“You clearly have willpower,” said Ulf. “You’re fortunate.”
“It’s a nasty drug this stuff,” said Nils, lighting his cigarette. “Its grip is as bad as heroin’s, I think. It can nail you down for life.”
“Unless you’re strong,” said Ulf. “And you obviously are.”
“No more than the next man,” Nils said. “Maybe even less. But this time, I’m going to do it. I’ll be free.”
Ulf looked about him. There was a selection of harnesses hanging on the walls of the barn, a horse blanket, too. “I didn’t see any horses when I came in,” he said.
Nils pointed vaguely in the direction of the fields. “They’re being ridden at the moment. Our neighbours over that way have teenage kids who love taking them out. It suits us—the horses get a good workout.”
Ulf asked whether Nils was responsible for the horses while his wife looked after the cats.
“More or less,” replied Nils. “But she likes the horses too, and I’m very fond of the cats. Very different creatures, of course, but that’s nature for you.” He paused. “You know something, Mr….”
“Varg.”
“Yes, you know something Mr. Varg: I can’t believe how anybody can mistreat an animal. I just can’t understand it. It’s beyond me.”
Ulf looked at him. There was no doubt in his mind that this was an entirely heartfelt comment. He studied the face. Gentleness: this man was gentle.
“No,” agreed Ulf. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I remember once when I was doing a spell in the uniformed branch we had an animal cruelty case. There was a man who had, believe it or not, a camel. He kept this camel in a shed quite a bit smaller than this one. It was filthy, and the animal had all sorts of sores on its legs. It was a horrible sight.”
“What was he doing with a camel?” asked Nils.
“Heaven knows,” said Ulf.
Nils shook his head in mock disbelief. “Extraordinary. In the middle of Sweden. A camel.”
“Mind you,” Ulf continued. “You say that you can’t believe how people can treat animals badly—what about the way some people treat other people?”
“Yes,” mused Nils. “That too. But this particular case—this business with our poor cat. Imagine putting a strange tom into somebody else’s cat carrier. All hell could have broken out. We could have lost our cat.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Ulf. “But let’s just imagine that for a moment. We’ve had a few names from your wife. She’s given us a few possibilities.”
Nils sighed. “Ström? Yes? And Linda Pahl?” He sighed again. “Ström, I can believe. He’s a tricky customer—really sensitive to insult, or what he sees as insult. But Linda…She’s a gentle soul. Linda would never do something like that.”
Ulf kept his voice even. “You know her well?”
Nils hesitated, but only very briefly. “You could say that. We were together, actually—a long time ago. That was before Julia.”
“And it came to an end?”
Nils looked sideways at Ulf, as if in reproach. “Of course. It was well and truly over by the time I met Julia.”
Ulf was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were seeing them both at the same time.”
Nils made it clear that he was not offended. “Of course not. No, Linda and I drifted apart. She went off to America for six months—her job took her there—and after that it didn’t seem quite the same. We’d moved on, as they say. We’re still friends, of course. I see her from time to time. She sometimes asks me to do things about her place—I’m keen on carpentry, you see, and I like fixing things, as you might notice.” He gestured to a workbench and an array of tools hanging neatly along the wall. “She knows I don’t mind helping her out on that place of hers. It’s just down the road. She’s got eighteen hectares—inherited from her grandmother. She lets out a field or two to a dairy farmer but she’s kept all the buildings. She has a pottery; she runs classes and lets people use the kilns. I fixed up drying shelves for her—that sort of thing.” He paused before continuing, “I’m going to spend the day round there tomorrow, in fact. I’m making her a new feed bin for her ducks.”
As Ulf listened, a likely hypothesis began to emerge. Linda was the former girlfriend who still hankered after Nils; Julia sensed this—as any woman in her position would do. Nils was a kind, thoughtful man—just the sort that any woman would love to possess. But such kindness can be problematic when you find it hard to say no to the demands of others, as Ulf suspected was the case with Nils. Generosity with one’s time and an ability to perform do-it-yourself tasks could be a very demanding combination.
Julia had said that Linda hated her. Yes, thought Ulf, that was perfectly possible: envy, as the Freudians made clear, was a powerful force in human affairs. Linda was envious and would, subconsciously at least, want to get rid of Julia. But there was not much she could do—short of actually killing her, which of course she would not entertain. This was not homicide territory; this was the realm of sensitive crimes. And it was the perfect setting for a targeted act of spite: Linda was his suspect—there was no doubt about that.
They talked briefly about Oscar Ström, but nothing was said that changed Ulf’s view that he was an unlikely suspect.
“Is he an imaginative man?” asked Ulf.
Nils frowned. “I’ve never given that much thought, but now that you ask, no. In fact, I’d say the opposite. He’s a bit stupid. Not much up there.” He tapped the side of his head.
“Dim?” asked Ulf.
Nils grinned. “Yes. I know we’re not meant to comment on anybody’s dimness these days, people being so sensitive. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dim—dim and sensitive at the same time.”
“Ah.”
“He manages about twenty watts most of the time,” Nils continued. “But he’s certainly no forty-watt bulb.” He looked at Ulf as if expecting censure. It was an offence, now, to give offence. But Ulf just rolled his eyes.
