Henrietta drew in her breath. “Used to…”
“I don’t wish to lead us into theological discussion,” said Dr. Ebke. “Our plates are full enough as it is.”
Peter was clearly not convinced by the answer he had been given. “But if the dreaded event materialises, how would you know that it was not caused by the non-observance of what you call the ritual…”
“And which others might call a precaution,” muttered Ulf.
“Yes. If I failed to take the precaution of taking out and putting away my shirts, and my plane came down, how would you know—in the firm sense of the word know—that this was not a result of my not doing what I always do? How would you?”
Dr. Ebke waved a hand dismissively. “I’d apply the normal rules of scientific causation—as we understand them. We know from experience that the folding of shirts has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with aviation disasters.” He looked at Peter, as if to challenge him. “I would have thought that with your training you would know that too.” He paused. “I take it that you understand Bernoulli’s Principle.”
“Of course I do,” Peter snapped. “I’m a qualified pilot.”
“Then you rely on science, don’t you?” Dr. Ebke retorted. “And your only hope of dealing with your OCD, if I may be permitted to say this, is through psychological intervention—and psychology is a branch of science.”
Peter stared dumbly at the floor. “I suppose you’re right.”
Henrietta was sitting next to Peter, and now she reached out and laid a hand on his forearm. “We’re all with you,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I try and try, you know. I try really hard.”
Ulf felt a pang of sympathy. “Of course you do,” he said. “And remember, we all have our problems. All of us. Even Dr. Ebke here—he’ll have problems.”
Henrietta seemed interested. “That’s a point,” she said. Turning to Dr. Ebke, she asked, “What are your problems, Dr. Ebke? Could we talk about those, do you think?”
* * *
—
Time passed quickly, and before they knew it it was five o’clock, and the meeting broke up. Ulf accompanied Ebba out into the car park, where they chatted briefly before she let herself into the Fiat Bambino. Ulf had found her the most interesting of the participants—Henrietta went on for far too long about herself and her personal quests, and Peter was simply too anxious to engage with in any meaningful way. Ebba, by contrast, spoke about her difficulties in a balanced and unindulgent way.
“I know that my problems are nothing compared to those of others,” she had said. “It’s just this inability to make up my mind. It’s odd. It strikes at strange times—over comparatively small matters. Often not big things—just little decisions, such as whether to have one slice of toast or two. That sort of thing.”
Dr. Ebke had led that discussion. He blamed Ebba’s mother, who they had been told had been in charge of the nursing staff in a large teaching hospital. “I don’t wish to disparage your mother in any way,” he had said. “But she might well have been a perfectionist—in that position. And that might have led her—I’m not necessarily saying it did—but it might have led her to imposing very high standards on you. So, you can’t choose because your mother’s there, still looking over your shoulder.”
Ebba listened carefully. “She lives in Finland now. Her second husband was a Finn.”
Dr. Ebke smiled. “I didn’t mean that she’s there physically. I meant she’s there as a presence.” He looked at each member of the group in turn. “We are surrounded by presences, you know. They are always there. Our parents, our grandparents, and even more distant ancestors, handing on their psychological burden, their unresolved issues.”
In the car park at the end of the day, Ulf said to Ebba, “Well, I hope you feel that was helpful.”
She said that she did. “And you?” she asked.
“A bit. I suppose it was useful to talk to all of you about my feelings for my work.”
She nodded. “I found what you had to say very interesting. Your job must be extraordinary—and put you under real stress at times. This department you work in—this Department of Sensible Crimes…”
“Sensitive,” Ulf corrected her. “Department of Sensitive Crimes.”
“Yes, of course. You must see some very distressing things.”
“Sometimes,” said Ulf. “But not very often. There’s very little gore, if that’s what you mean. We don’t do murder and such things. If we see distress, it’s usually over some very minor thing, some odd criminal activity that doesn’t fit any of the big categories. It’s all very polite stuff. Very Swedish. I don’t think there’s another Department of Sensitive Crimes anywhere in the world. It’s just us.”
He looked at her. She was an attractive woman, and she was of just the right age for him—mid-thirties, he thought, perhaps a touch older. He wondered whether it would be appropriate for him to suggest dinner, if she was going back to Malmö. He was not sure of the etiquette: If you met somebody suitable in a group therapy session, was it inherently coercive to invite her to dinner? One had to be so careful these days, when dating was a minefield for the unwary.
He started to say, “There’s a new restaurant opened up. I was keen to give it a try and—”
Ebba cut him short. “I really must be on my way,” she said, looking at her watch. “Nils is expecting me to pick something up on the way home. We share the cooking, and it’s my turn tonight.”
“Of course,” said Ulf, sighing inwardly. People assured him there were plenty of unattached women and he would find no difficulty in meeting one, but all the women he met seemed to be attached. Anna was. Oh, Anna, if only you weren’t so ... so attached. If only ... He wondered what Nils was like. They shared the cooking, Ebba had said, which meant that he was a considerate and helpful type. It would be a strong and stable relationship, he suspected; to imagine anything else was wishful thinking—fired by envy, perhaps.
He watched as she got into her car. He saw her put the key in the ignition and start the engine. Then she sat quite still, her hand poised over the gear lever. And he realised at that moment that she could not decide whether to engage a forward or reverse gear.
Chapter Three
MAFIA CEMENT
The following Monday, Ulf began his morning, as he always did, with a large cappuccino in the coffee bar opposite the Department of Sensitive Crimes. This bar was popular not only with the members of the department, but also with the staff of the offices in the immediate area: a pension fund, a firm of consultant engineers, a publishing company, and a firm that clearly did something significant, but nobody knew exactly what it was. This firm, Olafsson and Co., had a staff of about twenty people, all of whom seemed to dress in much the same style and, what was perhaps more surprising, looked rather like one another. Ulf and his colleagues referred to them as the Olafssonssons and occasionally tried, unsuccessfully, to engage them in conversation in the coffee bar. They were not rude, of course, but seemed to discourage enquiries as to their activities, which of course only whetted the interest of the Department of Sensitive Crimes.