The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  Erik comes home as I am sitting on the terrace writing these lines. He asks if I want to go for dinner at Le Grand Large, they’ve had some fresh mussels in. I say I’ve still got a last bit of packing to finish and I’ll make do with a sandwich. Erik showers, puts on a change of clothes and heads off again. It’s half past seven by the time I set down my pen and go to the fridge.

  I stand at the stove, frying a couple of eggs. I’m trying to follow the news bulletin pouring out of the transistor radio on the window ledge. My French has improved a bit in the time I’ve been here and I can understand most of what is said. The water has come to the boil in the kettle and just as it switches itself off I hear a cough from the terrace. I rest the spatula in the pan and take it off the gas. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and go outside.

  An elderly woman is standing under the sun umbrella. She is dressed in black and looks almost like a Greek widow; though the draped fabric is less voluminous, her hair is raven black, doubtless dyed, and she is wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, blood red. She is frail and small, no more than 160 cm, but there is strength in her face. It is exotic somehow, with dark eyes, a sharp nose and a firmly set jaw. She looks at me, peering slightly; perhaps she is a little short-sighted.

  ‘Troaë!’ she says.

  ‘Oui?’ I say.

  ‘Troaë? What have you done with Troaë?’

  She speaks a strange French with extravagantly rolled ‘r’s. I try to say I don’t understand what she is talking about.

  ‘Petite Troaë. I am her grandmother. I know she is with you and the others. But now it is time for her to come home.’

  I throw my hands wide to signal that I still have no idea what she wants. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the big adjustable spanner lying on one of the plastic chairs. Erik left it there after he tried to fix up the rusty old bike he found in the tool shed. That was four or five days ago and he had no luck with it. He put the bike back but forgot the spanner. I remember us talking about it; it happens to be a Swedish make, a Bahco, and I even remember the model number, 08072. I look at the woman for a moment. Her eyes are no more than thin slits, her face looks like a cat’s and she has both hands clenched into fists at her sides. She evidently thinks herself invincible, I know the type.

  ‘Troaë?’ I say as I take a step to the left and grab hold of the spanner. ‘There must be some mistake.’ I flounder for a second or two as I try to recall the word ‘mistake’ – erreur – but then it comes to me.

  ‘It is not a mistake,’ she says. ‘She has been talking about you people for several days now and when she left home on Sunday she told me she was going to find you and spend the day with you.’

  I do not hesitate. I swing the spanner in a wide arc and hit her with full force from the side, above her left ear. Her hat flies off and she slumps to the terrace floor like a hunter’s prey felled by a bullet.

  Commentary, August 2007

  Words mean so little, actions so much more. And yet we surround ourselves with words, words, words. The really important points in a human life are few and can be spaced far apart. Years, even decades apart. When one day we come to sum it all up, we become vividly aware of this; how little it weighs, all that we have said and written, and how heavy those really decisive actions seem. It’s not the words for which we will have to answer, and I don’t really grasp why we’re forever seeking their protection. Why do we not dare to find repose in silence and in our thoughts? In the hours and moments when we don’t attach proper weight and importance to our actions, we devastate our lives, and that is nothing new, but everything would undeniably look different if we took more time for stillness and reflection.

  My killing programme is going to plan. I still have work left to do, but I am in no doubt that I will be able to complete my task. The fact that they rejected a financial solution only goes to show the conceit of those people. My demands were by no means unreasonable. I assume they conferred and came to a collective decision to refuse, and in a way I am glad about this alternative outcome. Money offers nothing more than temporary solutions, short-term half-measures, such are the terms and conditions.

  These past few nights I have dreamt of the girl’s grandmother, that fragile and expressive little woman with the demanding eyes and those poisonous words that sealed her fate. She comes to me in my dream in the form of a bat, symbolism I do not really understand, flying in through the dark, open rectangle of a window and alighting on my knee or my arm, then sitting watching me with piercing yellow eyes; she says nothing, but just perches there with her diminutive head tilted first to the right, then to the left, and after a while she flies off again with a characteristic whoosh. I always wake up at that exact moment and the strange thing is that I find myself filled with a sort of joy, or at the very least gratification.

  Of all human actions, killing is the most conclusive.

  17–19 AUGUST 2007

  27

  ‘You look sprightly,’ said Inspector Backman as they got into the car.

  ‘I swam five hundred metres this morning,’ admitted Barbarotti. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course he’s bloody sprightly,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘He’s been on holiday for three days. While the rest of us have been working our arses off.’

  ‘Who’s driving?’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘Me,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘I can find my way to Hallsberg. I knew a woman there once.’

  ‘Really?’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Yep,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘A dark and mysterious beauty from the rolling plains around Viby. In other circumstances, we would have married each other.’

  ‘Maybe you should take the chance of looking her up,’ suggested Backman. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘If I’m not much mistaken, I’ll find her in the cemetery.’

