Babylon (26 page)

With hindsight, the very fact that they had got together surprised her.

I just couldn’t resist you, he had said. She was very happy about this temporary weakness – or perhaps you could call it a strength?

Seja went into the garden with her laptop. She had an hour to put together some material before she was due to pick up Hanna and her son at the bus stop. The incident by the lake hadn’t been mentioned. After Hanna’s initial refusal to answer the phone, Seja had let the matter rest.

When they eventually spoke, Hanna had been a little short with her. Markus had started chattering in the background about going riding and sleeping over at Seja’s, but Hanna suggested that Seja might not have time. Seja made it clear that she had all the time in the world. Her irritation hadn’t gone away, but it no longer chafed.

We’ll talk about it one day, she thought. I’ll explain what I really meant. But their exchange hadn’t exactly cured her of her fear of conflict.

The sound of snorting made her look up. She watched the horse rooting around among the tufts of grass and fir cones behind the
stable. Even though she knew how much Lukas would enjoy grazing on the local farmer’s extensive pasture, she was reluctant to move him. He made her feel safe.

But she really should move him.

‘What do you think about that idea, Lukas?’ she asked, kicking off her shoes under the garden table and resting her bare feet on the grass. She immediately felt a tickling sensation beneath the arch of her foot: an army of black ants on the march towards her larder.

The cat had spent the winter motionless at the bottom of the bird table, covered in a shower of seed husks, displaying the patience of a saint: one day surely a little bird would fall off. Perhaps it would forget to flap its wings, and it would be in his power. He would launch himself at the table, paw outstretched, causing a flurry of feathers. Very occasionally, he managed to catch one; he would play with the bird for a while before carrying the small dead body into the kitchen like a trophy.

The horse raised his head, registering her movements before going back to his grazing.

‘We’ll get you some company. When you come back after the summer, we’ll get you a friend.’

She was talking mostly to herself, trying to ease her guilty conscience after reading an article about the psychological stress horses could suffer if they were kept alone. She had rejected the idea of another horse; she didn’t have enough space and she couldn’t afford it. It would have to be a different animal, but she suspected that the cat didn’t count.

‘You can’t get a sheep or a goat just so the horse won’t be lonely, for God’s sake,’ Christian had expressed his view in disbelief. ‘Anyway, the horse isn’t completely stupid, is he? Surely he can see the difference between himself and a goat?’

‘Of course. But it would still be company for him. Or do you think he’ll refuse to go near a goat or a sheep?’

She knew he found it difficult to understand how she lived, but she didn’t really think the odd medium-sized animal ought to make too much of a difference. Having Lukas meant she was already tied down.

She thought about ringing Christian, if only to check whether he had arrived safely in Copenhagen, but decided against it. Sometimes he seemed determined to misunderstand her. The silly quarrel they
had had in Copenhagen had its basis in a significant issue, but that was the way things usually were with Christian. Constant guessing games, until he finally came out with the real problem in a burst of frustration. Christian found it very difficult not to interpret Seja’s care and attention as some kind of implied demand on her part. No matter how often she told him that she asked nothing of him, nothing beyond his presence at that particular moment. She had never looked for promises about the future. Except in secret, when she was alone.

And yet she was sure he wanted her as much as she wanted him. They had found a safe harbour with one another, however odd that might sound, and in spite of their many differences.

They had changed the subject from animals quite quickly, but the idea had been born, and still lingered. Seja would have other matters to discuss with the farmer apart from summer grazing; for example whether he might have a sheep he was thinking of getting rid of. But not now. Now she was going to work.

She stretched and moved to a different chair, trying to find a spot where the light didn’t create glare on the screen. In the end she gave up and took the laptop inside.

The kitchen looked dark. Pretty untidy too. She blinked away the sun-blindness. Cups filled with dark sediment cluttered the top of the wood-burning stove. She quickly washed them up and hung them up to dry on hooks above the sink.

