The Darkest Day

by Håkan Nesser

  Gunnar Barbarotti had not caught the name of this self-willed woman, who was long-necked and red-haired and looked only a few years younger than himself, but he discovered that her place card was lying between them on the table and took a quick look at it.

  Annica Willnius.

  Willnius? That rang a bell, somewhere deep in his mildly intoxicated brain.

  It took another two speeches and a glass of wine to come to the surface.

  Jakob Willnius. That was his name, Kristina Hermansson’s husband. He still had a few functioning synapses.

  But it was now – he had to work it out – just over ten months since he had talked to the man in that beautiful home in Old Enskede. Surely the name Willnius couldn’t be coincidence? No, it seemed far too unusual, they must be related in some way.

  And in just a few seconds, as he leant back and cautiously sipped the sweet wine – and gave up concentrating on the twenty-seventh speech of the evening – the whole case came sailing into the harbour of his mind. Or to be more precise, half the case. Robert Hermansson’s grim story was now definitively closed.

  That left Henrik Grundt. That left the need to get somewhere, anywhere at all, with his disappearance. Gunnar Barbarotti sighed and took another sip of wine. Officially, the investigation was still going on, but the currently extant god knew that it was running at half speed. Or a quarter. Or an eighth. Since August, not a single thing had happened, and all that was going on in terms of police work was basically that inspectors Barbarotti and Backman discussed the situation once or twice a week, expressing their frustration and noting that there had been no new developments.

  But as Eva was fond of observing, how the hell can anything happen in an investigation when no one’s doing anything? Are we waiting for somebody else to get run over by a bus in Oslo, or what?

  He registered that thinking about the case was making his spirits sink. It was always the same. Racking his brains over insoluble problems might have appealed to him as a schoolboy, but it was no pastime for a grown-up detective. He knocked back his wine. Thought of the golden rule that inebriation has a positive effect as long as the alcohol levels in the blood are rising, a negative one as soon as they start to fall. The speeches were still going on; this one was a jovial childhood friend of the groom’s, who spoke a Danish almost as incomprehensible as Barbarotti’s table partner – but eventually he proposed a toast. Gunnar raised his empty glass, looked to right and left and straight ahead, as he had been taught, and just as he simulated the act of drinking, he found he had eye contact with the redhead opposite. She winked at him and smiled.

  I’ll have to ask her, he thought. That’s the least I can do.

  But I think I’ll get her on her own first.

  ‘Nice to get a drop of fresh air.’

  She invalidated her own statement somewhat by taking a deep drag on her cigarette at that very moment. They were standing out on the big balcony, and it was just before twelve. Everyone had left the table and furniture moving was in full swing in the hall, ready for the dancing. The rain had stopped, and he rested his elbows on the chest-high stone balustrade, looked out over wet, glistening streets, the streaks of mist and dots of golden light, and thought to himself that November evenings could be rather attractive. Tender-hearted, in some strange way. Marianne had left him to queue for the powder room, and he had got himself a bottle of beer from the newly opened bar.

  ‘Definitely. But it was very pleasant in there.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve got to ask you about your name.’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Annica Willnius, isn’t it?’

  ‘Detective inspector again?’

  ‘No, no. But I came across a Jakob Willnius a while back. You must be related?’

  She took another deep pull on her cigarette. Seemed to be considering something.

  ‘My former husband.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti gave a laugh. ‘Nothing. He cropped up in an investigation, that’s all. You meet a terrific number of people in my job.’

  ‘I can imagine. Well, anyway, we divorced five years ago. I don’t have anything to do with him. I suppose he still lives in Stockholm, with his new partner presumably, and I live with mine in London. That’s life, isn’t it?’

  ‘In the twenty-first century,’ added Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Yes, in fact, I’m heading for a similar thing myself.’

  That was bold of him, and he realized it was the alcohol helping him along. She nodded and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Though I kept his name, as you said. I was a common-or-garden Pettersson as a girl and my new hook-up’s called Czerniewski. What do you reckon to Annica Czerniewski?’

  ‘Well, I’m a Gunnar Barbarotti myself,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  She laughed. He laughed. It’s great when people have had a few drinks, he thought. Why do our inhibitions always have to get in the way? She had brought a wine glass outside with her, and now she raised it.

  ‘Cheers. You seem a nice cop.’

  ‘You too . . . though you’re not a cop, of course.’

  He drank some beer from his bottle.

  ‘Not exactly. The theatre’s where I make my living. But only behind the scenes.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But let me confess one thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Jakob had crossed the line. Not in the slightest.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She took another drag on her cigarette and hesitated. Blew out smoke in a thin, reflective stream. He was struck by the thought that she looked like some actress in a French film. But then she worked in that field – maybe it rubbed off onto everyday life sometimes.

  ‘I only mean that Jakob Willnius is a total shit. A really nasty piece of work. You can’t see it on the surface, but I was married to him for eight years, so then you know.’

  ‘Been having a nice time?’

