After this exchange, nobody spoke for while. Then Ulf broke the silence. “I suppose I should just look around,” he said. “And then perhaps I’ll hear—or even see—something tonight.”
“That’s possible,” said Angel. “It seems to be happening most nights.”
She left the desk against which she had been leaning and made for the door. Ulf noticed that she paid no attention to Baltser, whose eyes followed her as she crossed the floor. He hates her, he thought.
* * *
—
When Ulf returned to his room, he found Blomquist waiting outside the door, now wearing his uniform.
“I thought I might make some enquiries in the town,” the policeman said.
Ulf smiled. “I’d better fill you in,” he said. “So that you know what to enquire about.”
Ulf told him what he had heard from Angel and Baltser. “I suspect that this is all about some unbalanced local having a bit of fun,” he said. “Or it might be a previous employee—somebody with a grudge.” He paused. He did not imagine there was much point in Blomquist wandering about asking questions. It would keep him busy, he supposed, and that was a worthwhile goal. “What exactly did you propose to do in the village? What can you ask about?”
“Build up a picture,” Blomquist replied. “Get the feel of the place. Put my ear to the ground. That sort of thing.”
“No harm in that,” said Ulf. “But for now, I propose to sit in the sauna for a while. Then take a dip in the plunge pool, I think.”
Blomquist looked concerned. “Be careful of the plunge pool,” he said. “Infection. Those things harbour all sorts of germs.”
“I’ll be careful,” Ulf reassured him.
“And the water can get too hot,” Blomquist continued. “People scald themselves.”
“I’ll watch the temperature,” said Ulf. “Shall we meet for dinner, then?”
He felt that he had to say that. He knew that dinner with Blomquist would involve his sitting there listening to the other man going on about something or other, but he had to be friendly. And, for all his irritation with his colleague, Ulf’s fundamental kindness won out, as it invariably did, and he would not want Blomquist to pick up on his irritation.
* * *
—
Ulf was relaxed when he went into the spa dining room that night. There were a few other guests, although most of the tables were unoccupied. Blomquist was already seated, and he waved across the room to Ulf as he came in.
“The curious thing about these places,” said Ulf as he sat down, “is that they make you feel better almost immediately.”
“Psychological,” said Blomquist.
“I suppose so. Mind you, a sauna always lifts the spirits.” He glanced at the menu. “What about you, Blomquist? A successful nose about the town?”
It was as if this was the question for which Blomquist had been waiting. “Very,” he said, beaming. “I made good progress. In fact...” He hesitated. “In fact, I think I’ve found out what’s going on.”
Ulf was not prepared for this. “But we’ve just arrived...”
Blomquist leaned forward. “I found a very useful source,” he said. “They’re always helpful, those people.”
“Which people?” asked Ulf.
“Librarians. They know everything.”
Ulf said nothing.
“A very charming woman,” Blomquist continued. “I found myself outside the library, and so I went in and introduced myself. She was impressed with the uniform—you could see that—and she told me all I needed to know.”
Ulf waited.
“I said that we were staying at the spa. She told me that she knew the owners, Baltser and his wife.”
Ulf was not sure where this was going, but Blomquist explained. “You can find out a lot about people from the books they read, you know.”
“Oh yes?”
“Take Erik, for example—that man who works in your office. He reads books about fish. That tells you he’s interested in fish.”
Ulf smiled. “He tells you that himself. Quite often, in fact.”
Blomquist persisted. “I said, I imagine they’re keen readers. But she’d asked for some special titles recently that the library had been obliged to borrow on the inter-library loans system.”
Ulf was on the point of saying that this was irrelevant detail, but something prevented him from dismissing Blomquist’s long-winded account.
“She’s been reading books on lycanthropy,” said Blomquist. “That’s what the librarian told me, anyway.”
For a few moments Ulf said nothing. Man into wolf: it was a strange obsession—one of those myths that for some reason seemed to engage people’s imaginations even if it was an altogether fanciful notion. At length Ulf said, “Are we to take it that her husband is a werewolf?”
Blomquist was silent.
“Well, Blomquist, is that what you are seriously suggesting?”
Blomquist looked away. “I’m not accusing anybody of anything,” he said. “I’m just reporting to you what I was told.”
Ulf made light of the information. “Frankly, I think all one can conclude from that is that Angel is interested in paranormal nonsense. Plenty of people are. Aliens and ESP and all that stuff. People lap it up.”
“Perhaps,” said Blomquist. “But what if Baltser is a werewolf?”
“There’s no such thing,” said Ulf.
Blomquist shrugged. “I’ve just reported what I heard,” he said. “I’m not saying that I believe in werewolves.”
“Just as well,” said Ulf. “I’d hate to have you committed. I assume that the psychiatric wards are full of people who believe in werewolves and the like. Don’t go down that path, Blomquist.”
“Let’s just see,” said Blomquist. “Let’s just see what happens tonight.”
“Nonsense, Blomquist. It’s just nonsense.”