She started to print out material relating to the Red List, which she had first heard of on her tour of Glyptoteket with the Assyriologist Alexandr Karpov. She carried on Googling, reading information on Cultural Heritage Without Borders, an organisation formed in the wake of the Yugoslav war, following the systematic destruction of Bosnia-Herzegovina. She printed out an article by a member of the Swedish Museums Association:

Red List Can Save Cultural Heritage

Just imagine: Sweden is invaded by another country. Every single item is plundered from the Nordic Museum, the National Museum and the Historical Museum. Carl Larsson’s paintings, Sergel’s sculptures and medieval baptismal fonts are sold on the black market and taken out of Sweden. Part of our cultural heritage, our history, our identity and our future is gone for ever. How would that feel?

That was what had happened in Iraq. Over the course of a couple of days in mid-April 2003, archives, libraries and museums in Baghdad had been plundered and burnt. Seja read about the list of missing artefacts which had been compiled and saved the articles on her hard drive. She didn’t know whether the information had any relevance to Christian’s investigation. As usual, he hadn’t told her very much.

39

Gothenburg

Bärneflod would never have driven to Denmark in this heat on his own initiative. Motivating himself to go to work in the mornings was difficult enough. Particularly as his own car didn’t have air-con; by the time he got halfway to work, he was stuck to the seat.

A few weeks remained before he could go on holiday. Ulla was due to start her leave in June – although how anyone could need a holiday when they only worked part-time was beyond him. Usually, this generated more work for him – Ulla didn’t see her free time as a chance to do all the things she hadn’t got round to. Instead she would wander round the garden in her new, gaudy orange sundress, which she insisted on calling a ‘maxi’, making plans. Plans which involved him.

‘Bengt, we’ve been talking about adding a veranda to the garage for years now. Don’t you think it would be nice to get it done while you’re off work?’

His idea of ‘nice’ was to spend his holiday on a sun lounger on the perfectly acceptable veranda they already had, dressed in his sun hat and Bermuda shorts, with his feet up and a strong drink in his hand.

But there was no point believing that was ever going to happen. To make matters worse, his retirement was approaching at an alarming rate. He could hear Ulla already: ‘Now you’ve got all the time in the world to do exactly as you please. The garden’s going to look lovely! And I saw a really daring solution for our hallway the other day . . .’

Bärneflod asked himself whether it might be more relaxing to carry
on working for a couple more years, rather than retiring. At least in the office he had the chance to do the odd crossword when Tell wasn’t in one of his moods.

No, if he was going to sweat his way down to Copenhagen, then it would have to be under orders and counted as overtime. He’d been in this game for a long time now, and he had learnt that you had to take responsibility for your own work–life balance. Otherwise, you were just asking to be exploited. If Bärneflod got the chance, he would have a chat with Gonzales. A kindly word of warning from an older colleague to a youngster.

According to Renée, Gonzales had taken off in a tearing hurry. Running after Tell, no doubt. Bärneflod wasn’t happy about that. He didn’t like the idea that Gonzales, who was still wet behind the ears, clearly thought he was entitled to the boss’s attention. And, above all, Bärneflod didn’t like the fact that he had no idea what was happening on the other side of Öresund. The information being shared with the rest of the team was so sparse they could already have arrested the suspect, for all he knew.

Bärneflod hadn’t called Tell, but he didn’t think that was his job. It was up to a team leader to communicate with his staff, and a lack of communication led to a vulnerable team. And as long as he heard
nada
from those hot-headed youngsters down in Copenhagen, he intended to work on the lines of enquiry he thought were worth pursuing. Rebecca Nykvist was one of them. In his opinion, nobody had looked carefully enough at Nykvist and her background. After all, she was the only one who had a decent motive up until now.

He had already found out that Henrik Samuelsson owed quite a lot of people money. The puzzling document found on his computer had indeed been a list of debts. Bärneflod would do the rounds of the people on that list, starting with those who had been most generous. Axel Donner, Henrik’s fellow student and close friend, was one of them. Not that Bärneflod really believed that someone had murdered Samuelsson for a few thousand kronor, but it was possible that Donner might know why Henrik needed the money. What Henrik was mixed up in.

