‘The quote,’ she said. ‘What does it say?’
‘Hang on a moment …’
He put down the phone, opened a drawer, looked through some papers, cleared his throat and came back on the line.
‘People of the world, unite and defeat the American aggressors and all their lackeys. People of the world, be courageous, and dare to fight, defy difficulties and advance wave upon wave. Then the whole world will belong to the people. Monsters of all kinds shall be destroyed.’
They thought in silence for a while, the swaying stopped.
‘“Monsters of all kinds shall be destroyed,”’ Annika said. ‘Monsters. Of all kinds. Including nursery school teachers.’
‘She taught for the Workers’ Educational Association as well. Ran courses in napkin-folding and ceramics. We’re not paying too much attention to the quotation; I don’t think you should either. The woman putting the profile together thinks he uses them as messages, like your lipstick kisses.’
‘Have you got someone in from the FBI?’ Annika asked, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, warm feet against cold wood floor.
‘That was in the seventies,’ Q said. ‘We’ve been doing our own profiles of suspects for ten years.’
‘Sorry,’ Annika said. ‘What did the profiler come up with?’
‘You can pretty much guess. Male, older rather than younger, driven by hatred of a society that he has a partially warped view of, compensating for humiliations he’s suffered. Single, few friends, poor self-image, strong need for validation, restless, has difficulties holding down a job, fairly intelligent with good physical strength. More or less.’
Annika shut her eyes and tried to memorize the details, aware that he wasn’t telling her everything.
‘So why the quotes?’ she said. ‘Why that sort of scent-marking?’
‘On some level he wants us to know. He’s so incredibly superior to us that he can afford to leave these reminders of himself.’
‘Our Ragnwald,’ she said. ‘It feels almost like I know him. Imagine how it could have been – if that plane hadn’t blown up he might have been on his way to the Nobel dinner in the City Hall in three weeks’ time.’
She realized from the surprised silence that Q hadn’t followed her train of thought.
‘Karina Björnlund,’ she said. ‘Minister of Culture. She’s going to the Nobel dinner this year, or has at least been invited, and if Ragnwald hadn’t had to disappear they would have been married.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Q said.
‘Of course, there’s no way of knowing if the marriage would have lasted, but if it had …’
‘Listen,’ Q said. ‘Where the hell did you get that from?’
Annika twisted the phone cord.
‘The banns were published,’ she said. ‘They were due to have a civil wedding in Luleå City Hall at two o’clock on the Friday after the attack.’
‘Not a chance,’ Q said. ‘If that was true we’d know about it.’
‘Marriages had to be announced in those days, they had a note in the paper.’
‘And where was this note published?’
‘The Norrland News. I’ve got a bundle of cuttings from there about Karina Björnlund. Do you really mean to tell me you didn’t know they were together?’
‘A teenage fling,’ Q said. ‘Nothing more. Besides, she ended it.’
‘Retrospective adjustment,’ Annika said. ‘Karina Björnlund would do anything to save her own skin.’
‘I see,’ Q said. ‘Little Miss Amateur-Profiler has spoken.’
Annika was thinking about Herman Wennergren’s email, request for meeting to discuss a matter of urgency, and then the Minister of Culture’s last-minute amendment of the government proposal, so that the law on the deregulation of digital broadcasters would exclude TV Scandinavia, just like Herman Wennergren wanted, and the only outstanding question was what arguments her paper’s proprietors had applied to make her change her mind.
In her mind Annika could hear her own voice asking the Trade Minister’s press secretary to convey her request for a comment on the IB affair, and heard herself revealing the Social Democrats’ biggest secrets to Karina Björnlund. And just a few weeks later Björnlund was made a minister, in one of the most unforeseen promotions ever.
‘Trust me,’ Annika said. ‘I know more about her than you do.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ Q said, and she had nothing to add because the angels were gone now, they had withdrawn to their hiding place.
She put down the phone and hurried over to her laptop, switching it on and pulling on a pair of socks as the programs loaded. She typed in the new details from the conversation until the backs of her knees started to sweat and her ankles began to freeze.
41
The doorbell rang. Annika opened the front door cautiously, not sure what she would find out there. The angels started humming anxiously, but calmed down when she saw Anne Snapphane standing there breathless on the landing, lips white, eyes red.
‘Come in,’ Annika said, backing into the flat.
Anne Snapphane didn’t answer, just walked in, hunched and self-contained.
‘Are you dying?’ Annika asked, and Anne nodded, slumped onto the hall bench and pulled off her headband.
‘It feels like it,’ she said, ‘but you know what they say in Runaway Train.’
‘Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ Annika said, sitting down beside her.
