The Root of Evil

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Nor me,’ said Barbarotti. ‘You get to a point where enough’s enough.’

  After his chat with Astor Nilsson, Gunnar Barbarotti went to the window and stared out. That was what the clever cops in the books always did. They looked out between the strips of their Venetian blinds onto a rainy grey Paris or a vermilion-coated sky that presaged snow in Gothenburg. Allowed the external space (the city, where the crime played out) to correspond to the internal (the cop’s brain) in some sublime literary fashion. Barbarotti’s problem was that four fifths of his view was taken up by the side of Lundholm & Sons’ defunct shoe factory. It had stood empty and disused for over twenty years, all the windows were broken and he just wished the decision-makers of the town would make their minds up to pull down what was left of it. Preferably replacing it with a park or some kind of low-growing development, so he finally had a bit of a view.

  Though if he went right up to the window and looked sideways, up and to the left, he could actually see the top of a tree and a patch of sky. But Backman was right when she said his balcony was a much better place for analysis and reflection. A damn sight better.

  On the other hand, open views probably weren’t the right inspiration for comprehending Henrik Malmgren. More the opposite: the ability to penetrate a very cramped space, stunted, a sort of inverted universe. Why not a well, even, like the one Ulrika Hearst had told them about? But of course, thought Barbarotti, if you’d constructed your world view out of so few building blocks, you really wanted them all to be in their proper places. If a block the size of a brother or a wife suddenly vanished, there was obviously a serious risk the whole thing would come crashing down.

  Could he be understood in those terms? Astor Nilsson had said he was quite a big name in philosophy circles. Great philosophers normally reached the height of their reputation after fifty – or indeed, once they were dead – but Henrik Malmgren had been a precocious star. Especially in the fields of multivalent logic and deductive mathematico-logical systems. On the subject of his human qualities there had not been much to say, Astor Nilsson reported from his interviews. Some slightly awkward silences had ensued.

  But the very idea of fabricating a story like that? A drowned girl and her grandmother? And the girl’s name? The Root of All Evil.

  And describing himself through the eyes of his fictitious murderer. Was that where he had given himself away, wondered Barbarotti. Was that where Asunander had sensed something wasn’t right? He didn’t know. Barbarotti himself had suspected nothing. Asunander said it only struck him something was wrong on his third or fourth reading of the Mousterlin document. That was when he detected his crucial detail. Perhaps he’d say a bit more on the subject if they had another whisky session – or perhaps he really did intend keeping it to himself. Asunander was a tricky devil, and maybe he was just the kind of person you needed when trying to understand other tricky devils. Like Henrik Malmgren.

  The previous evening, another remarkable thing had happened. When Barbarotti popped out to the local shop, he bumped into Axel Wallman, who had business in town, unusually for him. He had clearly read Henrik Malmgren’s name in some newspaper – in his capacity as victim, not perpetrator; he stopped Barbarotti and told him about it. ‘You lot ought to fish that dead philosopher out of the sea,’ he said. ‘He’s the type who needs a stake through the heart before he’s really dead.’

  When Barbarotti – without revealing the latest developments in the case – had asked what he meant by that, Wallman had thrown up his hands and related how he had once taken part in a seminar with Malmgren, who had shown what rotten stuff he was made of.

  But even when the full story had emerged, he never made the point of having been right about Malmgren coming from Halland; Barbarotti remembered that one for himself.

  There was a knock at his door. He turned his eyes from Lundholm & Sons’ shoe factory, and that was the end of his analysis.

  ‘Jonnerblad’s bought in a couple of smorgåstårta,’ Backman informed him. ‘It seems there’s going to be some kind of wake for the case.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ said Barbarotti.

  But the real summing-up didn’t take place at the party.

  No, it was achieved in an exchange between himself and Eva Backman just before they went home for the day. That was the way things usually happened.

  ‘So what have we learnt from all this, then?’

  She had been sitting in his visitor armchair, ruminating for quite a while before she said it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barbarotti without looking up from his paperwork. ‘But I assume you’ve got the answer, since you’re asking. So you tell me, what have we learnt?’

  ‘Well if that’s the tone you’re going to adopt, I almost feel like not telling you anything,’ said Backman. ‘But OK, you look as if you might be a teensy bit receptive after all.’

  Barbarotti looked at her. ‘You know I never forget a word you say,’ he said. ‘And I record your wisest pronouncements in a notebook I bought specially for the purpose.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Well, the way I see it, even if ten cops slave away for a hundred days and interview a thousand people, it doesn’t always help.’

  ‘Great introduction,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘I know, don’t interrupt. So when we’re trying to hunt down a solitary perverted brain, it could very well be more important for us to have a brain on our side that works the same way. That has what it takes to understand the killer. If Asunander hadn’t spent a day thinking instead of coming to work, we wouldn’t have solved this.’