Bärneflod was standing on Mariagatan. Stupidly, he hadn’t bothered to write down the address. He’d just glanced at it and thought he’d remember it, and now – gone. His memory wasn’t what it used to be.
Still, no problem. Donner was an unusual name, and quite a few of the main doors seemed to be open.

Bärneflod couldn’t understand why tenants of apartment blocks didn’t insist that decent security systems were installed. Bärneflod was very glad he’d fitted a burglar alarm a few years ago; no bastard was going to come into his house and . . .

Ding!

Because several houses on his street had been . . .

Ding!

He had to jump out of the way of two lads cycling along the pavement. They even had the nerve to ring their bells at him. By the time he had prepared a few well-chosen words, they had pulled up outside Götas Bar. Fancied a cold one, no doubt, in the middle of the day.

Slackers.

He was boiling. He had told Ulla that this was a winter jacket, but she had maintained it was chilly in the shade and the wind. And, as usual, he had done as he was told, and dressed too warmly. Since their son had stopped listening to her nagging – and thank God for that, he was an adult after all – Ulla’s ludicrous concern was directed at Bärneflod instead.

‘Not a breath of wind,’ he muttered, glaring at the jokers who were just dismounting.

Axel Donner seemed surprised when he opened the door.

‘Police.’

‘Right . . . what’s this about?’

‘Same as last time. Unless any more of your close friends have been murdered?’

Bärneflod cleared his throat pointedly when Donner didn’t answer. ‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’

Donner stepped aside reluctantly, allowing Bärneflod into the small, sparsely furnished one-room apartment. The bookcase was well filled, and there were piles of books on the floor, on a small dining table and on two shabby chairs. The only other items in the room were a mattress and a TV.

‘Have you just moved in, or do you have something against furniture?’

‘No . . . I can see why you’d think that.’ Donner gave a slightly
embarrassed laugh and took a couple of quick steps over to the window. He watched a tram heading down Älvsborgsgatan towards Jaegerdorff. Bärneflod couldn’t for the life of him understand the earlier assessment of this oddball: cooperative and a bit green.

‘I’ve put some stuff in storage while I think about what to do next.’

‘Aren’t you going to finish your education?’

Axel Donner was still half-turned away from him. The lad seemed depressed. Bärneflod looked around. This place really was miserable. In the corner the mattress lay on the floor with no sheets, just a checked blanket.

‘Did you have to sell your things?’ Bärneflod asked, more kindly this time. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a poverty-stricken student.

‘I told you, I’ve put them in storage.’ There was a certain amount of anger in Donner’s voice, but when Bärneflod looked him in the eye there was no sign of irritation. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Possessions are overrated. We just consume and throw away; buy and throw away.’

Bärneflod rolled his eyes as Axel Donner disappeared into the tiny kitchenette and started clattering around. What an arsehole. Out of curiosity – a virtue in any police officer – he peered into the closet to see if the idiot thought clothes were overrated too. Clearly he didn’t. Several shirts and sweaters were arranged neatly on hangers, with trousers folded tidily on the top shelf. On the floor he saw a surprisingly modern laptop case next to an old chest, on top of which several more piles of books were balanced. As Donner was still busy in the kitchenette, Bärneflod glanced at the books. They were in English, a language he couldn’t really understand.

‘Are you looking for something?’

Bärneflod spun around. ‘No.’

Axel Donner handed him a chipped glass containing something that looked and tasted like elderberry juice.

Bärneflod downed it in one.

‘So, how can I help you?’

‘Money,’ said Bärneflod, almost managing to suppress a belch. ‘I understand Henrik Samuelsson owed you money.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He needed to borrow cash, he didn’t have any. I had some, so I lent it to him.’

‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, Henrik Samuelsson had a well-paid partner and a house. You were alone and . . . not very well off.’

Donner shrugged.

‘I didn’t ask him what he needed the money for. He was my friend, he needed my help. I gave it.’