Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  Sofia’s death puts a gloomy damper on schoolwork in the final weeks before the summer holidays. More than half of the pupils in the school are present at the girl’s funeral in the beautiful church in H–, and at an extra meeting the day after the burial the school administration and all the teachers gather to solemnize the girl’s memory. At this meeting it is also announced that Sofia will receive her final grades, even though she is no longer present among the living.

  The decision has been made by the school administration in consultation with the department chairs, and no open criticism of the directive is voiced. The girl has spent nine long years working towards them after all, before she was torn away so tragically. No decisive tests remain; it seems as if there might be a certain logic in all this.

  When S comes home to his rented room on the Friday of that week, he feels inexpressibly sad. Normally he travels down to the university town and his girlfriend at the end of the week, but he has decided to spend this weekend in H–. He needs a couple of days of peace and quiet to finish the grading; everything must be entered in the proper forms the following Tuesday, and because S has never before found himself in a similar assessment situation, he wants to be extra careful and have plenty of time available.

  But this thing with Sofia weighs on him. Now, as he sits in solitude on Friday evening, he has a hard time finding the point of having to assign a grade to her. What will a dead girl do with grades? he asks himself. What’s the use?

  And according to what criteria should he assign them? The principal has made it clear that Sofia should receive exactly those grades she would have got if the accident had not occurred; the customary pale-brown envelope with the school seal – two stylized swans in flight over a lake – will be sent to her parents on the last day of school. The viewpoint that it might be nice for her father and her mother to think that she nonetheless managed to finish school has been expressed.

  It has also been pointed out that it is even more important to be fair, because this concerns a dead pupil. A dead pupil has no possibility to speak on her own behalf, the grade will stay as it is, unchallenged for all time.

  Little by little, S manages to push aside these feelings of dejection and frustration. He decides to be done with all the other pupils first, and leave Sofia until last. Thus it is not until late on Saturday evening that he starts going through the dead girl’s results and performance.

  For English this is relatively simple. Sofia has been among the two or three best in the group on every test and quiz, and her oral performance has also been top-notch. For the autumn term she had an A, and it is with good conscience that S can enter the same letter as the final mark for ninth grade.

  For Swedish it is more doubtful. When she left eighth grade, Sofia admittedly had an A in this subject too, but it went down during the autumn term of ninth grade to a B. During the spring she has struggled to regain her A; it has truly gone back and forth. Even without these tragic circumstances, S would have had a hard time making the right assessment, he knows that. On the so-called standard test in February Sofia reached 91 points – one below the limit for an A; two essays have been written, which S rewarded with a B and an A; and on the grammar test in April the girl had 62.5 points out of 68, a strong B or a weak A, the threshold for the higher grade being exactly 63.

  S checks all these numbers one more time and reminds himself that the old, irascible teacher with leaking kidneys, when they met in the days before Christmas, informed him that Sofia was a pupil who was right at the boundary between B and A – and that she chose the lower grade because it was the autumn term and that it possibly might inspire the girl to really put her back into it during the spring.

  I’ll give her an A, thought S, raising the pen to enter the mark in his grade book. But then it was as if something – perhaps his sense of justice – took hold of his arm, and he stopped himself. There was another girl in the class who found herself in the exact same situation as Sofia – and he had just given her a B. Should Sofia be favoured simply because she was dead?

  Shouldn’t he rather give the other girl, whose name was Elinor, the higher grade? She at least had turned in her final project in literature (about the author C. S. Lewis, weak A or perhaps a strong B; he had deliberately, following the advice of an old and experienced colleague, avoided grading these projects officially) – while he hadn’t read Sofia’s project on the poet Karin Boye. She had presumably had it in her schoolbag the morning she was run over; it was the final day to turn in the assignment, but there had been no opportunity for S to read the work.

  Of course it’s the case, thought S, that there are questions in life that you simply cannot decide. But which you have to decide anyway.

  He made more tea and called his girlfriend. They talked about everything imaginable that they planned to do over the summer, but after a while he brought up his grading difficulties. His girlfriend was studying psychology and was a good listener. When he was finished explaining his dilemma and had given her all the information in the case, she said that he definitely had to make an effort to be fair, but that she obviously had too little knowledge of the girl’s proficiency to be able to offer any more exact advice.

  ‘B or A?’ asked S.

  ‘You’re the one who has to decide that,’ the girlfriend answered. ‘I’m sure you’re going to handle this in the best way. You’ve always been a fair-minded person.’

  Then they ended the call. S had three cups of tea and smoked six cigarettes.

  That final project would have decided the issue, he thought.

  He had another two cups of tea and smoked four cigarettes. Then he made a decision and went to bed. The grade book was still open on his little desk under the window, which faced right towards a blossoming apple tree. An aroma of late spring slipped in through the curtain and drove the cigarette smoke out into the fresh air. S fell asleep after only a minute or so.

