‘Explain,’ said Asunander.
It was Tuesday afternoon and six of them were assembled in the chief inspector’s office. Prosecutor Sylvenius was sitting on a chair in front of the window, looking as if he had just bitten into a lemon. Asunander himself was enthroned behind his desk. Backman, Barbarotti and assistant Tillgren were squeezed together on the leather sofa while Wennergren-Olofsson preferred to stand. Possibly because there were no other seats in the room.
‘We don’t know if this is right,’ said Backman.
‘What do you know, in fact, the lot of you?’
‘It was just an idea,’ said Backman.
‘Stop talking drivel,’ said Asunander.
Inspector Backman cleared her throat. ‘It could be them, but it could be someone else. It’s much more likely to be someone else, really.’
‘Where’s DI Borgsen?’ asked Asunander, as if everything would have been as clear as day if only Sorrysen were present.
‘Fatherhood has intervened,’ said Backman. ‘His wife had a little girl last night.’
‘Hrrmm,’ said Asunander. ‘I see. Well?’
Eva Backman sighed and went on. ‘The German police are looking for an unidentified Volvo. Probably an S80, probably dark blue or dark green, possibly Swedish . . .’
‘Possibly, possibly, possibly?’ said Sylvenius. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means exactly what it usually does,’ said Backman. ‘So what’s happened is that a German police officer was brutally attacked at some motorway services . . . on the slip road at the exit from the services, to be precise. He’s on a respirator, unconscious, and they don’t know if he’ll pull through or not.’
‘Attacked how?’ asked Sylvenius.
‘With some kind of blunt object, apparently,’ said Backman. ‘Could be anything, basically. This all happened yesterday afternoon and a Europe-wide alert has been put out for this car, of course, but they’ve no more specific description than the one I just gave you.’
‘Possibly, possibly, possibly?’ repeated Prosecutor Sylvenius crossly, and began polishing his spectacles on his tie.
‘Yes, it’s all we’ve got,’ said Backman. ‘I’ll let you all have a copy of the details so you can read them for yourselves. It’s a pretty basic translation from the German, but the gist is—’
‘What’s the gist?’ asked Sylvenius.
‘Could you please stop interrupting, Mr Sylvenius?’ said Asunander. ‘We haven’t got unlimited time here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Backman. ‘Well, the details are roughly these: the police officer in question, who unfortunately was alone in his car at the time because some sort of emergency had prevented his colleague coming with him – they’re normally in pairs – was found at the edge of the road by his car, just at the exit from a service station. Knocked unconscious by some heavy blunt instrument. They’ve heard from various witnesses that they passed the police car, which was parked there with its blue light flashing, and that . . . that there was another vehicle parked there too. Other witnesses say they passed this Volvo earlier – if we assume it was a Volvo – so before the police car arrived, and the driver evidently had a puncture. It was pouring with rain at the time, and he seems to have taken quite a while over changing the wheel. The car was parked in a rather awkward place and that might have been why the police officer decided to stop and check up on it. His name is Klaus Meyer, by the way.’
‘Where did this happen?’ asked Asunander.
‘Near Emden,’ said Backman.
‘And where’s that?’ said Sylvenius.
‘In Germany,’ said Barbarotti.
‘But why . . . why should it be them?’ asked Tillgren tentatively. ‘I mean there must be thousands of cars fitting this description. Tens of thousands.’
‘That’s just what we’re here to decide,’ said Asunander.
‘Whether to give them the registration number or not,’ clarified Backman.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Sylvenius.
‘But there’s already a warrant out for Roos and Gambowska’s arrest,’ said Wennergren-Olofsson. ‘Isn’t there?’
‘There certainly is,’ said Backman. ‘But the attempted murder of a police officer on the autobahn carries more weight with the Germans than a couple of runaways from Sweden . . . if you get my drift?’
‘Oh, right,’ said Wennergren-Olofsson.
‘Do we believe it could be them?’ asked Barbarotti. ‘I mean, why on earth would he club down a police officer?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Backman. ‘But a moment of panic can be all it takes.’