  ‘We’d better leave it then,’ said Backman. ‘We’re going to be busy enough as it is.’

  ‘Certainly are,’ sighed Astor Nilsson, turning out onto Norra Kungsvägen. ‘This case has already made me a worse person.’

  ‘In fact, to be honest, it’s giving me sleepless nights,’ he observed ten minutes later, once they had made their way out of the town and Eva Backman had issued various instructions to her children over her mobile phone. ‘Do you think we’re going to find a body up there?’

  Eva Backman shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t like to say what we’ll find. But there’s a lot to point to Gunnar Öhrnberg being dead, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Wonder what the MO’s going to be this time,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘What do you reckon to poisoning, he hasn’t tried that yet, has he?’

  ‘We don’t know how Henrik Malmgren died,’ Eva Backman reminded him. ‘And he hasn’t shot anybody yet, I seem to recall.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, who had volunteered for the back seat. ‘I wonder if you’d mind giving me a short update? Now I’ve been taken back into the fold again and am expected to make myself slightly useful.’

  ‘I shall teach you all I know,’ said Astor Nilsson, grinning at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘You didn’t land one on that reporter, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Barbarotti, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘But maybe just as well for you. So where would you like us to start? I could do with somebody with a sense of order to impose a bit of structure on all this for me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I get your snide implications. And there was me thinking we could see a bit of light at the end of the tunnel.’

  ‘Woman,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Enlighten us.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ said Eva Backman. She took a deep breath, adjusting the back of her seat into a slightly more upright position. ‘You have to admit, gents, that we do know quite a lot, when it comes to it. We know, for example, that this is all in some way connected with events that occurred in Brittany in the summer of 2002 . . .’

  ‘We know?’ queried Astor Nilsso
n.

  ‘OK,’ said Backman. ‘Perhaps know isn’t quite the right word, but we’re pretty convinced that’s the case, at any rate. We’ve found a single factor that links all four victims, and that’s the fact that they were all in the same place for a number of weeks – we don’t know exactly how long – that summer. Do you two think we should doubt whether we’re on the right track?’

  ‘I’ve tried to doubt it,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘All night long. But it’s hard to believe that we’re not onto something here. Though there’s also the fact of it being the only thing we’ve got.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Backman.

  Astor Nilsson wagged a pedagogical finger.

  ‘We’ve found just one link. A single one. Of course we damn well take that as our starting point. All I’m saying is that if there were other links, it would be a different matter.’

  ‘Of course,’ Barbarotti agreed from the back seat. ‘But if there are other connections, presumably they ought to come to light? In the course of our investigations.’

  ‘They should have done that already,’ said Backman. ‘At any rate, I reckon we can consider the France solution credible for now, unless anything crops up to argue against it. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Let’s assume Brittany 2002. But what the hell happened there?’

  They all fell silent for a few seconds.

  ‘We still don’t know exactly where, either?’ Backman said eventually, turning her head to the back seat. ‘We’ve found various maps and brochures at the Malmgrens’ and we think they were staying somewhere on the south coast, in Finistère. But they could have travelled round a fair bit, and . . . well, it’s not clear, as I say.’

  ‘And the others?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘We haven’t found anything very useful at the others’ places, but we’re busy looking into travel agents and so on. Unfortunately, five years is plenty of time for things to disappear.’

  ‘My hair disappeared in three,’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘The photographs,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Yes,’ said Backman. ‘To be honest, they’re the only evidence we’ve got. Something occurred to me last night. What do you think about the time aspect? The pictures were taken over a period of time, but how long was it?’

  ‘What?’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘Well, what I mean is,’ said Backman, ‘could this be a case of a single day, that is . . . well, could it be that they only met up for the one day?’

  Barbarotti considered this as he extracted the photos from his briefcase. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think it must have been at least two different days. They change clothes and so on. Could even have been three. But I get why you’re bringing it up.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘Did they just find themselves together on one particular day, or did they socialize over a slightly longer period? It’s pretty clear they didn’t know each other beforehand, isn’t it? We haven’t got anything to point to it, at any rate.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Backman. ‘Their meeting up wasn’t planned. But something must have happened, or at any event, that’s what we can surmise. In the course of those days, something happened that . . . well, that led to all five of them losing their lives five years later. Assuming Dead Man Gunnar really is dead.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Astor Nilsson, and yawned. ‘I concluded that’s what we’re assuming, as well. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s also why we’re in this car on our way to Hallsberg.’

  They lapsed into silence again. Barbarotti subjected the photos to another round of scrutiny.

  ‘The Sixth Man?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘What is?’ asked Barbarotti.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Eva Backman. ‘What I mean is, I think he’s our man.’

  Barbarotti scratched the back of his neck, looking out of the car window as they passed a group of brown and white cows. ‘What do you mean when you say that’s just it?’ he asked Astor Nilsson.

