They found a nice place to eat the second night, too. It was beside one of the canals and was called Grote Flick. They were given a table tucked away under a whitewashed arch and the thought ran through Barbarotti’s mind that Inspector Rooth was absolutely right. Maardam was a very livable town.
‘So we’ve still got a few question marks to straighten out,’ he said once they had ordered their food and had a carafe of red wine on the table. ‘Haven’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said Backman, ‘I suppose we have. Which ones are you thinking of?’
‘Whether it really was Valdemar Roos who stuck the knife into Stefan Rakic, that’s probably the first one.’
‘It was him,’ said Eva Backman.
‘I don’t see how you can be so sure of it,’ said Barbarotti.
Eva Backman made no reply.
‘The girl doesn’t remember and he said he did it so she won’t have to carry the can,’ he went on. ‘She could very well have done it. And she’d very likely get off; it must count as self-defence.’
‘I think you should stop digging,’ said Eva Backman. ‘He’s confessed; she can’t remember. Why can’t you be content with that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Barbarotti. ‘My passion for the truth, perhaps?’
‘There’s no need to air your luxury problems,’ said Backman with a sudden hint of annoyance. ‘There’s another aspect, too, but you haven’t thought about that, of course.’
‘And what’s that?’ said Barbarotti.
‘Stefan Rakic’s father,’ said Backman. ‘He’s currently in jail, I know, but he’s sworn to kill whoever killed his son. I wouldn’t say I picked up any good vibes when I went to see him.’
Gunnar Barbarotti sipped his wine and mulled this over for a while.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re right, and I won’t bring it up again.’
‘Great,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Any more question marks?’
‘Why didn’t he take the girl to hospital?’ said Barbarotti. ‘Did it really not dawn on him what a terrible state she was in?’
Backman hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The girl says she’s sure it didn’t, but if she was asleep nearly all the time and had some kind of epileptic fit into the bargain, he really ought to have realized. But you can choose not to see things when you don’t want to, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Barbarotti. ‘He was pretty good at that . . . or is?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Barbarotti shrugged. ‘How convinced are you that he really is dead?’
‘Pretty much convinced,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But they’ll surely find him in any case, whether he’s alive or dead. His letter felt genuine though, didn’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘All too sodding genuine and all too sodding tragic.’
‘Exactly,’ said Backman. ‘And Klaus Meyer’s out of his coma, so that’s one life he won’t have on his conscience. But unless Valdemar Roos has driven his car into some deep lake or river, they’ll find him sooner or later . . . as I said. It’s strange, but it doesn’t feel particularly important, somehow.’
‘If he’s alive it’s important,’ said Barbarotti.
‘He’s not alive,’ she said. ‘Can we decide that, too?’
‘Fine by me,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Well then, I’ve only got one more problem.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Eva Backman.
‘The girl,’ said Barbarotti.
‘And what’s your problem with her?’
‘The witness statements about her character,’ said Barbarotti. ‘I’ve scarcely ever come across a meeker, gentler girl than her. I was only with her for a short while of course, but don’t you agree? A junkie as hard as nails? That’s total crap.’
‘It certainly is,’ said Backman. ‘One hundred per cent. So that’s one thing to look into before we close the case . . . well two things, to be more accurate.’
‘And they are?’ said Barbarotti.
‘That residential centre and that Double Johan. Assuming he did actually have the girl in his car, what happened was something very different from what he told me . . . I’ll ask Anna about it in due course. And it’ll certainly be worth taking a closer look at Sonja Svensson and her Elvafors, while we’re at it.’
‘Excellent,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Let me know if you need any help.’
‘You can be sure I will,’ said Eva Backman.
They sat in silence for a while. A pianist started playing somewhere at the back and the lights dimmed slightly. Eva Backman suddenly thought of something.
‘Oh, I forgot to ask,’ she said. ‘You solved the graffiti case, didn’t you say?’
Gunnar Barbarotti shuffled in his seat. ‘Well yes, possibly I have. But the ball’s in Asunander’s court now.’