As the central heating clicked, a toilet somewhere in the building flushed, and a bus pulled up and set off again down below, they sat there staring at the cupboard with the carved pineapples that Annika had bought from a flea-market.
‘There are always noises in the city,’ Anne eventually said.
Annika let some air out from her lungs in a dull sigh. ‘At least you’re never alone,’ she said, getting up. ‘Do you want anything? Coffee? Wine?’
Anne Snapphane didn’t move.
‘I’ve stopped drinking,’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s one of those days, is it?’ Annika said, standing and looking beyond the balcony at the courtyard below. Someone had forgotten to close the door to the room containing the waste-bins, it swung back and forth in the violent winds playing round the building.
‘It feels like I’ve been thrown in a bottomless pit and I’m just falling and falling,’ Anne said. ‘It started with Mehmet and his new fuck, then the talk about Miranda living with them; and now that my job has gone there’s nothing I can hold on to any more. Drinking on top of all that would be like pressing the fast-forward button.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Annika said, putting her hand on the door-handle to help her stay upright.
‘When I walk around town everything seems so strange. I don’t remember it ever looking like this. It’s hard to breathe, somehow. Everything’s so fucking grey. People look like ghosts; I get the idea that half of them are already dead. I don’t know if I’m alive. Can anyone live like that?’
Annika nodded and swallowed audibly, the door to the bin room crashed twice, bang, bang.
‘Welcome to the darkness,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve come to keep me company.’
It took a few moments for Anne to appreciate the seriousness of her words.
‘What’s happened?’ she said, getting up, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them up. Then she joined Annika at the window, looking down at the bin room.
‘It’s a whole load of things,’ Annika said. ‘My position at work is pretty shaky; Schyman has forbidden me to write about terrorism. He thinks the Bomber made me a bit crazy.’
‘Huh,’ Anne said, folding her arms.
‘And Thomas is having an affair,’ she went on, almost in a whisper, the words rolling round the walls, growing larger and larger until they got caught on the ceiling.
Anne looked sceptically at her. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’
Annika’s throat contracted, the sticky little words wouldn’t come out. She
looked down at her hands and cleared her throat, then looked up. ‘I saw them. Outside NK. He kissed her.’
Anne’s mouth had fallen half open, scepticism and disbelief dancing across her face.
‘Are you sure? You couldn’t be mistaken?’
Annika shook her head, looked down at her hands again.
‘Her name’s Sophia Grenborg, she works for the Federation of County Councils. She’s on the same working group as Thomas – you know, the one looking into threats to politicians …’
‘Shit,’ Anne said. ‘Shit. What a bastard. What’s he say? Does he deny it?’
Annika closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ she said. ‘I’m going to deal with this my own way.’
‘What?’ Anne said. ‘Rubbish. Of course you’ve got to talk to him.’
Annika looked up. ‘I know he’s thinking about leaving me and the children. He’s started lying to me as well. And he has been unfaithful before.’
Anne looked astonished. ‘Who with?’
Annika tried to laugh and felt the stone forcing tears into her eyes.
‘With me,’ she finally said.
Anne Snapphane sighed heavily and looked at her with eyes of black glass. ‘You’ve got to talk to him.’
‘And I hear angels,’ Annika said, taking a deep breath. ‘They sing to me, and sometimes they talk to me. As soon as I get stressed they start up.’
And she shut her eyes and hummed their melancholy song.
Anne Snapphane took hold of her shoulders and pulled her round to face her with a stern, dark expression on her face.
‘You’ve got to get help,’ she said. ‘Do you hear me, Annika? For God’s sake, you can’t go round with a load of fairies in your head.’ She took a step closer, shaking Annika until her teeth rattled. ‘You mustn’t let go, Anki, listen to me.’
Annika pulled free of her friend’s grasp.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly. ‘They go away when I have something to think about. When I’m working, doing things. Do you want coffee, then?’
‘Green tea,’ Anne said. ‘If you’ve got any.’
Annika went into the kitchen with a peculiar bounce in her step, feeling the angels’ astonishment right down to her stomach. She had called their bluff. They didn’t think she’d do that; they were sure they’d be able to sing and console her and terrorize her for ever without anyone ever finding out.
She poured water in the little copper pan, lit the stove with the lighter that only just managed to muster enough of a spark to ignite the blue flames.
The voices started up, weak, isolated …
She gasped for breath and slapped the side of her head with one hand to make them shut up.
Anne came into the kitchen in her stockinged feet; she had got some colour back in her face, an inquisitive look in her eyes.
Annika tried to smile.
‘I think they’re mostly trying to comfort me,’ she said. ‘They only sing nice things.’
