“...the problem with sunblock,” Blomquist was saying, “is that if you apply too much of it, and too often, you won’t absorb the necessary vitamin D. But then, if you use too little, there’s the prospect of sun damage. Apparently, in Australia, where there’s a hole in the ozone layer, you have to be really careful. They take sun hats very seriously in schools out there—if a child doesn’t take a sun hat to school, then no time in the playground. It’s the only way. A friend’s aunt, you know, got badly burned when she was in South America. She’s normally very careful, but she forgot to put sunblock on one day, and they were pretty high up where they were staying—six thousand feet, I think, and so the sun’s rays at that level are particularly dangerous...”
South America, thought Ulf. He liked the idea of travel and had done a certain amount himself, but for some reason he had never been very far south. In fact, when he thought of where he had been, without exception his journeys were northern ones: he had, of course, been to Finland and Norway—Denmark, being just over the water, did not really count as travel in Ulf’s view. And the same applied to the Baltic countries, to the countries known as the ias—Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Ulf liked Tallinn, which he viewed as a sort of eastern Sweden, and he felt that there was an unspoken bond of sympathy between those who lived in the shadow of Russia. He had been to Scotland too, and Iceland, and, for three glorious weeks, in the second year of their marriage, he and Letta had hiked in Nepal. He remembered the thinness of the air, and the cold at night, and the sky that seemed to him to sing, it was so vast and light and, at that altitude, so close to the touch.
“...you see,” said Blomquist, “what you have to watch are those areas that seem to attract the sun—your nose, for instance: you have to watch your nose. Then there are the ears. If you go to a dermatologist and he or she—I have a lady dermatologist, you know—if he or she carries out a general inspection, then it will include the tops of the ears. Have you seen sailors? Yachtsmen, I mean, because professional sailors, merchant seamen, I mean, usually keep out of the sun—but yachtsmen, take a look at their ears. No, I’m not joking, just look at the tips of their ears and you’ll often see sun damage...”
All north, thought Ulf; all north. And then there was North America—he had been there first when he was a student at Lund and he had bought a cheap ticket. But that had been to Canada, and when he got there he seemed to go north, as if drawn by instinct. He had been up to Yellowknife, where he had worked for a month as a barman, and then, with the proceeds, had gone off on a month of travels. He had been determined to see the United States, but he ended up only seeing the northern tip of it: Minnesota and Wisconsin. He had been given a good welcome there, because of the Scandinavian population of those northern states, but before he knew it he had been obliged to return home. So he never got to New Orleans, as he had hoped to do, because north had claimed him once again. One day he would go. South America. Perhaps India, or even Australia, where he had a distant female cousin who lived in Darwin and who had once turned up in Malmö and invited him to visit her in the friendly way of Australians. “Stay as long as you like,” the cousin had said. “In fact, stay for the rest of your life—lots of people do. They never go home.” What would that be like, he wondered. Warmth. Sun. He would have to be careful about sun exposure, of course, as Blomquist had said...And other things too. He had asked the cousin about crocodiles, and she had replied that they did have them around Darwin but that she had very rarely seen one in the wild, although they had once been on a picnic and there had been one in the river and they had all moved well away from the bank, just to be safe. She had a friend, she said, who knew somebody who had almost been eaten by a saltwater crocodile, but he had been drunk at the time and it was often the case that people who fell foul of crocodiles had drunk too much at the time of the incident.
“Crocodiles,” he suddenly said.
Blomquist, who had been talking about the danger of tanning salons, was arrested mid-sentence. “Crocodiles?”
“Yes,” said Ulf, “I was just thinking. You were talking about sun, weren’t you? Or at least you were a few minutes ago, and I thought about crocodiles. Have you ever seen a crocodile, Blomquist?”
“In a zoo,” Blomquist replied. “Just lying there. He was doing nothing particular. You know, they’re cold-blooded—I think—and they need sun to get them going. Apparently, if they’re cold they can’t harm you very much, although, frankly, I wouldn’t care to test that, would you? What about a wolf? Have you seen a wolf, Mr. Varg?”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, we don’t get them down where we are,” said Blomquist. “They’re up near that place, what’s it called? Skinnskatteberg. Apparently, there are about three hundred wolves in Sweden, which isn’t bad, bearing in mind there were none about fifty years ago. People are odd about wolves, aren’t they? Do you know that dogs are descendants of wolves—all dogs, even those ridiculous little dogs you see in the parks. Wolves. Imagine how embarrassed a real wolf would be if he knew that he was cousin to a shih-tzu? Of course, we shouldn’t think animals have feelings like us—I don’t think they can be embarrassed, do you? My daughter’s cat is incapable of feeling anything very much, I can tell you—and certainly not embarrassment...”
Ulf looked at his watch. The miles were passing, but in a strange cloud of facts and warnings and unilateral, unanswered observations. What would it be like, he wondered, to do a long train journey with Blomquist—say, on the Trans-Siberian Express, or one of those trains that cross Canada? Day after day of Blomquist on every conceivable subject...