“Some may not think it nonsense,” said Blomquist. He nodded in the direction of the office once more. “Did you see his wrists? Did you see how hairy they were?”
“I did,” Ulf answered. “But look, Blomquist, there’s no such thing as a werewolf. And what has this got to do with anything?”
“The howling?” Blomquist said. “The movements in the bushes?”
“But that’s ridiculous. Even if it is Baltser—which is highly unlikely—why would he scare his own guests?”
“Because he can’t help it,” said Blomquist. “If you start turning into a wolf, you can’t stop yourself.”
This was too much for Ulf. “Oh, really, Blomquist! This is all utterly fanciful. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
Blomquist looked affronted. “Certainly not.”
There was reproach in his voice, and Ulf immediately apologised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that...well, werewolves don’t exist. They just don’t.”
“They exist, Mr. Varg. You may think you know better, but go and speak to people in the country. Find out what they think.”
“I don’t care what people believe,” said Ulf. “They swallow all sorts of things. I wouldn’t base my own views on the curious views of others.”
“Well,” said Blomquist. “That’s as may be. But I think I’m right about this, you know.”
There was now a note of resentment in his voice. “You did ask me to tell you what I found out, Mr. Varg. That’s what I’ve done.”
Ulf felt guilty. “I know, Blomquist—I know. And I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to sound dismissive.”
Blomquist was pacified. “Well, we can see what happens tonight,” he said. “I’ll be next door. I’ll wake you up if I hear anything.”
“And I shall do the same for you,” said Ulf.
* * *
—
Ulf dreamed of Letta. For some time afte
r her departure he had dreamed of her regularly—almost nightly, he thought. The dreams were confusing, as are the dreams we have of those who have died: they are with us, they are still there, but also they are not, because they have died. So it was with Letta: she was still living with him in his dreams, but she had also left him; all he had to do was to tell her that she had made a mistake and she would realise that, and come back to him, but he was mute in the dream, unable to find the words that would effect her return. And then he would wake up to feelings of regret, and loss, and sadness.
In this dream he was engaged in a conversation with her in a place he did not recognise. She was sitting in a car, and he was speaking to her through the wound-down window. There was another man at the wheel, but he could not make out who it was. It must be her new man, he thought—although he was hardly new, as Letta had been gone for four years now. She had left him for a stage hypnotist—a Dane who had lived in Sweden for fifteen years and who earned his living through a combination of stage shows and work as a hypnotherapist, helping smokers who were desperate to give up their habit, or those whose social confidence needed boosting. Ulf had met him on only one occasion, after Letta had gone. He had done his best to make the occasion a civil one—he saw no point in being at daggers drawn with Letta, and he still loved her, of course. He had steeled himself for small talk and the scrupulous courtesies of a dreaded meeting, and by and large the encounter had not strayed beyond those. But then the other man had said, “We are all unhappy, you know—everybody, everybody.” Ulf had waited for him to say more, but he had not, and Ulf had resisted the temptation to say that destroying the marriages of others hardly added to the sum total of human happiness.
Ulf awoke suddenly, and for a few moments he had difficulty in remembering where he was. But when he remembered, he quickly shrugged off the vestiges of sleep. Something must have woken him—some sound, presumably—but now there was nothing.
Then he heard it. It was faint, as if coming from some distance away, but it was quite identifiable. Something, some person or animal, was howling.
Ulf slipped out of bed. He had left his shirt and trousers ready on a chair, and now he put these on in the darkness. He did not want to switch on a light, as that might warn the creature—if that was what it was—that somebody was up and about. So he fumbled with his belt and his shoes before quietly opening the door onto the corridor outside.
He gave a start. Blomquist had obviously been woken by the same sound, and was waiting for him—in uniform.
“Did you sleep in that?” Ulf whispered, gesturing to the police top with its badges and buttons.
Blomquist did not answer, but pointed down the corridor. “It’s coming from somewhere over that way,” he said, his lowered voice barely audible.
They made their way down the corridor in the darkness and then out onto the lawn. The chairs in the middle of the grass were black shapes in the night, like grazing sheep. Above them, a cloudless sky had traces of light, as they were on the cusp of full summer and its white nights.
They heard the howling again. This time it was louder, and it was easier to tell the direction from which it came.
“Over there,” whispered Ulf, pointing to a cluster of bushes on the far side of the lawn.
They both began to run, and as they did so, Blomquist began to blow loudly on a whistle. Ulf stopped in his tracks, taken by surprise by the whistle. Whatever it was that was howling must presumably have been surprised as well, as there was a commotion in the bushes, a movement of branches and leafage, and a harsh, truncated yelping sound. Then silence.
Blomquist now produced a flashlight and played the beam over the dense undergrowth. “You are under arrest!” he shouted.
Nothing happened.
Ulf sighed. Ridiculous Blomquist!
“Whom are you arresting?” he asked. “The bushes?”
Blomquist pointed with the flashlight beam. “Whoever’s in there.”
“Then let’s take a look,” said Ulf.
