‘And why don’t you want to report it?’
Four hours later.
A different ward and no yellow crane. Instead, a green folding screen round two sides of the bed, a laudable attempt at creating an illusion of privacy.
But only an illusion. There were two other patients in the same room, sporting plaster casts on various parts of their anatomy, and clearly within hearing distance unless you whispered. One of them, a gentleman in his eighties, was speaking loudly to his wife on the phone and leaving no one in any doubt that this was the case.
Marianne had been to visit. Sara and Jorge, too. A number of doctors and nurses had taken a look at Barbarotti and assured him everything had gone to plan and he was doing fine. He would be discharged tomorrow or the day after, and he could reckon on being in plaster for four to six weeks. They would probably need to redo it once or twice in that time.
But now Alice Ekman-Roos was back again, even though he wasn’t on her ward any longer. It was half past seven in the evening and the sky outside the window had started to deepen towards violet.
She filled her lungs and looked at him earnestly.
‘Because it might only be one of those embarrassing everyday stories, the whole thing.’
He gave himself a moment before responding.
‘The police are used to embarrassing everyday stories.’
She sighed and her gaze drifted away from him. She stared out of the window instead. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want word getting out, if it turns out to be that way . . . but it could be something really serious. Like I said.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes, something could have happened to him. Something awful.’
‘I don’t quite understand what it is you want me to do,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’m somewhat indisposed, as you can see.’
He gestured towards his plastered leg and tried to produce an ironic grimace.
‘Of course. I’ll leave you in peace right away if you’d rather. I just wanted a bit of advice. Seeing as we were both in the same school class once, and you’re a policeman and so on.’
Gunnar Barbarotti nodded. She had got that far already, before they were interrupted in post-op.
And there wasn’t much more to it, either. Except that the missing husband was called Valdemar and she hadn’t seen him since Sunday. Today was Tuesday. He took a drink of water from the paper cup on his bedside table and made up his mind.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome to tell me the whole story. It’s not as though I’ve anything else on at present.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling up her chair. ‘Thank you so much. Yes, I remember you always seemed a decent type . . . back then, I mean, when we were at school. Not that we ever really got to know each other.’
‘Sunday,’ said Barbarotti, to divert her from any more school chat. ‘You say your husband has been gone since Sunday.’
She gave a little cough and folded her hands. ‘That’s right. I spoke to him on the phone around six. Since then I haven’t heard a word from him.’
‘On the phone? He wasn’t at home, then? Do you live here in Kymlinge?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, in Fanjunkargatan. We’ve lived there ever since we got married. About . . . ten years ago. We’ve each got a first marriage behind us. That’s the way it goes these days.’
‘I’m in the same position myself,’ admitted Barbarotti.
‘Oh? Well, nothing like this has ever happened with Valdemar before. He’s quite a safe – a lot of people would probably say boring – sort of man. Rather reserved, if you know what I mean? He really isn’t the kind of person you’d expect to disappear. It’s totally unlike him, and besides, he’s ten years older than me.’
Barbarotti was slightly at a loss to understand what the age difference had to do with any tendency to disappear, but he didn’t bother to query that detail.
‘What you can’t decide,’ he said instead, ‘is whether he did it of his own volition?’
She looked startled. ‘How can you know that?’
He spread his hands. ‘Unless you had some suspicions of that sort, I don’t get what’s embarrassing about it.’
She let this sink in and he could see that she was buying his line of argument. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course it can hardly be the first time you’ve come across something like this. Well, yes, it is possible that he’s staying away because he wants to, just as you say.’
‘How much have you tried to find out?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘Off your own bat, so to speak.’
A blush spread across her large, smooth face.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Nothing?’ said Barbarotti.
‘No. It would be . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It would be dreadfully embarrassing if that turned out to be true. If he’d simply left me. I’ve been telling myself he’ll probably be in touch before long . . .’
‘His place of work? He has a job, I assume?’
She nodded and shook her head in a single, confused movement. ‘Yes, but I haven’t called them.’
‘Why not? Where does he work?’
‘Wrigman’s Electrical. I don’t know if you know them. They make thermos flasks and suchlike. Out in Svartö.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well, that’s one thing I would advise. Ring them and see what you can find out before you contact the police.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and looked down. ‘I ought to do that, of course. And I know I’m being a bit silly about all this.’
He felt a vague sense of sympathy for the woman starting to stir inside him. If her husband really had left her without a word of explanation, there was no need to be condescending. And he had the time, as he’d said.
‘So there are particular reasons making you think this might be his own choice?’ he asked. ‘Am I reading you right on that point?’
She studied her clasped hands for a moment before she answered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There are particular reasons. Valdemar hasn’t been behaving quite as normal recently. The girls and I all noticed it.’
‘The girls?’
‘We’ve got two daughters. Well, they’re both mine, from my previous marriage. But they live with us. Signe and Wilma. They’re twenty and sixteen.
‘And you . . . you’ve all felt your husband hasn’t been behaving normally lately?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what way?’