  Marianne inserted her arm in his and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Oops. Lipstick.’

  She licked her finger and rubbed it off.

  ‘Yes thanks. And you?’

  ‘Great. Who was the woman in red?’

  ‘Don’t know. I just happened to recognize her name, that’s all. I was sitting opposite her.’

  ‘OK. It’s the bridal waltz now, and then you’ve got to dance with your table partner. But after that, you’re only allowed to dance with me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of dancing with anyone else,’ Gunnar Barbarotti assured her. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What does “hmm” mean?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said “hmm”. It sounded as if you were brooding about something.’

  ‘Can’t think what that could have been,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. He put his arm round his lover’s waist and steered her gently into the ballroom.

  ‘Hi,’ said Kristoffer Grundt. ‘Am I speaking to Olle Rimborg?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Olle Rimborg.’

  ‘Er . . . good. My name’s Kristoffer Grundt. I’m calling from Sundsvall. You’re the one who works at the hotel in Kymlinge, right?’

  ‘Yes, I do reception work there now and then. What is it you want?’

  ‘It’s just this thing,’ said Kristoffer. ‘Though I don’t really know . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So, my name’s Kristoffer Grundt. Our family was visiting Granny and Granddad in Kymlinge in December last year, and then . . . well, then my brother Henrik disappeared. My uncle too, and he was found—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Olle Rimborg interrupted with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Of course I do. I know the whole story. Wank— I mean your uncle was found in August, dismembered. So you’re the brother of . . . ?’

  ‘Henrik Grundt, yes. The other one who went missing.’

&nbs
p; ‘He hasn’t turned up, I don’t suppose?’

  ‘No . . . no, he’s still missing.’

  ‘Didn’t you stay at the hotel in August? At the time of Robert’s funeral. With your mum and your—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought so. I was working then, as well. Maybe we saw each other.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Kristoffer.

  The line briefly went quiet.

  ‘Er . . . so what was it you wanted?’

  Kristoffer cleared his throat.

  ‘It was just this thing Granny said . . . and I thought I ought to check it with you. It probably isn’t anything important, but we’re going through a bit of a family crisis up here, actually, and I . . .’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ Olle Rimborg put in.

  ‘. . . and it would be good to, like, know for sure, even if it meant . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘. . . even if it meant my brother really is dead.’

  ‘Got you,’ said Olle Rimborg. ‘So what was it your granny said?’

  ‘She said she’d been talking to you . . . and you told her someone had come back.’

  Olle Rimborg said nothing for a moment, but Kristoffer could hear his sharp intake of breath.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said once he had let the air out again. ‘Now I understand. Yes, I did talk to Mrs Hermansson a bit when they were staying here for the funeral, and I did refer to something . . . well, something I’d been wondering about a bit.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Kristoffer Grundt.

  ‘Yes, that’s how it is, isn’t it, you start thinking about things when something like this happens. It isn’t exactly every day two people disappear from Kymlinge. Not in – not in circumstances like these, at any rate.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Kristoffer Grundt. ‘So who was it that came back, that is . . . I didn’t really understand all that much of what Granny was saying, to be honest. I’m sure it’s nothing important, but I decided I ought to call and ask you about it, just in case.’

  ‘It was her husband,’ Olle Rimborg told him. ‘I mean Kristina Hermansson’s husband. They stayed at the hotel here in December, as you know. Kristina and I were in the same year at school, actually, so we go back a long way, as you might say . . . so she’s your aunt, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Kristoffer Grundt.

  ‘Well, what I’ve been wondering about – and what I mentioned to your granny – is the fact that he came back in the middle of the night, Kristina’s husband. We understood he’d be driving back to Stockholm late that evening, and so he did. Left about midnight. And she and the little boy stayed here, asleep in the room. But then he came back, just before three—’

  ‘Wait a minute, which night are we talking about?’ Kristoffer asked him. ‘Was it . . . ?’

  ‘The night your brother disappeared,’ clarified Olle Rimborg. ‘I kept up with everything in the papers about it – you find you can’t help yourself. Your uncle disappeared on the night of Monday into Tuesday, and your brother the following night. From Tuesday into Wednesday, in other words. That’s right, isn’t it? The week before Christmas, it was.’

  ‘Quite right,’ confirmed Kristoffer, and felt his heart start beating a little harder. ‘So what you’re saying –’ he tried to find the words – ‘is that Jakob . . . whatshisname? . . . Jakob Willnius initially drove off around midnight . . . that must have been just after the party ended at Granny and Granddad’s . . . but that he came back at three o’clock. Is that it?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Olle Rimborg.

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘Then? Well, they went off early the next morning, the whole family. Kristina and . . . what did you say his name was?’

  ‘Jakob Willnius.’

  ‘Jakob Willnius, and their kid. Yeah, they left early the next morning. Had breakfast at seven and checked out around quarter to eight.’

  The line went quiet again.

  ‘And?’ said Kristoffer Grundt.