‘Plus happening to have an appropriate weapon to hand,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But yes, that’s possible. How do things stand? Could there be more witnesses coming forward who might have seen the registration number and so on? Or be able to confirm the car is Swedish, at least?’
‘Could well be,’ said Backman. ‘They’re working flat out on this down there. A lot of people saw that car on the slip road. They’re issuing repeated appeals for witnesses on radio and television, but of course it’s difficult to make out any details if you just go swooshing past in the rain. What shall we do? Release Valdemar Roos’s number to the Germans, or wait a bit?’
‘Why would we wait?’ asked Wennergren-Olofsson.
‘Because,’ said Asunander, glaring at the assistant, ‘if the Germans think there’s a police killer in that car, they’ll fire the grenade launcher the minute they locate the vehicle. And ask questions afterwards. That’s how it is, so we’ll have to wait at least until we get confirmation the Volvo is registered in Sweden. Backman, keep me updated.’
‘Of course,’ said Backman.
‘On a continuing basis,’ said Asunander.
‘On a continuing basis,’ said Backman.
‘Do you want to bet on it?’ asked Barbarotti.
‘By all means,’ said Backman. ‘It’s them, I don’t know how I know, but I’ve got this feeling.’
‘There could be fifty thousand dark-coloured Volvos in Europe.’
‘Could be,’ said Backman.
‘The chances are awfully slim.’
‘Argue back, then. You wanted a bet.’
Barbarotti sighed and lifted his leg onto the desk. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can’t do it. I think the same as you. Although . . .’
‘Although?’
‘I still think we’re doing the right thing in keeping the information to ourselves for a while. Don’t ask me why.’
‘Why?’ said Backman.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’ve just thought of something. Don’t they have CCTV at German petrol stations? To stop people making off without paying.’
‘Yes,’ said Backman. ‘On the autobahn I’m sure they do.’
‘And if this driver filled up before he drove on and got a puncture . . . well, they’ll have the car on camera? All they need to do is check.’
‘I don’t know how it works,’ said Eva Backman. ‘They haven’t given us a list of numbers to check up on, at any rate.’
Barbarotti thought about this. ‘Would they need to?’ he said. ‘Would they have to go via the Swedish police if they’re looking for a Swedish car? Couldn’t they just ring the vehicle registration authority direct . . . ours, I mean?’
‘Well yes, I should think so,’ said Backman. ‘If they’ve got anyone who can speak Swedish, that is. And . . . well, there’s already an alert out for our getaway Volvo, so as soon as they find it, and if they’ve got a CCTV image as well, they can . . .’
‘Get out the grenade thrower without any reference to us,’ supplied Barbarotti.
‘Exactly,’ said Backman. ‘That could happen. But perhaps they didn’t fill up. They might have just stopped for a coffee, mightn’t they? And then they wouldn’t be on camera.’
‘You’re right,’ said Barbarotti. ‘And we mustn’t forget that it’s still only a one-in-fifty-thousand chance.’
Inspector Backman nodded and sat there looking glum. Then she glanced at the clock.
‘Lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could drag that foot as far as the King’s Grill?’
‘I’m prepared to give it a go,’ said Barbarotti.
After lunch he got down to the final act of the graffiti case. The files filled two carrier bags. A bin bag would have been more appropriate, thought Barbarotti, but they were destined for the archives of course. Even though no one would ever open them again. Perhaps they would be thrown out in fifteen or twenty years’ time, when more space was needed on the shelves. For yet more files.
He stuck a yellow sticky note on one of the bags – Archives – and put them out in the corridor. Then he rang down to the switchboard to find out if the individuals he had asked to come in had arrived.
He was told they were waiting for him, so he picked up a tape recorder, pad and pen and left the room.
Hope I can pull this off, he thought.
Because if I can’t, Asunander’s going to throw me to the wolves.
Just before five he looked in on Backman again.
‘Anything new?’
She shook her head.
‘You look tired.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, that wasn’t how I meant it. It’s a bloody awful business.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Eva Backman.