She tried to frown, but there was far too little skin and far too much brow bone for this to succeed. ‘I . . . don’t really know,’ she faltered. ‘It isn’t anything I can put my finger on, but it’s definitely been noticeable. Things he’s said and so on . . . you pick up on little changes like that when you’ve been living together a long time. I think . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know, but I thought maybe he was suffering from some kind of depression. He wondered the same thing himself, and we even had a chat with a psychiatrist we know . . . but there’s something else as well, which I heard about on Sunday. It may have nothing to do with this, but I still couldn’t help worrying.’
‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And what was it you heard about on Sunday?’
She swallowed and her blush reappeared, accompanied by the sun, which took the opportunity of sending its final rays of the day through the window.
‘One of my friends reported a sighting,’ she said.
‘A sighting of what?’
‘I don’t really know how to describe it. But basically she saw Valdemar with . . . with a young woman.’
Aha, thought Barbarotti. There we have it. I thought so.
‘It’s possible, of course, that it was something entirely innocent,’ Alice Ekman-Roos continued. ‘I mean to say, she could have been a colleague or whatever, but the thing is that . . . well, that he denies it. My friend saw them from about a metre away and she and Valdemar said hello to each other. Valdemar and this woman were coming out of a restaurant. Why should he deny it, if it was so innocent?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And when did this . . . sighting occur?’
‘On Friday. They were coming out of Ljungman’s on Norra torg. You know where . . .?’
‘Oh yes,’ confirmed Barbarotti. ‘But how did your husband react when you confronted him, so to speak, with this? That was on Sunday wasn’t it, if I’ve got this right?’
‘Yes, quite right,’ said Alice Ekman-Roos. ‘But all I can say is that he denied it. And that’s the last thing I heard from him.’
‘The last thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hang on, was this in the phone conversation you had that afternoon? You telling him the story and him denying it?’
She nodded, and for the first time her eyes looked unnaturally bright, as if she was on the verge of tears. ‘I’d just heard it from my friend. I came home and he wasn’t in. I called his mobile and told him what I’d just heard, and he . . . well, he said she must have made a mistake. He wasn’t at Ljungman’s on Friday at all. Then he cut me off mid-call. Or there was a problem on the line, I don’t know which.’
‘When was this encounter on Friday supposed to have taken place?’
‘At lunchtime. That’s another odd thing. Why would he have been in town at that time of day?’
‘He should have been out in Svartö, at work.’
‘Yes.’
‘But perhaps he did come into town occasionally?’
‘Not that I’m aware.’
Barbarotti pondered and the sun disappeared.
‘Where was he?’ he asked. ‘When you called him, I mean.’
She sighed. ‘He said he’d taken the car out for a drive round by Kymmen, but I don’t know. He never does that sort of thing. He said he’d soon be home.’
‘But he never came home?’
‘No. I called him again that evening, of course, but I got no answer. Nor yesterday, nor today.’
‘Have you called him a number of times?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tried texting?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well, I think the situation’s clear to me now.’
‘Is that the expression you use?’
‘What?’
‘In the police. Do you say the situation’s clear to you?’
He gave no answer. She pulled back her shoulders and took a deep breath, and he waited for whatever was coming next.
But nothing came. She just sat there, looking out of the window, out onto the forest and the river, not caring that tears were running down her cheeks. On the other side of the protective screen, someone entered the room with a clattering trolley and he realized their conversation would soon be at an end.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Who knows he’s missing?’
‘Only me.’
‘Not your daughters?’
‘I told them he was away on a business trip.’
‘Is that something he does, go away on business trips?’
‘Never. But they’re very wrapped up in themselves. It’s their age.’
Barbarotti nodded and thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, it sounds like rather an unfortunate matter, regardless of what’s actually happened. I can understand you feeling worried, but I still think the best thing you can do is ring his place of work and make some enquiries.’
And this was the point at which she surprised him even more than she had done already.
‘Couldn’t you do it?’ she said. ‘I’d consider it a real favour.’
His own answer was no less surprising.
‘OK then. If you give me the number, I’ll do it in the morning.’
Half an hour after Alice Ekman-Roos left him, Marianne rang.
‘How are you, my darling?’ she wanted to know.
‘Better than I deserve,’ admitted Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘And they say I won’t have to go do any work for a while.’
‘All kinds of work?’ asked Marianne.
‘Especially all kinds of DIY,’ said Barbarotti.
‘And is there any pain?’
‘None at all.’
‘You really are lucky, then,’ said Marianne with a laugh. ‘You know what, I’m so awfully glad you’re alive. You’re so clumsy and things could have turned out a great deal worse.’
‘Thanks,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well anyway, I’m looking forward to making love with one leg in plaster. It’s something I’ve always wondered about . . . how it would work, that is.’
‘Would you like me to come over tonight?’ asked Marianne.
‘I don’t think it’s entirely set yet,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we might have to wait until I get home.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Marianne. ‘Just thought I could look in and kiss you goodnight.’
‘You’d be better off kissing the rest of the family goodnight,’ said Barbarotti, ‘wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed Marianne, and he could virtually hear her rolling her eyes. ‘Six kids and a boozing brother – sounds like a film, doesn’t it? Yes, I guess it would be best for me to stay here.’
