The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  He followed the stone wall and paused at the other points of the compass.

  The cows. The field of rape.

  He gave a shiver and went back indoors. Looked about him at the stylish simplicity of the place. Whitewash and brown wood, nothing more. His eye fell on his case, standing behind the kitchen settle, still not unpacked. There was something white protruding from the side pocket. He went round the kitchen table and saw that it was the three letters he had taken from the chatty postman as he was leaving home yesterday. He pulled them out and inspected them. Two looked like bills, one from the phone company, the other from his insurance firm. He stuffed them back in the pocket.

  The third letter was handwritten. His name and address in black, written in scruffy, angular capital letters. There was no sender address. A stamp with a sailing boat.

  He hesitated for a second. Then he took a knife from the knife block on the draining board and slit open the envelope. He took out a folded sheet of paper, opened it and read.

  GOING TO KILL ERIK BERGMAN.

  LET’S SEE IF YOU CAN STOP ME.

  From the bedroom he heard Marianne mutter something in her sleep. He stared at the message.

  The serpent in Paradise, he thought.

  2

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Marianne.

  ‘Exactly what I say,’ replied Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’ve had a letter.’

  ‘Here? A letter came here?’

  It was the morning of the second day. They were sitting in deckchairs under a sun umbrella looking out over the field of yellow rape. The sky was blue. Swallows were darting and bumblebees were buzzing; they had just finished breakfast, refilled their cups, and the only thing happening was digestion.

  Plus this conversation. He wondered why he had brought it up. He was already regretting it.

  ‘No, it came just as I was leaving home yesterday. I shoved it in the side pocket of my case. But then I opened it, this morning.’

  ‘A threat, you say?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  He pondered the fingerprint aspect for a moment but decided he was on holiday and went inside to get the letter.

  She read it with one eyebrow raised, the other lowered; he had never seen her with that expression before, but realized it signalled a combination of surprise and concentration. It looked really rather elegant, he couldn’t help noticing. She looked elegant in every way, when he came to think about it; apart from a battered old straw hat with a wide brim, she was wearing only a thin, almost transparent garment that hid little more than the glass in an aquarium.

  Linen, if he was not mistaken.

  ‘Do you often get letters like this?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘So it’s not routine for a police officer?’

  ‘Not in my experience, at any rate.’

  ‘And who’s Erik Bergman?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nobody I can bring to mind, anyway. But it isn’t a particularly uncommon name.’

  ‘And you don’t know who could have sent it?’

  ‘No.’

  She picked up the envelope and studied it. ‘The postmark’s illegible.’

  ‘More or less. I think it ends in “org” but it’s not at all clear.’

  She nodded. ‘Why send it to you, then? I mean, this must be some kind of lunatic, but why would he send it to you in particular?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti sighed. ‘Marianne, it’s like I said. I really have no idea.’

  He waved away a fly, regretting again that he had ever mentioned the letter. It was idiotic having to sit here on such a perfect morning and talk about police business.

  But it wasn’t police business, hadn’t he just decided? Merely a momentary source of irritation . . . not worthy of any more attention than the fly he had just batted away.

  ‘But you must have some kind of . . . what’s it called? . . . intuition? How long have you been a policeman? Twenty years?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right, we talked about it, the same length of time as I’ve been a midwife. But there is a kind of instinctive sense you develop over the years, isn’t there? I think I have, anyway.’

  Barbarotti drank some of his coffee and thought about it. ‘Sometimes, perhaps. But not where this is concerned, I’m afraid. It’s been going round in my head all morning and not the least little idea has occurred to me.’

  ‘But it’s addressed to you. To your home address.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not to the police station. But surely that must mean he . . . or she . . . has some particular relationship to you?’

  ‘Relationship is taking it a bit far. It only means he knows who I am . . . or she. Now let’s talk about something else, I’m sorry I brought it up.’

  Marianne put the envelope down on the table and leant back in her chair. ‘What do you think, then?’

  She evidently did not give up that easily.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The letter, of course. The threat. Is it serious?’

  ‘Presumably not.’

  She pushed the straw hat right back and raised both eyebrows. ‘How can you say that?’

  He sighed again. ‘Because we get a lot of anonymous letters. They’re nearly all fakes.’

  ‘I thought the police had a duty to treat everything seriously. If there’s a bomb threat to a school, say, then I assume you have to . . . ?’

  ‘We do treat everything seriously. There really isn’t much we leave to chance. But you asked me if I thought this was meant seriously. That’s another matter.’

  ‘OK, sheriff. See your point. So you think this one is just a hoax?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Good question, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. Bloody good question. Because . . . because I want it to be a hoax, of course. Here I am in the paradise of Gustabo with a woman I’m pretty sure I love, and I don’t want to be disturbed by some cretin who’s planning to kill some other cretin. And if it does turn out to be genuine, then I . . . well, I want to be able to say I didn’t open the letter until I got home from my stay in paradise.