‘Not that? What do you mean?’
She hesitated. ‘Have you got five minutes?’
He came in, closed the door behind him and sat down. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
She did not answer. Did not look at him at all but sat staring out of the window instead. It was what she had been doing ever since he stuck his head round the door. Christ, he thought. Something’s happened. I’ve never seen her like this before.
He lifted his foot onto the other visitor chair and waited.
‘It’s Ville,’ she said in the end, still not turning her head. ‘Gunnar, I just can’t stand it any longer.’
He cleared his throat but said nothing.
‘I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it.’
She pronounced each word, each letter, as if it were a matter of chiselling her announcement into a rune stone.
Which presumably it was.
Irrevocable. The thought ran through his mind that if this were a charade, he would have guessed the word straight away.
‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘I mean . . .’
She finally turned her head and looked at him. ‘I’m still here because I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Yes, I think so. What’s wrong, then?’
‘Everything,’ she said.
‘Everything?’ he said.
‘I can give you a list if you like, but telling you what isn’t would be quicker.’
‘What isn’t?’ he asked.
She thought about it. ‘Neither of us has been unfaithful,’ she said, adding, ‘I don’t think so, anyway. And we both love the children. And, well, I guess that’s all.’
‘Hm,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Not a great deal to build on, I suppose. A lot of sport too, am I right?’
‘So . . . much . . . sodding . . . sport,’ said Backman, chiselling her rune stone again. ‘I’m living with four fundamentalists. As if it wasn’t enough for them to be out training and playing in their blessed unihockey matches eight days a week, they have to watch every single bit of sport on TV as well. Whether it’s football or hockey or handball or athletics or swimming, and now they’ve started watching golf and trotting races as well . . . NHL hockey from America in the middle of the night. Boxing! We’ve got a hundred channels on our TV, and sixty of them are showing sport round the clock. And they work out bets together, I mean on ATG . . . sit there coming up with systems, talking about odds and doubles and Harry Boy and God knows what. Gunnar, I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it! Not one second longer!’
‘Have you talked to Ville about this?’ Barbarotti asked cautiously.
‘For fifteen years,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But now I’ve had enough of talking.’
‘You mean you’re actually . . .?’
‘. . .’
‘. . . going to leave him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told him?’
She seemed to falter for a moment. Then she gave a laugh.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I thought I ought to tell you first.’
‘I . . . I appreciate the confidence,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But . . .?’
‘I’m going to call and tell him now,’ said Eva Backman.
‘Now?’
‘Yes. I’m composing myself.’
‘Oughtn’t you to go home and do it face to face?’
She shook her head. ‘No way. There’s every risk of me whacking him over the head with a frying pan. I’m going to sleep here tonight.’
‘Here?’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘You can’t sleep in the bloody police station.’
‘It’ll be absolutely fine,’ declared Eva Backman. ‘I’ve slept on that couch in the quiet room before and I think you have, too, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
‘Have you really thought this through properly?’ asked Barbarotti.
‘For ten years, do you think that’ll do?’
‘OK,’ sighed Barbarotti. ‘But can’t you come and spend the night at ours instead? It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, you know that.’
‘Thanks,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Another day, perhaps. But for now I just want to do it this way, and then we’ll see. It . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It feels good to have made my mind up. And to have told you . . . there’s no way back now.’
‘Oh surely there is? I mean, you can always—’
‘But don’t you get it? I don’t damn well want there to be any way back.’
‘Aha? Yes, I see.’
‘I might go and stay with my brother and sister-in-law, actually . . . and my father. I haven’t asked them yet it if would be all right, but I think it ought to work, on a temporary basis.’
‘OK then,’ said Barbarotti. ‘OK, I’ll go along with that, as long as you bear in mind that our house is half-empty. Marianne likes you, you know that.’
‘All right,’ said Eva Backman. ‘It’s good of you to say that. But off you hobble now, I’ve got an important call to make.’
‘Good luck,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I’ll ring you later on this evening and see how you’re doing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Inspector Backman. ‘And I mean that.’