‘I’m afraid I have to ask you if you recognize this girl,’ said Barbarotti, pushing the photograph gently across the table.
‘No, I don’t,’ answered Alice Ekman-Roos without a glance at it. ‘And I don’t need to look at it again.’
‘You saw it in the paper?’ asked Barbarotti.
She made a minimal head movement which he interpreted as confirmation. ‘I know this is painful for you,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid we have to talk to you again. So we are aware of all possibilities.’
‘What possibilities?’ said Alice Ekman-Roos. ‘I don’t care about this any more.’
‘I can understand that’s how you may feel about your husband,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But it isn’t only his disappearance we have to take into account now. We have a murder investigation to consider as well.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ said Alice Ekman-Roos. ‘But I have no idea who that girl is. I don’t want to hear anything about her. We’ve started getting rid of his things; he needn’t think he can come back and ask us to forgive him after all this.’
‘Your reaction is entirely natural,’ said Barbarotti.
‘We’re having his clothes burnt,’ she elaborated. ‘And sending his books and other possessions to the charity shop.’
‘Oh?’ said Barbarotti.
‘I want the girls to forget him as soon as possible.’
‘I see,’ said Barbarotti.
He considered his reply and wondered if he really did see. Well yes, he decided. Perhaps even more than that; her resolve in getting on with things in this situation was understandable and even somewhat admirable. Although the urge to take action could go off at its own tangents sometimes.
No, it wasn’t Alice Ekman-Roos’s behaviour that was incomprehensible, he thought as he absent-mindedly scratched his plaster, it was her husband’s.
‘And you have no idea where he is?’
‘None at all.’
‘If you were to guess? Is there anywhere in Sweden, or in Europe, that you think he would choose to go . . . for any reason?’
‘No,’ said Alice Ekman-Roos.
‘He’s made no attempt to contact you?’
‘No.’
He wondered why he hadn’t done this interview over the phone instead, but there were procedures one had to follow.
‘I had absolutely no idea events would unfold this way when you came to see me at the hospital,’ he said. ‘I really am sorry.’
She regarded him gravely for a few seconds. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know you’re a first-rate policeman, but there’s really no point in being sorry. The girls and I have got to get on with our lives, that’s what matters now.’
‘I’m glad you have the resilience to feel that way,’ said Barbarotti. ‘It’s best for all parties.’
What the hell do I mean by all parties? he thought, but she showed no sign of reacting to it.
‘Is there anything else?’ was all she said.
‘No, that’s all,’ declared Inspector Barbarotti.
Once she had gone he looked at his watch. The interview had taken exactly four minutes.
‘Schwerin’s got a lead up in Örebro,’ said Sorrysen. ‘A girl called Marja-Liisa Grönwall, who claims she may know who the victim is.’
Eva Backman smartly closed the folder in front of her. ‘Not before time,’ she said. ‘He’s been dead nearly three weeks.’
‘Only five days since we found him, though,’ Sorrysen reminded her before reading from the piece of paper he had in his hand: ‘Stefan Ljubomir Rakic. Born in Zagreb in 1982. Came to Sweden at the age of five and not unknown to the Örebro police. If it’s him, that is.’
‘And why should it be him?’ asked Backman.
‘The informant said they were a couple,’ said Sorrysen. ‘Miss Gambowska and Rakic, that is. He apparently lived at her place, at least periodically. Last summer, for example . . . and, well, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘And he’s disappeared?’ said Backman.
Sorrysen shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s the presumption. Nobody’s reported him missing, but he evidently has – or had – a pretty chaotic and irregular lifestyle. Schwerin’s looking into it and he’ll get back to us as soon as he has anything more.’
‘Good,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Make sure you stay in touch to keep him at it. He sometimes goes off to play golf instead of getting on with the job. Right, I’ve got a different sort of interview to do now.’
‘A different sort?’ enquired Sorrysen.
She nodded and got to her feet. ‘It’s to try to get some insight into Anna Gambowska’s character. From a man who’d apparently met the girl. How’s your wife doing?’
‘I’m sure it won’t be long now,’ said Sorrysen with a weak smile.
The name of the character witness was Johan Johansson.
‘They call me Double Johan,’ was his opening remark. ‘Can’t imagine why.’
Have you by any chance used that line before? thought Eva Backman, but she made no comment.
Instead she observed him as she pretended to leaf through her notepad to an important page. He was a fairly tall, slightly bloated man of around sixty. Round-shouldered, slightly hunched. He was wearing jeans, a checked shirt and a leather jacket. Adidas trainers that looked new; he was clearly trying to give a youthful impression, thought Eva Backman.
But not succeeding very well. She switched on the tape, spoke the standard formalities and leant back.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘What have you got to tell me?’
Johan Johansson adjusted his heavy glasses and cleared his throat.
‘I think I’ve got some information about that girl which might be of interest to you.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Backman.
‘The thing is, I fell foul of her about a month ago.’
‘Fell foul of?’ said Backman.
