you?’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said the girl.

  Her voice was just a whisper and Backman took the cup of water that was on the bedside table and helped her drink a little.

  ‘So you’re Anna Gambowska?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I am. Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Eva Backman,’ said Backman. ‘I’m a police inspector from Kymlinge in Sweden. Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know where you are?’

  Anna Gambowska looked around cautiously. ‘I . . . I must be in hospital.’

  Backman nodded. ‘Quite right. Do you know which one?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re in the Gemejnte Hospital in a town called Maardam.’

  ‘Maardam . . .’ whispered the girl. ‘He talked about Maardam.’

  ‘Who?’

  No answer.

  ‘Who talked about Maardam?’

  ‘Valdemar.’

  ‘Valdemar Roos?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ An anxious, restless look came into Anna’s eyes. ‘Where is he?’

  Eva Backman put a hand on her arm. She made eye contact and held it for a few seconds before she replied, deciding not to beat about the bush.

  ‘We think he’s dead, Anna.’

  ‘Dead? Valdemar’s . . . dead?’

  ‘Yes, it looks quite likely.’

  ‘How . . . I mean . . . how did he die?’

  ‘If he is dead, he chose that path himself.’

  At first she did not seem to fully understand, but then she nodded. She closed her eyes and seemed to be clenching her jaw. Backman waited quietly. When the girl opened her eyes again they were brimming over with tears, and she did nothing to stop them. She simply let them flow, keeping her hands clasped on her chest as she lay there. She looked almost as if she was praying. After a while, Backman passed the girl some tissues, and she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘I . . . I can understand it,’ she said. ‘Yes, I really can.’

  ‘You mean you can understand Valdemar doing that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you’re in hospital?’ asked Eva Backman. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  The girl thought about this, her eyes scanning Backman’s face as if looking for something. Some kind of reassurance . . . or confirmation.

  ‘You can trust me,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I know almost everything that’s happened, but I’d just like hear it from you, as well.’

  Anna Gambowska nodded again and dried her eyes.

  ‘He hit me on the head,’ she said. ‘Steffo did, I can’t remember it but that must have been what happened. Then, when I woke up, Steffo was dead, it was just Valdemar and me, and we . . . well, we ran away, you could say. I mean, we couldn’t stay there . . . we just couldn’t.’

  ‘But Steffo hit you over the head with an iron bar?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I’m sure of that bit. Even if I don’t remember the actual blow.’

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Backman.

  She looked as if she was thinking and then she cautiously shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried and tried, but it won’t come back. He chases me out of the house with that iron bar in his hand . . . I’ve got this dim picture of him putting his hand up ready, but it keeps fading away . . .’

  ‘Do you know how he died?’ asked Backman.

  ‘A knife,’ said Anna Gambowska. ‘Valdemar said he was stabbed in the stomach and bled to death.’

  ‘Who was holding the knife?’

  ‘Valdemar said he did it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I don’t know. I’ve got this feeling I had a knife in my hand . . . so maybe . . . it’s all so fuzzy, sometimes I think I just dreamt it all, but of course that can’t be—’

  Eva Backman cut in, taking hold of her hand.

  ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘You can forget that. It was Valdemar who killed Steffo, just like he said.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Eva Backman confirmed. ‘Are you tired?’

  She nodded and attempted a smile. ‘Yes, quite tired.’

  ‘I just need to ask you one more thing. Do you remember anything about getting a puncture, you and Valdemar?’

  ‘A puncture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, I don’t remember that. But we drove such a long way and I . . . I was asleep a lot of the time. It’s because of my head, I think . . .’

  ‘You don’t remember Valdemar talking to a police officer while he was changing the wheel?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘No . . . no, I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Backman, releasing her hand. ‘I think you need to rest now. If I come back this afternoon or tomorrow to talk to you a bit more, would that be OK?’

  ‘That’ll be OK,’ said Anna Gambowska. ‘Am I going to . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Am I going to get better?’

  Eva Backman smiled at her. ‘The doctor says you will.’

  ‘Does my mum know I’m here?’

  ‘We’re trying to arrange for your mum to come tomorrow. Your little brother, too. Then you can all fly home together when you’re strong enough.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna Gambowska, and closed her eyes. ‘Thank you so much. And I’m so sorry that Valdemar . . .’

  Then she ran out of words.

  Backman stood up. A tough junkie bitch? she thought. Pull the other one.