“Are you saying that it wouldn’t occur to him to put a strange tomcat into your wife’s cat carrier?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying,” replied Nils.
After his conversation with Nils, Ulf rejoined Anna and Julia in the house. Anna was ready to leave, and they said their farewells to Julia. In the car on the way back into town, Ulf said, “You know what? My money’s on Linda Pahl.”
He told Anna about his conversation with Nils. He explained how Nils came across as a kind, sensitive man—exactly the sort who would be regretted by a former girlfriend. Anna listened and said that she was inclined to agree. “We need to speak to her,” she said. “Perhaps we can get her to confess.”
“That’s always simpler,” said Ulf. “Except I don’t think that she will. I have a feeling about this Pahl woman. I think she’ll be highly devious.”
“I think so too,” said Anna.
They drove on in silence.
“I can drop you off at your place,” said Ulf. “It’s too late to go back to the office. Then I’ll collect Martin from Mrs. Hogfors.”
“Thank you,” said Anna. “I have to take the girls to their swimming practice. There’s a gala coming up and they’re doing a lot of training.”
Ulf said nothing. If Linda was envious, and hankered after what could not be, then that was his own situation too. He wished he had Anna in his life. He wished that the girls were his. He wished that he was going with her to swimming practice, with all the echoing shouts, and splashes, and smell of chlorine. But none of this was possible, and the sooner he came to an acceptance of that inescapable reality, the better. We know what’s in our best interests, Ulf thought, but how often are we in a position to act accordingly with conviction and enthusiasm, rather than with reluctance and resignation?
* * *
—
“Martin has had a difficult day,” M
rs. Hogfors said when Ulf called on her.
Ulf looked down at the dog at his feet. Martin had his issues, of which his deafness was perhaps the most serious. But there was also his tendency to depression, which made him listless and morose. When he was like that it was hard to persuade him to take a walk let alone to run after the rubber ball that he normally loved to pursue.
“Is he down in the dumps again?” asked Ulf, reaching down to pat Martin on the head.
Mrs. Hogfors frowned. “It’s been a bit different today. At times he’s been quite himself. He ran after his ball in the park this morning—there was no trouble with that. But then, on the way back, he seemed anxious. He stopped several times—you know how he just sits down and nothing will shift him—well, he did that twice. And he kept looking over his shoulder. It was as if he thought there was somebody following him.”
Ulf sighed. “He may need more psychotherapy,” he said. “I was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary.”
“We should watch him,” Mrs. Hogfors said. “Let’s not do anything just yet. He often just picks up spontaneously.”
“You’re very good for him, Mrs. Hogfors,” said Ulf. “I don’t know where we’d be without you.” He knew that this was what she wanted to hear—as a widow she felt that uncertainty as to social role that widows often complained of. Ulf thought this unnecessary—but understood, and his compliment was sincere: Martin loved Mrs. Hogfors and his affection was reciprocated. If it were not for Mrs. Hogfors, Martin’s life would have been a diminished one. As would my life be, thought Ulf, if it did not have Martin in it.
That thought occurred to him later when, back in his apartment, he prepared his dinner of gnocchi and tomato sauce. Ulf was a competent cook—some said a stylish one—and the gnocchi was homemade, as was the sauce. He had a taste for garlic, and the tomatoes were heavily laced with the succulent crushed bulbs he bought from the delicatessen at the end of his street. Martin liked garlic too—it was something to do with the powerful smell—and always sat at his feet when Ulf prepared it. He would get the skins from the garlic crusher, catching them mid-air when they were tossed in his direction.
Now Ulf thought: What is my life about? What have I actually got? I have Martin, and the apartment, and my Saab. I have my job—which many would give their eyeteeth for—and I have my collection of books on Scandinavian art, and…He was not sure how the list might continue, or whether it might mutate into a list of what he did not have. He had nobody to come home to. He had nobody with whom to share the ordinary, inconsequential gossip of the working day. He had nobody who would worry about him if he suddenly developed a disturbing ache or scraped his knee or just felt sad and dejected. He had no siblings, other than Bjorn, whose Moderate Extremism distanced him from him; he had no cousins to whom he was at all close, and those whom he did have lived some distance away and took little interest in him. One sent him a Christmas card each year, in which she said We must meet some time this year, but they never did. Another had married a carpenter in Visby with a very extensive port-wine birthmark on his face and who shunned company as a result. Ulf wanted to get to know him—to show that the birthmark meant nothing to him—but had failed in this. “I’m sorry,” his cousin had said. “There’s no possibility. I’m so sorry.”
He thought of these things, but not for long. Ulf had always found self-pity unattractive, and he was determined not to fall victim to it. It was true that there were drawbacks to his life, but there were high points to it too, and by nature he was more inclined to the positive than the negative. So that evening he made a deliberate effort to be cheerful. He would eat his gnocchi, take Martin for a brief walk round the block, and then return to watch an hour or two of lighthearted television before retiring to bed.
After returning from his walk with Martin, he kicked off his shoes, donned his English, red leather slippers, and turned on the television. Bergman.
