Grendel's Game by Erik Mauritzson Page B

at home. He took the stairs and went out the front entrance into the square.
    Near the large nineteenth-century bronze fountain in the middle of the plaza was a flower stall with a bright green-and-white-striped awning. He chose a huge bunch of blue irises, which the vendor wrapped in sheets of green tissue paper. Handing her 265 kronor, he was surprised how expensive they were, but figured they must have been flown in from somewhere south.
    Heading back across the square to headquarters, for the second time that day he felt as though he were being watched, but looking around, saw nothing that caught his attention. He walked the short distance to the garage entrance, and nodding to the security officer—who eyed the flowers, obviously curious—Ekman went down the ramp to his car.
    I t was four P.M . He hadn’t told Ingbritt he’d be home early. When he pulled into the garage he saw her car wasn’t there. He thought about calling her on her mobile, but decided she’d be back shortly.
    Ekman hung his coat in the closet, leaving his gun in the pocket. What would Ingbritt do with the flowers? Going into the kitchen, he found a suitable vase in a cabinet, and taking it to the sink, filled it with warm water. Unwrapping the flowers and cutting their stems with kitchen shears, he placed them in the vase, arranging them as he’d seen her do. He put it in the center of the table and examined his effort. It was satisfactory.
    Pleased with himself, he took out the Renat, and poured himself a drink. He felt he deserved one; it had been an extraordinary day, his first as a crime victim.
    Taking the glass to his study, he settled into his big, dark-green leather recliner, reaching to the side table for the book he’d last been reading two days ago. It was an impressive biography of Peter the Great, who had, by sheer force of personality, dragged a still medieval Russia, kicking and screaming, into eighteenth-century Western Europe. His mortal enemy, Sweden’s Charles XII, was another megalomaniac with unbounded ambition. Both had built their achievements, thought Ekman, at tremendous cost in human suffering.
    Like Grendel, Peter and Charles believed they were above any law. Today, they could be labeled war criminals, Ekman mused, hauled before the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity. Perhaps things had gotten somewhat better. At least our perception of right and wrong had become a little clearer, although constant wars seemed to be the human lot. Maybe we’re the victims of our genes and nothing can be done about it. He hoped he was wrong and that people willing a less violent world could somehow make it happen.
    At that moment he heard first the garage door, and then the door to the hall, open and close.
    â€œIngbritt,” he called, “I’m in here.” There was no answer.
    For an instant, Ekman became irrationally anxious, until he heard her cheerful, “Thank you for the flowers, Walther. They’re beautiful.”
    Today’s incident has made me edgy, he thought, as he pulled himself out of the recliner, and went into the kitchen.
    â€œYou’re home early,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”
    â€œI’m just a little tired,” he replied. “Although,” he paused, “there is something else.”
    â€œSit down and tell me what’s happened,” she said, concerned.
    He told her about the robbery.
    Her face went white.
    â€œ W alther, how awful for you,” she said, as she came over and kissed him, putting an arm around his shoulders.
    â€œWell, after the first moments, it wasn’t so bad. It could have been a lot worse. I could have been injured, or I could have done something stupid if I’d had a gun and shot them. It actually crossed my mind. Apart from Holm, no one knows, and I intend to leave it that way. Otherwise, I’d look foolish, even though I couldn’t do anything about