‘I chose my words with care,’ said Johan Johansson. ‘I can’t think of a better way of putting it.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Of course,’ said Johan Johansson. ‘That’s why I’m here. It was like this, see: I live out in Dalby, I’ve been retired for two years because of my health, you know the way it can go. These damn back problems.’
He flexed himself gingerly in his chair to demonstrate the fact.
‘That’s the way it can go,’ said Backman. ‘Backs are no laughing matter.’
‘Exactly. Not everybody understands that, but it’s so true. Sometimes I can’t sleep in the mornings, so I go for a drive. Sometimes I carry on all the way to Kymlinge and do some shopping out at Billundsberg, otherwise I take a different route round . . .’
‘I see,’ said Backman. ‘Are you married?’
‘No,’ said Johan Johansson. ‘I was, but not any longer.’
‘Go on,’ said Backman.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Johansson. ‘That morning, I think it was the sixth of September but I’m not a hundred per cent sure, I was heading south on the 242. I suppose I’d passed Elvafors about ten or fifteen minutes before, and then I saw a girl walking along the edge of the road. In the same direction as I was going. I think she put out her hand to ask for a lift, but again I’m not sure. But either way, I thought I could take her a little way. It looked as if it was going to rain and I felt a bit sorry for her.’
He paused. Inspector Backman nodded to him to go on.
‘So I stopped and picked her up. And it was this girl you’re looking for, no doubt about it. I recognized her in the paper straight away. The drug addict girl, you get me?’
‘There’s nothing about drug addiction in the paper,’ said Backman.
‘No, but I can work it out for myself,’ said Johansson.
‘I follow you,’ confirmed Backman. ‘Do you know roughly what time you picked her up?’
‘I’m not sure,’ repeated Johan Johansson. ‘But around half six I should think, could have been a bit later, could have been a bit earlier.’
‘That early in the morning?’ queried Backman.
‘Yes. I suppose I didn’t think about it. Maybe I reckoned she’d missed the school bus or something. Though it was a Saturday . . . and I soon twigged that she’d run away from the centre.’
‘The Elvafors centre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘I asked her and she said she had.’
‘So what did you do then?’ asked Backman.
Johan Johansson spent a few seconds adjusting his back and his glasses before he answered.
‘It was like this,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to help a girl run away. I don’t know anything about that centre, but I’m sure it’s good for them. So I thought the best thing would be for her to get out of the car. And besides . . . well, it might be illegal too, I thought, to help her on her way, so to speak. So I stopped and asked her to get out.’
‘How far had you gone by then?’
‘Not far. A couple of kilometres, I suppose. And that was when it happened. I’d barely pulled in and stopped the car when she attacked me.’
‘Attacked?’ said Backman.
‘There’s no other word for it,’ said Johannson.
‘Can you describe it in detail?’
‘I didn’t really have time to register what happened,’ said Johan Johansson, ‘because I passed out. But she must have had some kind of weapon, a hammer or something . . . I don’t fucking know. She whacked me on the head, anyhow, and I passed out. When I came round she was gone and there was blood all over the place. She nicked two thousand kronor off me as well.’
‘Your wallet?’ said Backman.
‘Yep. It was in my inside pocket as usual. I suppose she found it and took the money. It was lying there on the seat, empty as a Biafra tit.’
‘Biafra tit?’ said Backman. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Johan Johansson. ‘Just an expression. The thing was empty and the girl had scarpered. It cost me two thousand to get the blood cleaned out of my car, too, so you could say I’m four thousand down all told. But they mended my glasses for nothing at the optician’s, and I suppose I should be grateful I’m still alive. I mean considering . . . well, what it said in the paper.’
Eva Backman nodded and thought for a moment.
‘You didn’t report this incident?’ she asked.
‘Incident?’ said Johansson.
‘The attack,’ said Backman.
He shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. I should have done, of course, but you read about all these unsolved crimes. Suppose I thought there was no point. It taught me a lesson, too – that bitch was lethal, I can tell you. It’s not worth being a hero in this country.’
‘Maybe not always,’ said Eva Backman. ‘If I’ve understood this correctly, you didn’t have much time to talk to her.’
‘She wasn’t in the car more than three minutes,’ said Johan Johansson. ‘But I still thought I should come and tell you about it. So you know what sort of person you’re dealing with.’
‘We’re grateful for that,’ said Eva Backman. ‘You didn’t get any idea of where she was going, for instance?’
Johan Johansson shook his head. ‘None at all,’ he said.
‘What her plans were and why she’d run away?’
‘Short answer: no.’
Eva Backman turned off the tape recorder. ‘Right then, Mr Johansson. I’d like to thank you for taking the time to come in. I might get back to you at a later stage.’
‘Are we done already?’
‘Yes.’
He cleared his throat and placed his hands on his knees. ‘And if I wanted to pursue the matter of some kind of compensation, how would I . . .?’
‘You’d need to follow procedures for making a formal report to the police,’ said Eva Backman. ‘And talk to your insurance company, too.’
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ said Johan Johansson, getting laboriously to his feet. ‘Have you caught her yet?’