  That’s exactly what I was thinking an hour ago, Barbarotti silently noted to himself. ‘You mean we need Asunander because he has a perverted brain?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what Silence of the Lambs was about? I shall ask Asunander next time we’re on the whisky whether his first name happens to be Hannibal.’

  ‘It’s Leif,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I checked. No, what I mean is that there are cases that demand a different kind of input, not just broad detection work.’

  ‘Philosophizing as you sit on a balcony at sunset?’ suggested Barbarotti, and he was struck by how much chatter there was in his head about his balcony at the moment.

  ‘If I’d had your balcony, I’d have solved this case in three days,’ said Backman.

  ‘Well I won’t have it very much longer,’ said Barbarotti.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘I . . . I think I’m expecting additions to the family.’

  At first, Eva Backman looked totally nonplussed. Then she gave a crooked smile and heaved herself up out of the armchair. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But my little flat’s going to be too small however it works out.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Backman. ‘You’ll have to tell me more about your life in three weeks’ time. I’m off on holiday now. Though I might just drop by briefly for a look at Malmgren.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And have a lovely time. But what am I supposed to put in my notebook on this occasion?’

  ‘Never trust a writer,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.’

  42

  He emerged from Dr Oltmann’s surgery at just after five on Friday afternoon. They had been talking for almost three hours, though the consultation was only supposed to last forty-five minutes. No follow-up appointment had been booked, but she promised Barbarotti he could ring her any time, if the need arose. As he thanked her it was on the tip of his tongue to say he would have liked to be married to a woman like her, but he resisted saying it. Maybe, he thought, maybe Marianne is a woman like that.

  And he didn’t think the need would arise. Something’s happened to me these past few weeks, thought Gunnar Barbarotti as he passed the coffee shop in Skolgatan and didn’t go in.

  He wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but definitely something.

  The fact that they’d solved th
e case was a factor, of course. The brothers Malmgren were due to arrive at Kastrup airport on Tuesday; according to Crumley, assorted confessions had been made, so presumably the rest was a matter for the prosecutor, lawyers and legal psychiatrists – but that deranged philosopher had set some kind of mechanism in motion in him, too, hadn’t he?

  Some kind of correspondence that wasn’t at all easy to put into words, but he could sense it and weigh it. Perhaps it was mere mental froth, but he should probably try to define it better.

  Well, the fact that one couldn’t perceive life the way Henrik Malmgren had done, perhaps that simple observation got to the heart of it. If life was a game, and presumably it was – at least some aspects of it – then human beings had to accept the role of humble pieces on the board, not leaders of the game. Which wasn’t to say they had to give in to other pieces, or accept rules, decrees and acts of folly that curtailed their own existence.

  The old AA prayer, in other words. They had discussed these things, he and Olltman, not in exactly the terms that went waltzing round in his head afterwards, but still; this was what it was all about. Freedom and responsibility, those worn old cornerstones. The ‘I’, its surroundings, its neighbours, its presence; above all the last of these, the being present in every moment, or at least as much as one possibly could; he had often been neglectful of that. He went into the little ICA supermarket in Frejagatan and prayed a swift prayer of existence.

  O Lord, thank you for an instructive summer. If you keep me in decent shape and let things go without a hitch – you know what I’m talking about – you’ll have your three points all sewn up. What’s more, you’ve actually existed for eleven months at a stretch now, which is a record and bloody good going, bearing in mind all the circumstances, internal and external. Fresh pasta, with olives, capers and parmesan cheese will have to do on a day like today, don’t you think? It’s a heavenly combination, but maybe I don’t need to tell you that?

  Our Lord made no reply, except for a low and inarticulate murmur emitted by a slightly dodgy freezer cabinet – but it sounded friendly and reassuring, and as Inspector Barbarotti started to fill his basket he couldn’t help feeling a certain degree of confidence.

  He was just in the middle of his pasta when Sara rang.

  She didn’t even ask him to ring back, but simply burst into tears.

  ‘What on earth is wrong, Sara?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  She sobbed for a while and he repeated his question in a variety of different ways, several times. My God, he thought. She must be pregnant. At the very least. She’s got AIDS, I knew it. She’s dying.

  ‘I want to come home, Dad,’ she said when she was finally able to produce words rather than sobs.

  ‘Of course,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘You do that. Catch a plane first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you let me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you let me come and live with you again?’

  ‘Are you crazy, Sara? Of course you can come home. I’d like nothing better.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But what’s the matter, my darling girl? You’ve got to tell me. Are you ill?’

  She gave a laugh. A feeble little laugh. ‘No Dad, I’m not ill. And I’m not pregnant either, which I expect was your next question. But I don’t want to stay here any longer. Can we leave the explanations until I see you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Do you want me to check flight times for you, and so on? Have you got enough money for your ticket?’