‘Yes, you said. So be my guest, it’s your turn to straighten out a question mark for me.’
‘Hm,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Go ahead,’ said Backman.
‘OK then,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘If it’s as I think, it isn’t complicated at all. You recall that graffiti remover I told you about?’
‘The Cerberus Cleaning Company?’
‘That’s the one. Its owner is a Kent Blomgren. I reckon it’s his two sons who are PIZ and ZIP.’
‘Wha-at?’ spluttered Backman as her wine went down the wrong way. ‘What the heck are you saying?’
‘Well that’s the way it looks,’ said Barbarotti. ‘It was Sara who hit on it, not me . . . if I’m honest.’
‘Sara?’
‘Yes, she’s in the same class as one of the brothers, and we happened to be talking about it at home one evening. And then she came out with the fact he was a real bad apple at school, that Jimmy.’
Eva Backman burst out laughing. ‘So you’re telling me . . . you’re telling me the sons see to it that their dad doesn’t go out of business? They do the graffiti and he cleans it up. It’s bloody brilliant!’
‘That’s debatable,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘Asunander certainly didn’t use quite those words, but I think . . . well I’m not entirely sure about this, of course.’
‘About what?’ said Backman.
‘I thought I detected a smile as I put my solution to him.’
‘Asunander? A smile?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ said Eva Backman.
‘And there’s another intriguing connection,’ said Barbarotti.
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, this Kent Blomgren – Mr Cerberus, that is – was a classmate of Lars-Lennart Brahmin of local paper fame. Thirty-five to forty years ago. The front of his apartment building has come off worse in the graffiti attacks than anywhere else in town. There’s something simmering away there, clearly – upper-class versus lower-class and probably more besides. But it’s as old as the hills and I haven’t looked into it properly.’
Eva Backman nodded with interest.
‘Some long-held grudge,’ she said. ‘It sounds a bit sick, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes. And then there’s another problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They deny it point blank.’
‘Aha?’ said Backman. ‘All three?’
‘All three. And we’re on dodgy ground when it comes to evidence. If the sons are the ones committing these crimes, their dad has effectively erased all traces.’
‘Incredible,’ snorted Eva Backman. She had been on the point of drinking some more wine but was obliged to put the glass back down on the table. ‘And Sturegård spent almost a year working on this?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But I’m not casting any aspersions on her. It was just Sara’s flash of genius, and as I say, we’ve no firm evidence.’
‘So what’s the next step?’ asked Backman.
Barbarotti wiped something out of the corner of his eye with his serviette before he answered. Backman waited patiently.
‘Third degree,’ he said. ‘Asunander’s going to interrogate all three of them. I suppose the idea is to reach some sort of . . . deal.’
‘A deal?’
Barbarotti nodded. ‘On the quiet, yes. Asunander scares the whole family shitless, the graffiti stops. No perpetrators are apprehended, but the problem goes away.’
‘And everything in the garden’s rosy?’
‘Everything in the garden’s rosy,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Though Cerberus might be for the chop. Let’s drink to that.’
‘Cheers,’ said Backman.
They drank, and their food arrived. They ate in silence for a while. The pianist moved on from ‘Take the “A” Train’ to ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’. Then Eva Backman put down her knife and fork.
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘And I’m straying into my private life now. It’s been three whole days since I told my husband I didn’t want to live with him any more. Since then I’ve spoken to him just once, when I rang to postpone our family council – don’t you thing it’s a bit strange? He hasn’t tried to ring me even once.’
Barbarotti nodded. ‘Perhaps he’s struck dumb with grief?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Eva Backman. ‘It’s more likely they’re out training or watching the TV sport round the clock, now they’ve got the chance.’
For a moment he saw a touch of bitterness in her face. It was the first time, if so.
The very first time in all those years.
‘What is it with you men?’ she said. ‘Valdemar Roos. My husband. Johan Johansson . . . and Cerberus. You get what I’m talking about?’
‘I think so,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti cautiously. ‘But I haven’t got a good answer. Perhaps . . . no . . .’