  51

  They found a nice place to eat the second night, too. It was beside one of the canals and was called Grote Flick. They were given a table tucked away under a whitewashed arch and the thought ran through Barbarotti’s mind that Inspector Rooth was absolutely right. Maardam was a very livable town.

  ‘So we’ve still got a few question marks to straighten out,’ he said once they had ordered their food and had a carafe of red wine on the table. ‘Haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Backman, ‘I suppose we have. Which ones are you thinking of?’

  ‘Whether it really was Valdemar Roos who stuck the knife into Stefan Rakic, that’s probably the first one.’

  ‘It was him,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘I don’t see how you can be so sure of it,’ said Barbarotti.

  Eva Backman made no reply.

  ‘The girl doesn’t remember and he said he did it so she won’t have to carry the can,’ he went on. ‘She could very well have done it. And she’d very likely get off; it must count as self-defence.’

  ‘I think you should stop digging,’ said Eva Backman. ‘He’s confessed; she can’t remember. Why can’t you be content with that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barbarotti. ‘My passion for the truth, perhaps?’

  ‘There’s no need to air your luxury problems,’ said Backman with a sudden hint of annoyance. ‘There’s another aspect, too, but you haven’t thought about that, of course.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Stefan Rakic’s father,’ said Backman. ‘He’s currently in jail, I know, but he’s sworn to kill whoever killed his son. I wouldn’t say I picked up any good vibes when I went to see him.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti sipped his wine and mulled this over for a while.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re right, and I won’t bring it up again.’

  ‘Great,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Any more question marks?’

  ‘Why didn’t he take the girl to hospital?’ said Barbarotti. ‘Did it really not dawn on him what a terrible state she was in?’

  Backman hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The girl says she’s sure it didn’t, but if she was asleep nearly all the time and had some kind of epileptic fit into the bargain, he really ought to have realized. But you can choose not to see things when you don’t want to, of course.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Barbarotti. ‘He was pretty good at that . . . or is?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Barbarotti shrugged. ‘How convinced are you that he really is dead?’

  ‘Pretty much convinced,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But they’ll surely find him in any case, whether he’s alive or dead. His letter felt genuine though, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘All too sodding genuine and all too sodding tragic.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Backman. ‘And Klaus Meyer’s out of his coma, so that’s one life he won’t have on his conscience. But unless Valdemar Roos has driven his car into some deep lake or river, they’ll find him sooner or later . . . as I said. It’s strange, but it doesn’t feel particularly important, somehow.’

  ‘If he’s alive it’s important,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘He’s not alive,’ she said. ‘Can we decide that, too?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well then, I’ve only got one more problem.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘The girl,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘And what’s your problem with her?’

  ‘The witness statements about her character,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’ve scarcely ever come across a meeker, gentler girl than her. I was only with her for a short while of course, but don’t you agree? A junkie as hard as nails? That’s total crap.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Backman. ‘One hundred per cent. So that’s one thing to look into before we close the case . . . well two things, to be more accurate.’

  ‘And they are?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘That residential centre and that Double Johan. Assuming he did actually have the girl in his car, what happened was something very different from what he told me . . . I’ll ask Anna about it in due course. And it’ll certainly be worth taking a closer look at Sonja Svensson and her Elvafors, while we’re at it.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Let me know if you need any help.’

  ‘You can be sure I will,’ said Eva Backman.

  They sat in silence for a while. A pianist started playing somewhere at the back and the lights dimmed slightly. Eva Backman suddenly thought of something.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to ask,’ she said. ‘You solved the graffiti case, didn’t you say?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti shuffled in his seat. ‘Well yes, possibly I have. But the ball’s in Asunander’s court now.’

  ‘Yes, you said. So be my guest, it’s your turn to straighten out a question mark for me.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Backman.

  ‘OK then,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘If it’s as I think, it isn’t complicated at all. You recall that graffiti remover I told you about?’

  ‘The Cerberus Cleaning Company?’

  ‘That’s the one. Its owner is a Kent Blomgren. I reckon it’s his two sons who are PIZ and ZIP.’

  ‘Wha-at?’ spluttered Backman as her wine went down the wrong way. ‘What the heck are you saying?’

  ‘Well that’s the way it looks,’ said Barbarotti. ‘It was Sara who hit on it, not me . . . if I’m honest.’