  ‘I’ll sort it out myself. And I think I’ve got enough money. Can I borrow some from you if I haven’t?’

  ‘Any time,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’ve still got sixty kronor in my account. You start packing, and ring me again when you know what time you’ll be here.’

  ‘Thanks Dad,’ said Sara. ‘I’m sorry it turned out like this. I didn’t mean it to.’

  ‘Never mind, it doesn’t matter,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Shit happens. Err . . . there are going to be a few changes here at home, too, by the way, but I’ll explain when I see you.’

  ‘Changes?’ said Sara. ‘What sort of changes?’

  Gunnar Barbarotti thought for a moment. About how much mobile phone calls from abroad cost, amongst other things.

  ‘No, we’ll do it face to face. Same as yours.’

  There was a brief silence at Sara’s end, then she accepted the situation, and they rang off.

  He polished off his pasta as he thought everything over. And counted.

  He made it seven. There would be seven of them. Marianne and her two children, he and his three.

  Seven? Christ.

  He cleared away, washed up, then took the newspaper out onto the balcony with him and sat down. It being Friday, there was a property supplement. He started leafing through it.

  Seven? If they all gathered on this balcony, they’d have one and a half square metres each. It wasn’t much, and would probably bring the whole balcony crashing down, anyway.

  A house, he thought. A house is what we’re going to need.

  With quite a lot of rooms.

  About fifteen seconds later, he found it. An old detached house, a former summer villa, out on the point at Kymmens Udde. Ten rooms plus kitchen, it said. In need of renovation. Large garden and private jetty. Only a million and a half.

  A snip. And a use for his sixty kronor.

  He rang the number, spoke to a friendly old man for ten minutes and was invited to a viewing on Sunday at 1 p.m.

  He had just moved indoors to the computer on the desk to see his future in pictures, when Marianne rang.

  She sounded cheerful.

  Basically she almost always did, but there was something extra this time.

  ‘You know what?’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve been getting on with things.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. She’s found that little vicar, he thought. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I had a chat with Kymlinge hospital. They can offer me a permanent post there from the first of November. What do you say to that?’

  ‘The first of November?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew it all along,’ said Barbarotti. ‘No one can resist you.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ said Marianne. ‘And Johan and Jenny are still fine with moving, so what I’m really ringing to say is that it’s decision time for us.’

  ‘I thought we’d already decided,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Though we’re going to need a slightly bigger place than we talked about.’

  ‘Bigger? Why’s that?’

  ‘Hrrm,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Stuff’s been happening on the children front. It seems . . . well, it actually seems as if I’m going to have all three of them with me.’

  ‘What?’ said Marianne.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti, feeling a sudden shortness of breath. Or perhaps it was more like a kind of inhibiting viscous membrane that refused to let through the words that had to be spoken. ‘That’s how it’s turned out,’ he said with some effort. ‘Lars and Martin will be here tomorrow, in fact, and Sara just called from London to say she was on her way home, so . . . well, including yours too, that actually makes seven of us.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Seven, yes. But I’m going to look at a house on Sunday and . . .’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. He raised his eyes and saw a gaggle of jackdaws land in one of the elms outside Cathedral School.

  This is it, thought Inspector Barbarotti. Right now. The churchyard, the cows, the field of rape, the forest. In three seconds’ time I shall know.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Håkan Nesser is one of Sweden’s most popular crime writers, receiving numerous awards for his novels featuring Inspector Van Veeteren, including the European Crime Fiction Star Award (Ripper Award) 2010/11, the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Prize (three times) and Scandinavia’s Glass Key Award. His books have been
published in over twenty-five countries and have sold over fifteen million copies worldwide. Håkan Nesser lives in Gotland with his wife, and spends part of each year in the UK.

  Also by Håkan Nesser

  THE LIVING AND THE DEAD IN WINSFORD

  The Barbarotti Series

  THE DARKEST DAY

  THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL

  The Van Veeteren series

  THE MIND’S EYE

  BORKMANN’S POINT

  THE RETURN

  WOMAN WITH A BIRTHMARK

  THE INSPECTOR AND SILENCE

  THE UNLUCKY LOTTERY

  HOUR OF THE WOLF

  THE WEEPING GIRL

  THE STRANGLER’S HONEYMOON

  THE G FILE

  First published 2018 by Mantle

  This electronic edition published 2018 by Mantle

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-0940-0

  Copyright © Håkan Nesser 2007

  English translation copyright © Sarah Death 2018

  Photographs: Silas Manhood Photography Ltd/Arcangel;

  Cover design: Ami Smithson, Pan Macmillan art department

  The right of Håkan Nesser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Originally published in 2007 as En helt annan historia by Albert Bonniers förlag, Stockholm.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.