  The following morning he had breakfast and read the Sunday paper. Then he took out his school directory and looked up the telephone number for the dead girl’s home. Called them up and got an answer after four rings.

  A woman, he assumed it was Sofia’s mother. He told her his name and explained that he had been Sofia’s teacher in Swedish and English during the spring term.

  ‘I see,’ the woman said sadly. ‘I’m her mother. What is it you want, sir?’

  S explained that he was working on assigning grades and that he was a little uncertain about Sofia’s performance.

  ‘But the girl is dead,’ said the mother.

  ‘She should still get a grade,’ S explained. ‘That was decided by the school administration.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked the mother.

  ‘Because it was considered most correct that way,’ said S, suddenly feeling unsure whether it really had been right to call the girl’s home. Yet he had slept a whole night on the decision, as he usually did in difficult cases.

  ‘I see,’ said the mother. ‘So that’s how it is.’

  She sounded sad, but that was understandable and he could not perceive anything in her voice that indicated that she thought the school administration had made an incorrect decision.

  ‘Of course we want the grades to be as good as possible,’ he continued. ‘And fair, of course, even if Sofia unfortunately is no longer alive.’

  A sound was heard on the line. He could not decide if it was a sneeze or a sob.

  ‘As perhaps you know, I’m rather new to the school and don’t have any great experience in grading, but—’

  ‘What is it you really want, sir?’ the mother interrupted him.

  ‘Only if it’s not any trouble, of course,’ said S.

  ‘What is it?’ the mother asked.

  ‘Well, I would really like to read an essay that Sofia was supposed to hand in the same day that she . . . well. It’s about Karin Boye, I’m sure it was in her schoolbag, when . . . yes. And I assume you’ve saved it.’

  There was silence on the line for
a few seconds.

  ‘Sir, can I call you back in a bit?’ the mother then asked. ‘I think I have to consult with my husband about this first.’

  ‘Of course,’ said S. ‘I apologize for having bothered you like this. But I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said the mother. She got his number and hung up.

  After this call S showered and got dressed, and when he was done the phone rang. It was Sofia’s father.

  ‘My wife got a little upset over that conversation you had with her an hour ago,’ he explained.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said S. ‘It was truly not my intention to—’

  ‘Although naturally it’s not your fault if the school administration has made a decision.’

  ‘I really want Sofia to get as correct a grade as possible,’ S elaborated.

  ‘Naturally,’ Sofia’s father agreed. ‘On that point we are in complete agreement. And we’ve found the project on Karin Boye. Although we are a little reluctant to give it up . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ S asked.

  ‘You’re welcome to look at it,’ the father explained, ‘but our suggestion is that you come here and read it. If you understand.’

  ‘I understand. But . . .?’

  ‘It’s fine if you come in half an hour. In the afternoon we’re a little busy.’

  ‘I don’t really know . . .’

  ‘The address is Rosenstigen 12. So we’ll expect you at eleven o’clock, OK?’

  ‘Thanks, yes, thanks a lot,’ said S. ‘Of course I’ll come. That will be nice.’

  Rosenstigen was a short street in a rather recently developed townhouse area on the southern edge of H–. Low, white-brick buildings with diminutive front gardens and flat roofs. S parked his bicycle in a little rack where there were two women’s bicycles, and knocked on the door by means of a heart-shaped metal clapper.

  A red-haired boy answered the door. Eight or nine, S guessed. He was dressed in a blue tracksuit and was intensely observing his bare, ever-so-dirty feet. Sofia had red hair too.

  S asked if mum or dad were home. The boy answered, without looking up, that they were waiting for him out on the patio.

  ‘You must be Sofia’s brother,’ S said, stepping into the hall. The boy sniffled and disappeared into a room to the right, closing the door behind him. A woman of indefinite age came to meet him. She was dressed in a worn, light-blue housecoat and moved without raising her feet. Her hair was thin and colourless, and her posture made him think of a wounded bird that he had once taken care of when he was a little boy.

  ‘We’re sitting out there,’ she said, motioning with her hand towards an open glass door. S followed her out to a small stone patio. An oval, white plastic table was surrounded by four plastic chairs. In one of them a thin-haired man in his fifties was sitting. He was wearing dark trousers, white short-sleeved shirt and tie. His upper lip was covered by a sparse, reddish moustache and looked slightly deformed. S guessed that there was a harelip involved. The man half stood up and shook S’s hand. S sat down on one of the other chairs and looked around. There was a birdcage with two motionless budgies, a lawnmower, a narrow flower bed with red and white flowers, and a stone-paved walkway out over a lawn with a sagging badminton net. Two rackets were stuffed into a plastic case, which was leaning against a spindly young fruit tree. A thermos of coffee and cups were set out on the table. The mother went back into the house and came back with a small plate of biscuits in one hand, a yellow folder in the other.

  ‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ S said. ‘It must be terrible.’

