“Ulf Varg,” the postman said. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
Ulf gave the man a warning look. “And what do you mean by that?”
The postman was uncowed. “That man back there,” he said, tossing his head contemptuously in the direction of the court building. “That Danior person…” The word person was spat out. “Do you know anything about him? Do you know what he does?”
Ulf shrugged. “I know he’s a traveller, if that’s what you mean. But those people have exactly the same rights as you and I, er…”
“Johansson.”
“Well, Johansson, the law doesn’t discriminate.”
Johansson smiled. “Oh, I know that, Ulf. You don’t have to tell me that. But do you know what Viligot Danior was doing? Do you know why the minister did what he did?”
Ulf stared at the postman, thinking of the reluctance of the witnesses—fifteen people who must have seen something. Fifteen! “I thought you didn’t see anything.”
“It’s nothing to do with what I saw or didn’t see,” retorted the postman. “I’m talking about what Danior was up to. He and those sons of his. There are three of them. Nasty pieces of work, every one of them. Covered in tattoos.”
Ulf waited.
“They steal tyres,” said the postman. “We’re a small town out there, Ulf, and we’ve all had tyres stolen from our cars. They arrived in our area, and next thing—surprise surprise—we started to lose our tyres. They just remove them—the wheels as well, some of the time.”
“Danior does this, you say?”
The postman nodded.
Ulf frowned. “And the local police? What do they say about this?”
This brought a laugh from the postman. “They’ve been told not to lean on them. It’s something to do with community sensitivity. They look the other way.”
Like you, thought Ulf. And yet ...
“So, Danior and his sons stole the minister’s wheels. He has a Volvo—a nice car. But two of his wheels were removed, along with one other tyre, and the spare.”
Ulf sighed. “And how did he know it was Danior?”
“Because he saw one of the sons doing it. He chased after him, but the boy jumped into a car and made himself scarce. So next time he came across Danior in the town, he lost his self-control and took a swing at him.” The postman paused. “It could happen to anybody. Even you, you know—if you don’t mind my saying it.”
Ulf was silent. He imagined how he would feel if somebody stole the tyres of his Saab. And yet the whole point of having a system of justice was to prevent people from taking matters into their own hands and assaulting those who wronged them. That was the whole point. And yet ...
He sighed again. Suddenly he felt tired, as if burdened by the whole edifice of the state and its rationale. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But we can’t have people assaulting others because of something they’ve done. We just can’t.”
The postman looked down at the ground. “I sometimes wonder what’s happened to this country,” he said.
Ulf looked at him. “I understand what you’re saying.”
“Do you?”
Ulf nodded. “It’s not as simple as you think, Johansson. It just isn’t.”
And then it had become even more complicated. Three days previously, Ulf had returned home one evening to discover a note from his neighbour, Agnes Högfors. A large package had been left for him, she said, and she had taken delivery of it. It would be waiting for him when he came to collect Martin. Martin was Ulf’s dog, who was looked after during the day by Agnes. She was particularly fond of him, as Martin was of her.
The package was crudely wrapped in plain brown paper. Ulf took it back to his flat where he discovered that it was a silver Saab grille, of the exact vintage and style for which he had been searching. His own grille had been damaged and needed replacing, and here was the exact part he needed.
There was a note. Ulf Varg, it read. Thank you for standing up for me. You’re an honest man, Ulf, and I thought you might like this. I noticed your car needed it. With thanks, Viligot.
There were procedures for such things, and Ulf knew that he should immediately return the gift. He intended to do this, and the following day he drove out to the site where he had first interviewed Viligot: a caravan park outside the town in which the original offence had taken place. But there was no sign of Viligot, his sons, or indeed of anybody else.
“They’ve decamped, thank God,” said a woman in the town when Ulf made enquiries. “Good riddance, we think.” Then she added, “They’ve taken most of our tyres—and other bits and pieces from our cars.”
Ulf felt himself blushing. The Saab grille had been stolen—and now it was in his car, sitting on the back seat, in full view of anybody who might walk past and glance through the window. He thanked the woman and drove back to his flat in Malmö. Once parked, he took the grille from the back seat and carried it into his flat. There was nobody about, but he felt that he was being watched from more than one window. He glanced upwards, and saw a movement at one of the neighbours’ windows. There was now at least one witness to his handling of stolen goods.
He knew what he had to do. The manual of proper police conduct stated quite clearly that gifts from those with whom one had professional dealings were to be returned to the donor. In certain circumstances—such as where the gift was from a grateful member of the public who would be offended by its return—it could be kept, but only with the official permission of the Commissioner’s department. When a gift was thought to be stolen property, then it should be handed in to a superior officer along with a report on the grounds for concluding that it was stolen. This had to be done within twenty-four hours of receiving the gift. Ulf had intended to do this, but it had slipped his mind. Now three days had elapsed and it was too late to do anything, unless his report falsified the time of his receiving the gift. And Ulf would not tell a deliberate lie, least of all on an official form.
Chapter Two
IN DEFENCE OF STEREOTYPES
From the roadside, the sign reading The Inner You, this way was barely visible. Ulf recognised his destination, though, from the photograph he had seen on the leaflet given to him by Dr. Svensson. This publication set out the activities of the centre, including the Saturday group session on “Untying Your Past” that Dr. Svensson recommended.
“We’ve made undoubted progress,” the therapist said, “but sometimes it’s useful to get a different perspective on things, and ‘Untying Your Past’ is conducted by a very good friend of mine, a German, Hans Ebke. He’s practising in Stockholm now, but was highly thought of by the Max Planck Institute people down in Leipzig. Very highly.”