‘Sara and Jorge aren’t kids,’ Barbarotti reminded her. ‘Not all the time, at any rate.’
‘I grant you that. But Jenny’s got a maths test tomorrow and Martin needs help with his fish tank. And there are two tons of dirty washing, so I won’t be twiddling my thumbs, that’s for sure.’
‘I’ll be home to get stuck into the thumb twiddling tomorrow,’ promised Barbarotti. ‘Or the day after. Tell Brother-in-law Roger to get a move on with that roof.’
‘He’s almost finished it. He says he gets on quicker when you’re not there.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Barbarotti.
‘He might have been joking,’ said Marianne.
‘He clearly was,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Right, I must try to get some sleep now. Sleep well, fair nymph. Enfold me in your dreams.’
‘I thought you’d come round from the anaesthetic,’ said Marianne.
A few minutes later it was Inspector Backman’s turn.
‘Smart move,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘Take a day off to rebuild your palace. Fake a broken foot and get out of work for a month.’
‘Spot on,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I calculated it all pretty well, if I do say so myself.’
‘Though Asunander says he’s putting you on desk duties once your cast has set properly. I think he means tomorrow.’
Barbarotti considered this. ‘You can tell our eunuch-in-chief I’m longing to be back,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately I feel I can’t go against doctor’s orders.’
‘I’ll pass that on,’ promised Eva Backman. ‘But I don’t think he’s very fond of doctors.’
‘Well what is he fond of, then?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘When it comes down to it. I’ve thought about that a fair bit.’
‘Me too,’ said Inspector Backman. ‘I think he has some fondness for a particular kind of eccentric and slightly ill-tempered dog.’
‘He did have one like that,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Yes, but it died,’ Backman reminded him. ‘You remember that, surely?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Barbarotti. ‘So these days he isn’t fond of anything?’
‘That’s what I was coming to,’ said Backman. ‘Especially not of lazy cops who fall off roofs and call in sick.’
‘Thank you, I think the situation’s clear to me,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Why are we rabbiting on about Asunander, by the way?’
‘No idea. Is it true you landed in a wheelbarrow?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti, realizing that this was another topic he didn’t feel like discussing. ‘How are things with you?’ he asked.
‘There are a few things I’d like to talk over with you,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Not least the Sigurdsson case. The interviews you did with Lindman and the vicar.’
‘I can see that you might,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Is it urgent?’
‘How long will you be staying in hospital?’
‘I assume they’ll send me home tomorrow . . . or the day after. But I’m perfectly capable of having a conversation right here and now, as I expect you can hear?’
‘I don’t like hospitals,’ said Backman. ‘But if I could drop round and see you at home the day after tomorrow, I’d be more than happy. Then the prosecutor can put away that creep Sigurdsson next week.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Barbarotti, suddenly not feeling up to any more talking. He’d just had an operation, hadn’t he?
‘Call me tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll see what the situation is then.’
‘Make sure you don’t fall out of bed and hurt yourself,’ said Eva Backman, and then they wished one another good night.
Before he fell sleep he lay there for a while, letting his thoughts wander. In actual fact he was trying to steer them – away from his conversation with the anxious anaesthetic nurse, towards his own life and circumstances.
The implications of having to drag a broken foot around with him, for instance. It was the second time in his life that one of the bones in his body had suffered a fracture; the last time he had ridden his bike straight into a carpet-beating rack and broken his collarbone. That was forty years ago and it had healed without the help of any kind of plaster cast within a fortnight or so. Gunnar Barbarotti assumed there was quite a difference between how readily tissue heals at the ages of eight and forty-eight respectively.
But it didn’t work. It wasn’t these reflections that took control of his thoughts, it was Alice Ekman-Roos. Whether he wanted her to or not, and however hard he tried to steer away from her.
Maybe it was because he felt sorry for her – and he did. There couldn’t be much doubt about what had happened, could there? Her husband had grown tired of her and found another woman. It was bloody awful of him just to leave her without a word of explanation, of course, but a lot of men functioned that way. Not daring to look their own actions in the eye, or not too soon, at any rate. Valdemar Roos would probably be in touch in a few days’ time, but for now he was far too absorbed in his new life and his new woman.
Bastard, thought Gunnar Barbarotti. That simply isn’t the way to behave. You have to exert yourself to . . . to keep such spineless actions at bay.
Although inside him he had a feeling – in some dark and twisting male recess – that if he had happened to be the one married to a woman like Alice Ekman-Roos, he might very well have acted exactly the same way as Valdemar Roos. Left her without a word. That was the way it was, no point being dishonest about your motives.
But he wasn’t married to Alice Ekman-Roos; he was married to Marianne Grimberg. There was a world of difference.
Some bastards have more luck than other bastards, thought Inspector Barbarotti. That’s the injustice of life’s lottery, and thank you, dear Lord, for sending her my way.
Coming to the end of these modest ideas and analyses, he fell asleep.