Eva Backman did not answer his question, instead ushering him politely but firmly out of the room.
It was quarter to five on Friday afternoon when Inspector Backman knocked on Barbarotti’s door and put her head round it.
‘Graffiti?’ she asked.
‘Graffiti,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’m snowed under at the moment.’
‘I thought you had a theory?’
‘I can’t quite stand it up yet.’
‘Ah. I assume you won’t have time for a beer at the Elk, then? What with your extended family and your foot and everything. Plus the graffiti.’
‘You’re right there, I’m afraid,’ sighed Barbarotti with a harried look. ‘But a quick cup of coffee at our genius bar in here, how about that?’
‘The Elk can wait,’ agreed Backman. ‘I really could do with talking a few things over. I just can’t get my head round this case.’
‘Nor me,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Could you fetch the coffee, and an almond tart? You can see I’m handicapped.’
Eva Backman was straight out of the door and back three minutes later with a tray. ‘They’d run out of the tarts,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make do with a chocolate truffle ball.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Life never turns out quite the way you imagine. So what’s been going round and round in that mind of yours, then?’
‘That bloody Roos,’ said Eva Backman with a sigh. ‘I know men are the way they are, but how can you get yourself into that kind of mess?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Barbarotti.
‘Well, that girl he’s got with him seems to be some little psychopath, or verging on it.’
‘Was it this afternoon’s witness who told you that?’
Eva Backman nodded. ‘Yes, him, and the head of the Elvafors centre. Anna Gambowska seems to be a nasty piece of work, though we can’t be sure of course. How could a sixty-year-old man be so naive that he doesn’t realize? How could he fall for her? That’s the question I want you to answer for me.’
‘From my male point of view?’ asked Barbarotti.
‘For instance,’ said Backman.
‘There’s only one answer,’ said Barbarotti. ‘The well-worn one.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It isn’t easy being a randy old tomcat.’
‘Fuck,’ said Eva Backman.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well I know no one’s really had anything good to say about Valdemar Roos,’ she declared, ‘but you’re the first one to describe him specifically in those terms.’
‘Steady on,’ said Barbarotti, putting up his hands. ‘It was only a suggestion. You wanted the masculine take on it, didn’t you?’
Eva Backman bit into her truffle and reserved judgement.
‘Which of them did it, do you think?’ said Barbarotti after a few moments’ silence. ‘We’ve barely talked about that.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Eva Backman.
‘They can hardly both have been holding the knife.’
‘No, hardly,’ said Backman, and he could see that for some reason she was reluctant to discuss the matter.
‘Either way, it certainly looks as though she’s exploiting him,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think? She must have been staying at his cottage before this happened. I don’t know how long for, but it must have been a few days, mustn’t it?’
‘Double Johan claims he picked her up on the morning of September sixth.’
‘Double Johan?’
‘That’s how he’s known in Dalby. This witness of mine, I mean. So she could very well have been at Roos’s cottage ever since then, and it was the fourteenth when they took off. Or the fifteenth.’
‘Almost ten days,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Roughly, yes,’ said Eva Backman. ‘And now two weeks more have gone by. Our friend Double Johan claims she bashed him on the head and tried to kill him after three minutes. She took his money as well, two thousand.’
‘Tried to kill him?’
‘Knocked him out, anyway.’
Barbarotti nodded and said nothing. He glanced sideways out of the window at Lundholm & Son’s closed-down shoe factory, now undergoing demolition, and tried to fend off the rhetorical conclusion he was expected to draw. In the end he gave up.
‘I can see where you’re going with this,’ he said. ‘Valdemar Roos took out half a million. When did we last have any sign of life from him?’
‘The twenty-second of September,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Hotel Baltzar in Malmö.’
‘Do you know if the girl’s got a driving licence?’
‘She hasn’t.’
‘But she could know how to drive anyway.’
‘She might have given him the time to teach her.’
Barbarotti pondered. ‘It’s a fortnight since they were in Malmö,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for two people, when in fact it might only be one. Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘One alive and one dead,’ said Eva Backman. ‘I know that still makes two, but no, that wasn’t what I was getting at. I really would prefer . . .’
She trailed off. Barbarotti shifted his eyes from the ruin of the shoe factory and looked at her. ‘Prefer what?’ he said.
‘Prefer things not to be that way,’ said Eva Backman. ‘To put it simply. Is that so odd?’
‘It’s not odd at all,’ said Barbarotti. ‘If Valdemar Roos is dead, we’ll never get the chance to talk to him. And if there’s one thing I’d like to do, it’s to hear what he’s got to say.’
‘Why?’ said Eva Backman. ‘Why is it so important to you to talk to Valdemar Roos?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘But Marianne’s wondering the same thing. She thinks it’s because I’ve got a screw loose.’
‘You as well?’ said Eva Backman. ‘Not just him?’
‘Me as well,’ said Barbarotti.
Eva Backman was silent for a while. Then she got to her feet. ‘I think that’s enough for today,’ she concluded, and left the room.