  ‘Well, that was it,’ said Olle Rimborg. ‘Nothing that remarkable really, but I’ve thought about it a bit. I meant to ask Kristina at the funeral in August, but she looked so miserable I didn’t like to intrude. Sure, we were in the same school year, but I didn’t really know her. You know how it is, you can be in the same year right the way through, yet hardly ever talk to each other.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kristoffer Grundt.

  ‘So this is what you were ringing about?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so,’ said Kristoffer.

  ‘It wasn’t really anything worth mentioning. But not much ever happens here in Kymlinge . . . if you get what I mean.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Kristoffer Grundt. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  But after he had hung up, he wondered whether he really did get it. If indeed there was anything there to get. It didn’t seem like it. Jakob Willnius had come back to the hotel that night. He drove off and returned later. So what? Kristoffer looked to see what time it was. 9.40 a.m. Time to get himself to school if he didn’t want to miss yet another lesson. Oh well, he thought, at least I’ve done what my brother wanted.

  He almost expected Henrik to pop into his head and say thank you very much. That was surely the least you could ask?

  But no brother turned up.

  It was as silent as the grave from that direction.

  34

  ‘Who is she then?’ asked Eva Backman. ‘I think it’s about time you came out with it.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti bit into a carrot and tried to look inscrutable. They were at King’s Grill, a stone’s throw from the police station. Its speciality was traditional Swedish fare; forgotten dishes from days gone by, like root mash and pork knuckle, herring balls with currant sauce, stuffed cabbage leaves, horseradish pike with melted butter. Today, smoked sausage and potatoes in white sauce, served with carrots, was on the menu for both Barbarotti and Backman, and they ordered tomato salad and beetroot on the side. It was Wednesday; they usually went to King’s Grill once or twice a week, and Gunnar Barbarotti realized Backman had restrained herself from asking for longer than he had any right to expect. Considerably longer, but at King’s Grill, questions of a sensitive nature did tend to surface rather rapidly. He chewed on a piece of sausage.

  ‘Marianne. Her name’s Marianne.’

  Eva Backman regarded him critically.

  ‘I know she’s called Marianne,’ she observed. ‘You mentioned it yesterday. Is that all you’ve got to say about her? Is your view of women that they’re only distinguishable from each other by their names?’

  ‘What now?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I thought we were going to talk about work. Not my supposed love life. But all right, she’s just over forty. Divorced midwife from Helsingborg with two teenage kids.’

  Eva Backman sighed.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you for that. You really are a romantic to the core, my dear Detective Inseminator. Is she attractive?’

  ‘Never seen anything prettier.’

  ‘White teeth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Violet-blue eyes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nice tits?’

  ‘Oh yes. A pair of those.’

  Eva Backman laughed. ‘And she’s got a soul?’

  ‘Yes, a hundred per cent proof,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But I think that’s enough information for now. After all, she hasn’t proposed yet, and what’s so odd about me starting to go out with someone again?’

  ‘It’s odder than you think,’ said Eva Backman with a mysterious smile.

  ‘Indeed? Well, anyway, I expect you’ll get to meet her in due course . . . if we carry on, that is.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘More like an inescapable fact. But forget that now. There’s something work-related I want to talk to you about. If I treat you to posh sausages, it’s only fair that you play ball.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eva Backman. ‘You need help as usual. There’s no such thing as a free sausage. What�
��s up?’

  ‘Henrik Grundt.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘What does “Aha” mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. That I’m a bit surprised, I suppose. You haven’t brought the case up for over two weeks now.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’m not still thinking about it.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it too. Well?’

  ‘Hrrm. Well, there was this woman at the wedding.’

  ‘The bride?’

  ‘No, not the bride. There were at least seventy other women there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was sitting opposite her at the reception.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We talked a bit afterwards. It turned out her surname was Willnius.’

  ‘Willnius?’

  ‘Yes. Annica Willnius.’

  Eva Backman raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘She’s Jakob Willnius’s first wife. Jakob Willnius is now married to Kristina Hermansson. And Kristina Hermansson is—’

  ‘Thanks. I know who Kristina Hermansson is. So you met the ex-wife of – let me get this right – Henrik Grundt’s aunt’s husband? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Impressive. How did you manage that?’

  ‘Shut up, Inspector Backman. If you just get on with your sausage, I’ll explain.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘You watch too many third-rate police dramas. But that’s your problem. My problem is something she said about Jakob Willnius.’

  ‘Mhm?’

  ‘She said he was a nasty bit of work. And it wouldn’t surprise her if he’d killed somebody.’

  Eva Backman swallowed a mouthful of potato and took a gulp of her Ramlösa mineral water. ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Or words to that effect.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That was all. It might not mean anything, but I can’t help wondering about it.’

  ‘Wondering about what, exactly?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti paused and leant back in his chair.

  ‘I don’t really know. About whether we ruled out the so-called family aspect a bit too readily in this case, for example?’

  Eva Backman put down her knife and fork and wiped the corners of her mouth thoroughly with a serviette. She regarded him even more critically than before and sighed.