He thought of Blomquist’s wife: How would she have greeted the news that he was to be away for up to three days? With relief, he imagined. He smiled privately. But then he reminded himself that Blomquist had somebody who loved him, and who presumably appreciated him for what he was—a loyal, good husband, who provided for his family without complaint. Mrs. Blomquist would be proud of him, he thought, and she would attribute his lack of promotion so far to the fact that his superiors did not understand him, or to jealousies within the force, or something of that nature. Our shining heroes are never held back by their own limitations; it is usually the work of others.
* * *
—
The spa sat in its own large grounds off the main road into Abbekås. The town was only a short walk away, but a feeling of rural tranquillity had been encouraged by stands of birch trees planted by a previous owner. These trees not only masked the buildings from the road and from neighbours, but also provided a haven for colonies of small birds. As Ulf parked the Saab, the sound of birdsong could be heard coming from the birch trees, while from somewhere inside, music—Mozart, he thought—drifted across a wide, carefully trimmed lawn. There was a cluster of deckchairs in the centre of this lawn, draped with towels, but unoccupied, it seemed, by any of the spa’s guests.
Their arrival had been observed from the main building, a sprawling red-roofed construction with the air of a domestic house that had been extended in a haphazard way by a series of owners. A door opened, and a man in white trousers and a green, open-neck shirt strode out to greet them. This was Baltser Björkman, proprietor of the spa and husband of Angel. Baltser was a man in his early fifties, fourteen years the senior of Angel, who now followed him out onto the lawn to greet the visitors.
“Felix told me you were coming, Mr. Varg,” said Baltser after he had shaken hands with Ulf. “And your colleague, of course, Mr....”
“Blomquist,” said Blomquist.
Baltser smiled. “Of course, of course.”
Angel joined them. As introductions were made, Ulf glanced appraisingly at her, wondering how it was that these two had ended up together. It was a line of thought that often occurred to him when he met couples. Sometimes it was obvious enough why one person married another: identity of interest, similarity of background—factors of that sort explained a great deal of mutu
al human attraction. Ulf had also observed that people often went for somebody who looked like them. This conclusion would surprise many, he believed, but every time he put it to the test, it seemed to be confirmed. And then Dr. Svensson himself had supported the theory with chapter and verse from one of his professional journals in which an article on the subject had appeared. Finnish researchers, Dr. Svensson revealed, had examined extensive collections of wedding photographs going back decades and had concluded that the parties often looked remarkably similar. Tall, dark-haired men married tall, dark-haired women; people with prominent cheekbones chose those with a similar feature; noses were attracted by noses of a similar shape—and so on.
Ulf had been interested to discover that his own observations appeared to be borne out by empirical research, although when he mentioned this conversation to Carl and Anna, they had been unimpressed.
“I don’t look at all like my wife,” said Carl. “She looks very different.”
“That’s because she’s a woman,” remarked Anna dryly. “By and large, though not always, men tend to marry people who look like women.”
“You know what I mean,” said Carl. “People can look the same, but different. Features are nothing to do with gender.”
“I don’t look at all like Jo,” said Anna, adding hurriedly, “Not that I wouldn’t like to. Jo’s a good-looking man.”
“I don’t think he is,” said Erik, who had been following this conversation from the other side of the room. “No offence, of course, but I don’t think he is. And anyway, these people who did that research—didn’t it occur to them that all Finns look the same?”
Carl shook his head. “Look the same? The Finns?”
“Yes,” said Erik. “It’s well known. Look at a bunch of Finns and I challenge you to tell the difference. They’re a good-looking people for the most part, but nobody can ever tell one from the other. They’re all just...Finnish, really.” He paused. “And so it’s not surprising that they found people married people who looked like them—they didn’t have much choice.”
But now, glancing at Angel and then again at Baltser, Ulf felt that any theory of similar types would, in this case, be challenged. And that led him to another conclusion, not one based on any information—he had only met them a few minutes ago—but one that had come to him on the basis of immediate intuition: Angel did not like her husband.
It was an extraordinary thought to have so soon after meeting somebody. And yet it had come to him quite forcefully. He had no idea why he should think this—on the face of it, it was absurd to jump to such a conclusion on the basis of no evidence at all. But there was a current of animosity between these two, and it emanated from her; there was no doubt about it.
As they walked into the spa to collect their keys, Ulf reflected on his rushed and surely unreliable assumption. It had to be unreliable, he told himself, because any belief based on nothing—as this one was—was open to that fundamental objection. But why should he think it? That puzzled him.
Carnality, he thought. Some people ooze carnality. They seem to be made for it. They are intensely sexual beings. That is what they think about; that is what they do. He glanced again at Angel, walking beside him. She was strikingly attractive, even if in a slightly blowsy way. She was what Ulf’s mother would have called the barmaid type. Bless you, Ma, he thought; bless you for all your strong opinions and colourful categorisations; bless you for all the respects in which you were misguided, or just plain wrong, and for all you wanted in this life and never got.