  Astor Nilsson let go of the steering wheel for an instant and threw his hands wide in frustration. ‘Only that it’s so bloody obvious,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like things that are too obvious. But yes, I agree it must be him. Shame he looks like everybody else.’

  Barbarotti nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. And he’s a bit out of focus, as well. Plus it was five years ago. Has a decision been made on what we’re going to do with this?’

  ‘Jonnerblad’s in two minds,’ said Backman. ‘Sylvenius and Asunander, too. Things have a way of going wrong whenever we start publishing photos of suspected murderers.’

  ‘There’s no need to say anything about a murderer,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘Oh?’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘They can say the police urgently want to make contact with the man in the photograph. Or with anyone who can provide any information about him.’

  Astor Nilsson grunted. ‘But they’re bound to say in the paper that he’s the murderer anyway, you know that. Or to leave the reader in little doubt, at least. I thought you’d learnt a thing or two about the workings of the newspaper world?’

  Barbarotti sighed and stuffed the pictures back in his briefcase. ‘So what the hell are we going to do then?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll publish them all right,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘We’ve just got to let a couple of days go by, so those gentlemen can give their reservations a decent airing.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And yes, I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Unless anything unforeseen crops up to solve the case before then,’ said Backman. ‘In the metropolis of Hallsberg, for example.’

  ‘For example,’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘So, Hans Andersson, then?’ asked Gunnar Barbarotti after another short pause. ‘I assume you’ve discussed the possibility of that being his name?’

  ‘The man in the photo or the murderer?’ said Backman with a quick smile.

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Astor Nilsson.

  ‘There you go again,’ said Backman.

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘But that is just it. If there’s one thing that gets on my nerves more than anything else in this saga, it’s fucking Hans Andersson. If there were any kind of logic to all this mess, he ought by rights to be dead. Whoever he is. And if in fact . . .’

  He stopped short.

  ‘You mean you’re hoping for another body?’ said Eva Backman, passing round the Lakeröl pastilles. ‘Don’t you think we’ve enough of them as it is?’

  ‘No,’ said Astor Nilsson, tossing four pastilles into his mouth. ‘You interrupted me. What I was going to say was that if . . . if the Sixth Man turns out to be called Hans Andersson, say, then presumably he and the murderer aren’t one and the same. In that case we haven’t got the perpetrator in the frame at all, and this sixth guy is just some poor Hansie who happened to be . . . on the margins, and because he was only on the margins, and what’s more, can’t identify the murderer, he emerged unscathed.’

  Barbarotti and Backman mulled this over for a while.

  ‘In that case,’ said Backman, ‘In that case it would be bloody interesting to get in touch with him.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘But I don’t think the guy in the picture is called Hans Andersson.

  ‘Why not?’ said Eva Backman.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘If we were playing Cluedo, or whatever the damn thing’s called, he’d be bound to be called Hans Andersson, but as far as I know we’re not playing Cluedo.’

  ‘We’re in agreement there,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’ve also reached the conclusion that it’s not Cluedo we’re playing here.’

  They were somewhere near Götene when it started to rain. And Inspector Backman’s mobile rang. She answered it, said ‘Yes’ five times, ‘No’ twice, and then rang off.

  ‘The Örebro police,’ she said. ‘T
hey’ll be in place at eleven. An inspector called Ström and two forensic technicians.’

  ‘Good,’ said Astor Nilsson. ‘So all we need is a dead body and it’ll all go swimmingly to plan.’

  ‘How much do we know about this Gunnar Öhrnberg’s movements?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘He’s been off the radar for a while, I gather?’

  ‘Ten days,’ Backman confirmed. ‘Though nobody realized until Monday, when the teachers were due back to prepare for the start of term. And I don’t suppose anybody thought he was missing then, either, but when we called and they started checking round, it turned out nobody’d seen him since the Tuesday of the previous week . . . so yes, that makes it ten days today, in fact.’

  ‘And he’s single?’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to be gone for a week without being missed if you’re married,’ said Astor Nilsson with a wry smile in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yeah, presumably,’ admitted Barbarotti. ‘Who have you talked to?’

  ‘Only one person, in actual fact,’ said Backman. ‘But she seems pretty competent. Director of Studies at the school. She mounted her own little investigation when she saw the way the wind was blowing, and I think we can depend on her.’

  ‘No other links between Öhrnberg and the other victims? Apart from Brittany, that is?’

  ‘No,’ said Backman. ‘But he was an item with Anna Eriksson, remember. They were together for most of 2002, if our witnesses are to be believed. Not much of a relationship apparently, according to several of them. Gunnar could be quite domineering, they never moved in together and no one was particularly surprised when it ended. But we have to bear in mind that these were all accounts from Anna’s friends and acquaintances.’