‘Please go on,’ said Eva Backman.
‘It’s as if we were born with a hole.’
‘A hole? I had the idea it was us women who—’
‘A different kind of hole,’ said Barbarotti.
‘Explain,’ said Backman.
‘Well, it’s a kind of imperfection or vacuum that has to be compensated for. Or at any rate some kind of built-in defect that you women don’t have. A question mark . . . Some of us simply try to iron it out through sport, because there’s nothing as uncomplicated as sport . . . No, it’s no good, I’m not making any kind of job of expressing this.’
He lapsed into silence and looked at Eva Backman, who was watching him from the other side of the table with an ambiguous smile on her lips. ‘You’ve thought about this before,’ she said.
‘Only since I was thirteen,’ admitted Barbarotti. ‘Anyway, there’s a kind of gender flaw we all have in common, you’re quite right about that. A lot of us are able to cope with it, but not all.’
Backman raised her glass. ‘I like that phrase,’ she said. ‘Gender flaw. We’re getting into some pretty deep things here, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But we’ve hit the bottom now, at least where I’m concerned. There are more words than there are thoughts, too, and that’s another problem . . . though that’s true of both sexes, when I come to think about it.’
Eva Backman laughed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s a shame you sold your flat, to move on to the next subject.’
‘Why?’ said Barbarotti.
‘I could have bought it,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Now I’m going to be a single-person household. I liked that balcony.’
‘So did I,’ said Barbarotti. ‘But I’m pretty sure there are other balconies in town.’
‘You reckon?’ said Eva Backman.
‘I’d swear to it,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti.
But before the evening was over they returned once more to Ante Valdemar Roos. It was when they were each sitting over an espresso and a small cognac.
Gunnar Barbarotti was aware of being pleasantly inebriated and he thought that this was one of those moments he would be very happy to sustain for a little while. Lie at anchor and just float there in the stream of time. He was about to put that thought into words, too, when Eva Backman said:
‘What would be the best ending to this business, do you think? Valdemar Roos, I mean.’
‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ said Barbarotti.
‘We’ve agreed that he’s dead,’ said Eva Backman. ‘But it grieves you a bit, doesn’t it? Admit it.’
Gunnar Barbarotti raised his glass and took a sniff at the splendid spirit.
‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that cognac is the only drink enjoyed to best advantage through the nose?’
‘Now you’re just playing for time,’ said Eva Backman. ‘Well, it grieves you that you never got to meet boring old Valdemar, I know that. Marianne’s quite right; you’ve got a screw missing there.’
‘Hm,’ said Barbarotti. ‘Maybe. But if he’s written a fake suicide note, I have to say he’ll sink in my estimation. Are you with me on that?’
‘Of course,’ said Backman. ‘So what would be the best ending, then? That was my question.’
Gunnar Barbarotti savoured a small amount of cognac – through his mouth – before he answered.
‘The best ending is that we never find out,’ he said. ‘Regardless of whether he actually took his own life or not, we never find out. He can lie at the bottom of a lake from now until judgement day, or die a natural death in Barcelona in twenty-five years’ time – it makes no odds, the important thing is that I don’t find out which.’
‘Do you really mean that?’ said Eva Backman.
‘Yes,’ said Gunnar Barbarotti. ‘I really mean it.’
Backman pondered this for a while, and then smiled.
‘You’re right, Gunnar,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame I’m drunk, because I think you said something unusually wise there. If I were sober I would be able to elaborate on it, absolutely I would.’
And Gunnar Barbarotti smiled too, as he allowed himself to be slowly filled with the present – the jazz piano, the drop of cognac still trembling in the bottom of his glass, Eva Backman’s familiar laugh lines and the diminutive birthmark above her right eyebrow, the slumbering but ever-present thoughts of Marianne, of the children, of the state of harmony and fulfilled needs that had arrived in his life without warning, the quiet, civilized murmur beneath the vaulted ceiling in this foreign town – and the singular inner satisfaction a blind chicken feels when she finally thinks she has found a grain of corn.