  ‘You’re not answering,’ she observed.

  ‘Ahem,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘The fact is, I don’t know. You can never say never, of course. Let’s leave this for now.’

  She leant forward and glared at him. ‘What rubbish is that? Leave it? You’ve surely got to take some kind of action? Are you a detective inspector, or aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m on holiday in seventh heaven,’ Gunnar Barbarotti reminded her.

  ‘Me too,’ countered Marianne. ‘But if a pregnant woman arrived in seventh heaven and wanted to give birth to her baby, I would deliver it. You get me?’

  ‘Smart,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  ‘One–nil to the midwife,’ said Marianne with a broad smile. ‘Thanks for last night, by the way. I love making love with you.’

  ‘There were a few seconds when I really thought I could fly,’ admitted Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But what an idiot I was to open this letter. Can’t we agree to forget it, and I’ll pretend to find it when I get home?’

  ‘Not on your life. What if Erik Bergman’s been murdered when you get back to Kymlinge, how could you live with that? I thought I’d met a man with morals and a heart.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti gave in. He took off his sunglasses and regarded her gravely. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘You want me to suggest something?’

  ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t we have a bit of a job swap while we’re on holiday?’

  She laughed. ‘So you’ll look after all the pregnant women in seventh heaven?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Were you there when your children were born?’

  ‘All three.’

  ‘She nodded. ‘OK then. I only wanted to be sure no babies’ lives would be put at risk. A
s I see it, there are two alternatives.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Either we take this to the police in Visby . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Visby. What’s the alternative?’

  ‘We ring your colleagues in Kymlinge.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But there’s just one catch.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We haven’t got a phone.’

  ‘We can get round that. We’ll go and see the farmer and I’ll introduce you. His name’s Jonsson, by the way. Hagmund Jonsson.’

  ‘Hagmund?’

  ‘Yes. His father was called Hagmund too. And his grandfather.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti nodded and scratched his stubble. ‘Can I suggest something, in that case?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you put on something a bit more substantial than that see-through handkerchief, otherwise Hagmund the Third’s going to have a fit.’

  She laughed. ‘But you like it?’

  ‘I like it very much. It somehow makes you look more than naked.’

  ‘Grr,’ said Marianne, forty-two-year-old midwife from Helsingborg. ‘I suggest we go in for a while first. I’ve a feeling Hagmund won’t be home for an hour or so.’

  ‘Grrr,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, forty-seven-year-old detective inspector from Kymlinge. ‘I think this rape field must be some kind of aphro . . . what’s the word? . . . aphrodisiac.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the word,’ confirmed the midwife. ‘But it’s not the field, you dolt, it’s me.’

  ‘Yup, you’re totally right there,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.

  Although an hour and a half went by before they made it across the road to the Jonssons’, Hagmund turned out not to be at home. But his wife was there. She was around sixty-five, a stout little woman by the name of Jolanda. Gunnar Barbarotti wondered whether her mother and grandmother could possibly also have been called Jolanda, but he didn’t dare ask.

  At any event, the cheery woman refused to let them use the phone before she had plied them with coffee, saffron pancakes and eleven kinds of cake and biscuit – so it was not until after two that Barbarotti finally got through to Kymlinge police station.

  As luck would have it, Detective Inspector Eva Backman was nesting on a ton of paper in her office. He was put through to her and set out his business in scarcely over thirty seconds.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I’ll take this through to the chief inspector and propose you break off your holiday and get straight back to work. It sounds serious.’

  ‘You can consider our friendship terminated,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Holidays are no joking matter.’

  Eva Backman roared with laughter. ‘Fair enough. What do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’m on leave. Just wanted to report a threatening anonymous letter like the responsible citizen I am.’

  ‘Bravo, inspector,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I give in. Can you read out what it says again?’

  ‘Going to kill Erik Bergman,’ Barbarotti said obediently. ‘Let’s see if you can stop me.’

  ‘So it’s “you”, singular?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Handwritten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Addressed to you in person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm, can you fax it over?’

  ‘I’m at Gustabo,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘There’s no fax here.’

  ‘Go to Visby then.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti hastily conferred with himself. ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’

  ‘OK,’ said Eva Backman. ‘So what’s it all about, does he mean any particular Erik Bergman?’

  ‘Search me. I don’t know any Erik Bergman. Do you?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Well I suppose I can check how many there are here in Kymlinge, for starters. Does it tell us anything about where in town the prospective corpse might happen to live?’

  ‘All it tells us is what I read out just now.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eva Backman. ‘All right then, if you fax it over tomorrow – including the address on the envelope – we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘In the meantime, you can put the original in a plastic bag and send it to us . . . I’ll sort out this bit of unpleasantness for you, Mister Responsible Citizen. How’s Marianne?’