  The mother nodded and sat down.

  ‘You can’t imagine,’ the father said. ‘My wife hasn’t slept since it happened.’

  S observed her a little more carefully. She had large, dark circles under her eyes, and he thought she didn’t really look quite present. She filled three cups from the thermos without asking.

  A greyish-white poodle came out on the patio, looked around and went back into the house.

  ‘Fifi,’ said the mother. ‘Sofia got her on her tenth birthday. She doesn’t understand where Sofia has gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I need to bother you like this,’ said S. ‘It’s just this business with the grades.’

  ‘We understand,’ said the father. ‘We have Sofia’s project here. Margareta, perhaps you’d like to . . .?’

  His wife handed over the yellow envelope. ‘Go ahead and read,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘We’ll be quiet. And have a biscuit. They’re left over from the funeral.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said S, taking six handwritten sheets from the folder.

  ‘Have a biscuit,’ Sofia’s mother repeated.

  S picked out an almond biscuit with a small cross on it, sipped the coffee and started to read.

  The introduction was excellent, he noticed that immediately. Karin Boye’s life story was drawn concisely in distinct, well-formulated strokes. And Sofia had beautiful handwriting. True, that was not included as an official grading criterion nowadays, but obviously it didn’t hurt.

  ‘How does it seem?’ the mother asked, trying to smile.

  ‘It seems quite excellent,’ S affirmed without taking his eyes off the paper.

  ‘She put a lot of work into this,’ said the father. ‘Sofia was an ambitious girl, no one can say otherwise.’

  ‘Talented too,’ S added, and continued reading. ‘She could have gone far.’

  The mother took hold of the father’s hand under the table, but neither of them made any further comment. S was done with the read-through after seven or eight minutes. Normally he would have gone to work on a second, more careful reading at once, but he didn’t feel that was necessary in this case. The work was quite brilliant, he hadn’t needed to make a single mark with his correction pen. There could be no doubt that the grade must be an A. A completely crystal-clear A, which happily enough also caused the pendulum to swing in the right direction where Sofia’s final grade in the subject of Swedish was concerned. With a contented sigh, S put the pages back in the folder and nodded sympathetically at the parents.

  ‘This was a very fine piece of work,’ he explained. ‘You have every reason to be proud of your daughter.’

  ‘We are,’ said the father, stroking his moustache deliberately with his thumb and index finger. ‘And she put a lot of work into this, as I said.’

  ‘It shows,’ said S.

  ‘Probably sat up half the night with it the day before the accident. I almost think . . .’

  He paused and exchanged a glance with his wife.

  ‘A lot of work,’ the wife said sadly.

  ‘She was an ambitious girl,’ said S.

  The father changed position in the chair.

  ‘Thorough and ambitious,’ said S.

  The father cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I actually think that was why,’ he said slowly, while he observed the mute budgies in the little metal cage. ‘That it happened the way it did. It was almost impossible to get any life in her that morning. She was worn out and unfocused, to put it simply.’

  S sat silently.

  ‘She walked the same way to school for three years,’ the mother said.

  The dog came out on the patio again. Observed those present with a sad expression and went back into the house.

  ‘It’s not easy for the dog,’ said the father. ‘She doesn’t understand. Well, I saw that the lamp in her room was still on at two thirty in the morning that night. I got up to use the toilet.’

  Suddenly S noticed that he felt cold. Under the late spring sun, he sat there shivering with goose pimples on his arms.

  ‘Sir, you’re welcome to write a grade on the project too,’ said the father. ‘It would be nice to know that the last thing she did in this life turned out . . . – Yes.’ He interrupted himself. Took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘I haven’t graded the other pupils’ special projects,’ S explained. ‘But I’m prepared
to make an exception in Sofia’s case.’

  ‘We’re grateful for that,’ said the father.

  And then S took out his correction pen and wrote the A grade and his signature at the very bottom of the last page.

  An hour later he wrote the same letter in his green grade book, but the rest of the day he spent in his rented room. Hour after hour he lay on his back in bed, looking up at the ceiling, even though it was a beautiful, late spring day with a mild, promising breeze and light clouds. He didn’t smoke any cigarettes, he didn’t read anything, but the aroma from the blossoming apple trees sneaked in through the open window and surrounded him like a mourning veil.

  In the autumn of that same year S was accepted to the teaching programme in the university town, but he declined the position. Instead, the following spring term, he started studying at the library school in B–, and ever since 1982 he has worked as a librarian in a small city in central Sweden.

  Håkan Nesser is one of Sweden’s most popular crime writers and has received numerous awards for his novels about Inspector Van Veeteren, including the European Crime Fiction Star Award (Ripper Award), 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 Inspector Barbarotti series

  THE DARKEST DAY

  THE ROOT OF 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 in Swedish 2018 by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Stockholm

  First published in the UK 2019 by Mantle