He quickly turned it off. And it was at that point, just as he sat wondering what to do next, that Kitty Varg telephoned.
“I need to speak to you, Ulf,” she said.
“Of course,” said Ulf. “Any time.”
“Now?”
Ulf hesitated. But there was no reason to put it off. He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Yes. Could we meet at that place we met last time? Remember?”
Ulf remembered. “There was an accordion player. And a violinist. Serbs, I think.”
“Yes. That gypsy music. Lovely.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Ulf hesitated, but then he asked, “Is everything all right?”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. That answered his question, and so he went on, “It’s not, is it? Everything’s not all right.”
“No.”
“Well,” said Ulf. “We can talk later on in the café.”
There was relief in Kitty’s voice. “Ulf, you’re so kind. You really are.”
She rang off. Ulf sighed. He looked down at Martin, who was dozing at his feet. Was it easier to be Martin, or to be himself, Ulf Varg? Perhaps that was a question that could not be answered because we would never know what it was like to be a dog. It was different, certainly, but just how different, and if we did not know the degree of difference, then there was no point in further speculation. And yet, and yet…as Ulf looked at Martin, he found himself wondering: If dogs have thoughts—and they must, surely—then how are these thoughts articulated? Through vague emotional states—excitement, anticipation and so on? Or in the shape of images and smells recovered from memory? Somewhere, in the recesses of the canine brain, do dog-related images flicker, inchoate, silent, brooding; replays of things that dogs have done—enacted in black and white, like scenes in a Bergman film?
Chapter Six
Meeting Kitty
Kitty Varg was glamorous—an asset, the press said, to any political leader, even if she was rarely seen at any Moderate Extremist fund-raising function, or at any of those official receptions at which the ruling coalition partners served government-funded canapés to the lesser parties. People said that Kitty was above all that, and admired her—and Bjorn—for keeping their marriage out of the public eye. This meant that the more Kitty tried to distance herself from the party, the more closely she became associated with it in the mind of the electorate, and the better the party did as a result. “She’s that remarkably modest woman,” one columnist wrote. “She’s the one who doesn’t try to get herself into the newspapers all the time. Good for her, and well done, Moderate Extremists, for not trying to cash in on glamour!” That is what was said—much to Kitty’s chagrin.
Ulf joined her in the café, conscious that several sets of eyes were on him as he made his way to her table.
“I rather wish we hadn’t met in public,” he said, as he sat down. “It’s difficult being in my position, you know. I’m meant to keep away from politics.”
“I’m not a politician,” muttered Kitty, looking about the café angrily. “I’m a private citizen—and your sister-in-law. If a detective can’t meet his own sister-in-law in a café, then what have we come to?”
Ulf realised from the irritation in Kitty’s voice that he had sounded churlish. He immediately apologised. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s nobody else’s business.”
“We could go for a walk,” said Kitty. “Maybe that would be better. We wouldn’t feel that we were being listened to.”
She raised her voice as she spoke, and a couple seated at the neighbouring table stiffened, and turned away. They knew who Kitty Varg was, and had been eavesdropping.
Kitty indicated to the waiter that there had been a change of mind. Gathering her things, she led the way out of the café and on to the street outside—a street of small shops, most of which were now closed for the night. It being full summer, though, there was still plenty of light about, and the streetlights were not yet ill
uminated.
They strolled slowly up the street, pausing to look in shopwindows as they talked.
Kitty came straight to the point. “I’m fed up with politics, Ulf,” she said. “I don’t know if I can continue to be what I am.”
“Which is?”
“The wife of the leader of the Moderate Extremists. Mrs. Bjorn Varg, in other words.”
Ulf nodded. “Plenty of women can’t stomach being seen as mere adjuncts to their partners. I understand how you feel.”
Kitty gave him a searching look. “Do you?” she asked. “Do you know what it’s like?”
Ulf shrugged. “It’s perfectly possible to imagine what it’s like to be somebody else. People say you can’t—they say that each person’s experience is unique to them and can’t be understood by others. But I think that’s nonsense.”
Kitty thought about this. “Assumption of voice? That sort of thing?”
“Yes,” said Ulf. “There are people who say I’ll never know what it’s like to be a woman. They say I can’t say anything—anything—about how that feels.”
“And you think you can?”
“Yes, I do. Just as I think you probably have a good enough idea of what it’s like to be me.”
Kitty smiled. “I’ve often thought of what it’s like to be a man. It doesn’t involve an impossible feat of imagination.” She paused. “I think it’s fundamentally different, of course.”
“Is it?” asked Ulf.
“Yes. You men are somehow pointed at the world, if you see what I mean. You face the world in a very different way from the way in which we women do. You want to do things to the world…I’m sorry, Ulf, if this offends you.”
He was quick to reassure her that it did not. He did not, however, want to do things to the world—he never had. And was he pointed at the world? What did Kitty mean by that? Was this a phallic reference—and, if so, how should he react to it?
“Anyway,” Kitty continued. “Anyway, I didn’t ask to see you so that we could talk about gender roles. I wanted to talk about my marriage, Ulf.”
The Strange Case of the Moderate Extremists Page 5