  ‘She’s great. She’s here with me now.’

  Eva Backman laughed again. ‘Glad to hear the two of you are enjoying yourselves. It’s raining here. How is it . . . ?’

  ‘Not a cloud in the sky,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Right, I’ll leave this in your capable hands and see you in a fortnight.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I’ll be on holiday by then.’

  ‘Bother.’

  ‘These things happen. Incidentally, if I find there’s a whole gang of Erik Bergmans, it wouldn’t actually be a bad idea for you to look through them. Just in case you know any of them after all . . . would that be OK?’

  ‘If it’s not too long a list.’

  ‘Thank you, constable. Where shall I send it?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  He put down the receiver on a bureau that boasted several framed photographs and silver pots and returned to Jolanda and Marianne on the terrace. ‘Excuse me, what’s Gustabo’s postal address?’

  ‘Gustabo, Hogrän, Gotland, usually works fine,’ said Marianne. Barbarotti thanked her and went back to the phone.

  ‘You can fax the list to the police in Visby,’ he said. ‘And I’ll do my faxing from there as well. I’m going to count this as eight hours’ overtime.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Kiss kiss, inspector, and regards to Marianne.’

  Good, thought Gunnar Barbarotti, and felt the stirrings of indigestion from all the biscuits. That’s that out of the way.

  On their way out they bumped into Hagmund Jonsson. He was a man of around seventy, as tall and spare as his wife was small and roly-poly.

  ‘Well well, so Marianne has got herself a man,’ he said. ‘And not a day too soon. So now you’ll be living in the time of expectations as yet unfulfilled?’

  This last sentence, delivered in a broad Gotland accent, had the ring of a Biblical quotation, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. The time of expectations as yet unfulfilled? They shook hands.

  ‘It’s like being back in childhood, isn’t it?’ Hagmund went on without pausing for an answer. ‘The world and our lives are full of imprecise promises, of scents and premonitions we still haven’t fully explored. Once we do, it leaves us empty. Omne animal post coitum triste est. So then we have to invent new expectations. And take our time in fulfilling them.’

  ‘Never a truer word spoken,’ said Marianne, pulling Gunnar Barbarotti out through the gate.

  ‘Hagmund’s a philosopher,’ she explained once they were out in the road. ‘If you get caught in one of his conversations it can take several hours to wriggle free. What was that bit in Latin?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Gunnar Barbarotti had to admit. ‘Something about feeling melancholy after making love, I think.’

  Marianne frowned. ‘I think that applies mainly to men,’ she said. ‘But they’re happy people, Hagmund and Jolanda Jonsson. They’ve signed up for the first package holiday in space.’

  Gunnar Barbarotti nodded.

  ‘To prolong the sense of expectation?’

  ‘I assume so. He’s built his own telescope, too, out in the barn. It’s a world-class one, apparently, but nobody’s seen it since the newspaper sent someone round a few years ago. He doesn’t let anybody in.’

  ‘And how do you know they’re happy?’

  She sighed. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I can’t really know, of course. But it’s important for me to imagine that they are.’

  ‘In that case I’ll agree with you,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘Are you already
tired of sitting still in Paradise?’

  ‘We can’t make love more than two or three times a day. Not at our age.’

  She laughed. ‘No, you’re right. I don’t want you to get too melancholy. How about a longish cycle ride?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti looked up at the clear blue sky and sniffed the wind. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’d sooner that than a space trip, at any rate.’

  3

  ‘What made you join the police? I don’t think you’ve ever told me.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never asked.’

  ‘Fair enough. But I’m asking now. What made you join the police?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s about what I thought.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because men have this way of never knowing why things happen in their lives.’

  ‘Damn cheek. How many men did you study to deduce that?’

  ‘You’re number two. Or perhaps number two and a half, though I never quite knew what to make of that physics teacher. But you’ve got to admit I’m right.’

  They were lying on their backs under an oak by an old limestone church. It was four in the afternoon. The air temperature was about twenty-five degrees and they had been on their bikes for around two hours. Along pastoral highways and byways through the verdant countryside of high summer. Dry-stone walls, cornflowers and poppies. Low whitewashed buildings with climbing roses and Virginia creeper rambling over them. Black-and-white cows, larks high in the sky, indolent summer Gotlanders snoring in hammocks, and little shops and stalls selling saffron ice cream and coffee to passing cyclists. Gunnar Barbarotti had no idea where they were in relation to Gustabo. And nothing could have worried him less.

  ‘Things were more or less as they are now,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When I decided to join the police.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I had a sore bum. But not saddle sore in that instance. I’d been sitting on it for five years while I was studying.’

  ‘Law at Lund?’

  ‘Yes. I realized I’d have to sit on it for another forty years if I became a lawyer. A police job sounded a bit more mobile.’