Ulf parted the branches while Blomquist moved the flashlight beam around the ground before them. There was nothing to be seen—just branches and twigs and leaves. Ulf began to walk back towards the building.
“He got away,” said Blomquist.
“So it would seem,” said Ulf. “And I assume you believe it was him—Baltser?”
“Of course it was,” said Blomquist. “Unless there’s another werewolf in the vicinity.”
“Oh, really!” Ulf exploded. “Get a grip on yourself, Blomquist. Those things don’t exist.”
Blomquist fought his corner. “Well, why don’t we go and knock on their door and wake him up—if he’s in. He won’t be, I suspect, because he will have been out being a werewolf.”
Ulf agreed, if only to exclude what he thought of as Blomquist’s quite unreasonable supposition. “It won’t tell us anything,” he said. “But if it’ll keep you happy, we might as well.”
“It will,” said Blomquist.
Angel had pointed out their flat earlier on. This was tacked onto the edge of the main building, like an architectural afterthought. It was in darkness now, although a small external light glowed dimly near the front door.
Ulf rang the bell. Somewhere inside, he heard a chime, and then silence. He pressed the button again.
A light was switched on and the door opened. It was Baltser. He was fully dressed.
Ulf stared at him. Baltser’s eyes appeared unfocused, as if he were looking over their shoulder into the darkness beyond. He seemed confused.
“I just wanted to check that all was well,” said Ulf.
Baltser said nothing, but stood in the doorway, swaying slightly.
“Are you all right?” asked Ulf.
Again Baltser did not respond, but suddenly put his hand up to his face, as if to feel his features.
“Should we get a doctor?” muttered Blomquist.
A light was switched on behind Baltser, and Angel appeared. She was wearing a dressing gown and had something in her hand that Ulf could not quite make out.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, taking Baltser by the elbow and pushing him gently back into the room. “Was there a noise?”
“Yes,” said Ulf. “We heard howling.”
This did not seem to interest her very much. “Well, I think we should all get back to bed,” she said. “We can talk in the morning.”
With that she closed the door.
Blomquist turned to Ulf. “See?” he said. “See? It’s him. And she must know it.”
Ulf was unsure what to say. Unlike Blomquist, he did not believe that there was anything paranormal happening here, and yet the expression on Baltser’s face had been quite chilling. It had been one of anguish, he thought.
* * *
—
The next morning, Ulf was out of bed a good hour before breakfast was due to be served. He found Angel already at her desk at reception, examining the booking register.
“We need to talk,” Ulf said.
Angel looked up. Her gaze, Ulf felt, was flirtatious. “Any time,” she said.
There was nobody about. Ulf drew in his breath. “I’ve reached the conclusion that your husband is the person causing the disturbances,” he said.
She showed no reaction. “Really,” she said. And then, in the same flat tone, she added, “That’s not true.”
“Why was he fully dressed when we rang your bell last night?”
Angel took the question calmly. “He hadn’t gone to bed yet.”
“It was one-thirty.”
Angel shrugged. “Some people don’t go to bed until three. He’s a night owl.”
“Or a night wolf...”
“What?”
Ulf looked away. “Nothing.” And then he continued, “He seemed confused.”
“He had dropped o
ff in his armchair,” said Angel. “Sometimes he does that. He drops off to sleep for a while before he finally goes to bed. If you wake him up then, he’s a bit fuzzy—who wouldn’t be?”
“So he was with you all the time?” asked Ulf.
“Yes. I told you. We were both in our flat.” She paused. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Varg. If there was somebody in the garden last night, it wasn’t my husband.”
Ulf tried another tack. “Are you interested in lycanthropy?”
He watched her. She did not reply immediately. But then, when she did, her reply was disarming. “Funny you should ask. Yes, I’m doing a course in folklore—one of these correspondence courses. I have an essay to write on popular myth. Wolves play quite a big part in those, you know.”
Ulf met her gaze. She was telling the truth, he thought. What she said was perfectly feasible, and his instinct—cautious though he was about trusting his intuition—was to believe her. Baltser was not a werewolf—how could anybody be anything that simply did not exist?—and whoever it was who was creating these disturbances was still there. He and Blomquist would have to be quicker next time if they were to catch him in the act. But they still had two nights before they were due to return to Malmö, and it was, he remembered, a full moon that night. A full moon was a real temptation to a werewolf—not that they existed, of course.
* * *
—
Ulf decided to explore the area that morning. There was nothing for him to do at the spa and, rather than spend the day waiting for the evening, he thought he would take the Saab for a brief drive along the coast. He had initially contemplated doing this by himself, but on reflection he decided to invite Blomquist to accompany him. Blomquist showed an almost pathetic need for approval. That could be irritating, as such needs often are, but it was easy enough for Ulf to be kind to him, and after all it would cost him nothing. No doubt on this drive he would be regaled with lengthy Blomquist stories, full of odd diversions and non sequiturs, but it would be unfriendly, he felt, to leave Blomquist to entertain himself.
The Department of Sensitive Crimes Page 20