He looked again at Angel. Her blonde hair, shoulder length, had been tied back with a red ribbon. A red ribbon stood for carnality—of course it did. And her blouse was tight—deliberately so. You don’t wear clothes that are tight unless you want to get out of them at the first opportunity—everybody knew that. And her jeans were close-fitting, and even her shoes looked several sizes too small for the feet that were within.
And then he glanced at Baltser. He was a tall, well-built man, with a pleasant enough smile, but...Ulf looked again. He was hairy. Not only were his wrists and the tops of his hands covered in fine black hair, but his cheeks were also hirsute. And his mouth... when he opened his mouth, the teeth were very prominent—he was not buck-toothed in any way, but the teeth were definitely larger than normal. Ulf suppressed a shudder. There was something about Baltser that was physically repulsive, at least to him. And that, he decided, was a view shared by Angel: she was also repulsed by her husband’s physical appearance—and Ulf could see the reason why. These two were physical opposites—walking exceptions to the rule of spousal physical similarity.
* * *
—
Ulf did not invite Blomquist to take part in his first meeting with Baltser and Angel. This was not because he wanted to exclude him from the investigation...No, it was, he had to admit to himself; of course it was. But he felt justified in not having Blomquist there because the other man’s presence could distract him from what he had to do, which was to allow his own sense of what was happening to develop. He did not want Blomquist waffling away, as he undoubtedly would do, preventing him from picking up the nuances. And there would be nuances, Ulf decided; they would be there, under the surface, and they would affect his assessment of what was happening.
Initially he spoke to Angel, whom he found behind the reception desk in the foyer. She suggested that they move to the office, where she invited him to sit down while she leaned against a desk at the side of the room. “Baltser will be along in a few minutes,” she said. “He’s just checking the plunge pool. But in the meantime...”
She left the sentence hanging.
“We could talk,” supplied Ulf.
“Yes. We could talk. He—I mean Felix—said you might help us work out what’s happening.”
Ulf nodded. “Yes, if you could fill me in on the details.”
Angel was sizing him up, Ulf noted; her glance, superficially casual, was penetrating.
“We’ve had a series of negative reviews,” she said. “Guests have complained of noises at night. One or two claimed to have seen things.”
Noises, thought Ulf; things.
“Noise in general?” he asked. “Bad sound insulation?” That could be a problem in hotels, he knew: what happened in the next-door room was not always what one wanted to hear.
“No,” said Angel. “Strange noises outside—or so they said. Howling, according to some of them.”
“Shouting?”
Angel smiled. “No, they said howling.” She paused to let this sink in. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“And you have no idea what this was...or rather, who was howling?”
Angel shrugged. “I’m a very sound sleeper,” she said. “I go out like a light and re-emerge the next morning. It would take a thunderbolt to wake me.”
“And what about the things that people saw? Or claimed they saw?”
Again Angel shrugged. “They weren’t very specific. One said that they saw a movement in the bushes beside the lawn. Another said there was a face at the window. It was all very general. Some creature, apparently.”
“A dog?” asked Ulf. “Perhaps a stray?”
Angel said that she thought this was unlikely. “There are no big dogs around here,” she said. “The farmer over that way”—she pointed out of the window—“keeps a couple of largish dogs, but they’re very well controlled. He always shuts them up at night, he says, and they don’t wander anyway.”
It was at this point that Baltser entered the room. He nodded politely to Ulf before sitting down behind the desk. Ulf noticed that Angel seemed to ignore his arrival, avoiding eye contact with her husband.
“Your wife was telling me about the guests hearing things,” said Ulf.
Baltser sighed. “People complain. But now all we get is complaints. Bookings are right down.”
“What do you think
is happening?” Ulf asked.
The question was addressed to the room in general, but it was Angel who answered. “I think the place might be haunted,” she said. “There might be one of those...what do you call those things? Polter...”
“Poltergeists,” said Ulf.
“Yes, one of those.”
Baltser shook his head. “Nonsense,” he said. “Ghosts don’t exist.”
Angel gave him a sharp look. “How do you know?” she asked. “If you’ve never seen one, how do you know they don’t exist?”
Baltser frowned. “I can’t see how to answer that question,” he said.
Angel clearly felt that her point had been made. “Well, there you are.”
Ulf asked whether they felt there was anybody who might be pursuing a vendetta against them. No, there was not. Or what about a competitor who might want to put them out of business? No, the other hotels in the area were all doing perfectly well and would have no interest in damaging them.
“It’s all very odd,” said Angel. “If you can find anything out, I’ll be very pleased.”
Ulf thought that she spoke without much conviction. She was indifferent to the problem, he decided; she did not care.
“Yes,” agreed Baltser. “It would be very helpful.” He looked down at his hands. “I don’t think we can carry on much longer losing money.”
“No,” said Ulf. “Nobody can, I suppose.”
“Unless you’re the government,” said Angel. “You can just borrow indefinitely if you’re the government.”
Ulf thought this was probably true. Governments seemed to operate in a world where the plain facts of economics did not apply. And yet surely profligacy caught up with everybody sooner or later—even if you were a government. And where did all that money come from? Who were the people who lent it to governments?
The Department of Sensitive Crimes Page 19