She walked over to the pantry and felt in the half-darkness inside for the tea.
Anne Snapphane sat down at the kitchen table. Annika could feel her eyes on her back.
‘But it’s you doing it,’ Anne said. ‘Don’t you get it? You’re consoling yourself; you’re looking after the little child somewhere in there. Did anyone sing you songs like that when you were little?’
Annika blew away a mean comment about amateur psychology and actually managed to find some Japanese tea that she’d been given by someone at work.
‘Are you serious about moving?’ she said, returning to the now-boiling water. ‘I can recommend Kungsholmen. We islanders are a bit better than everyone else.’
Anne picked up a few stray crumbs from breakfast between her thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment before replying.
‘Somehow I suppose I thought Mehmet would move out to us, or that we’d just carry on like we were for ever, if that makes any sense? He sort of … belonged, and without him it’s … wrong. It’s miserable and a long way away and the old sod downstairs is always trying to sneak a look under my dressing gown when I go down to get the paper.’
‘So what’s most important?’ Annika said, pouring tea through the strainer into the cup.
‘Miranda,’ Anne said without thinking. ‘Although I realize I can’t be a martyr and give up everything important for her sake, but the house on Lidingö has never been that important to me. Of course I like modernism, but I can probably survive without the right sort of interior design.’
‘Maybe you could put up with a bit of art nouveau if you had to?’ Annika said, carrying the mugs over.
‘Even a bit of national romanticism. Cheers.’
Annika sat down facing Anne and watched her blow on the hot drink.
‘Östermalm, you mean?’
Anne nodded, grimacing as she burned her tongue.
‘As close as possible, so she can walk between us.’
‘How big?’
‘How expensive, you mean? I can’t add anything in cash.’
They drank their tea in silence, listening to the door of the bin room bang at irregular intervals down in the courtyard. The kitchen swayed gently in the weak winter light, the angels hummed uncertainly, the stone twisted and scratched.
‘Shall we have a look online?’ Annika said, and stood up, unable to sit there any longer.
Anne slurped her tea and followed her to the computer.
Annika sat down and concentrated on icons and keys.
‘Let’s start with the ultimate,’ she said. ‘Three rooms, balcony and open fire on Artillerigatan?’
Anne sighed.
There was one like that for sale, one hundred and fifteen square metres, three floors up, in excellent condition, new kitchen, fully tiled bathroom with bath and basin, viewing Sunday at 16.00.
‘Four million?’ Anne guessed, peering at the screen.
‘Three point eight,’ Annika said, ‘but it’ll probably go up when they start getting offers.’
‘That’s absurd,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘I can’t afford that. What would the monthly payments on a four million mortgage be?’
Annika shut her eyes and did the maths in her head.
‘Twenty thousand, plus fees, but minus tax deductions.’
‘What about something smaller?’
They found a two-room flat on the ground floor on the wrong side of Valhallavägen for one and half million.
‘Unemployed,’ Anne said, sitting down heavily on the arm of Annika’s chair. ‘Abandoned by my daughter’s father, halfway to alcoholic and with a two-room flat on the ground floor. Can I sink any lower?’
‘Reporter for Radio Sjuhärad,’ Annika reminded her.
‘You know what I mean,’ Anne said, and stood up. ‘I’ll go and look at Artillerigatan, did they give the door-code?’
Annika printed out the details with the code and agent’s number.
‘Are you coming?’
Annika shook her head, and sat and listened as Anne went into the hall and pulled on her boots and coat, headband and scarf.
‘I’ll call and tell you all about it,’ she called from the front door, and the angels sang a little farewell song.
Annika quickly performed a new search and the voices faded away, as she looked at the newly built house on Vinterviksgatan in Djursholm, which was still for sale, for just six point nine million.
Oak flooring in every room, open-plan kitchen and dining room, Mediterranean-blue mosaic in both bathrooms, a level, child-friendly garden with newly planted fruit trees, for more pictures click here.
And she clicked and waited as the pictures loaded, pictures from someone else’s life, staring at a double bed in a cream-white bedroom with en-suite bathroom.
A family lives here, she thought, and they’ve decided to move. They got hold of an estate agent who did a valuation, took his digital camera and put together a stupid sales pitch, put it all on the net and now anyone can st
are at their bedroom, judge their taste, study the way they’ve filled the space.
She got up quickly and went over to the phone, dialled directory inquiries with trembling fingers. When a woman answered, she asked for the number of Margit Axelsson in Piteå.
‘I’ve got a Thord and Margit Axelsson in Pitholm,’ the operator said slowly. ‘He’s listed as an engineer, and her as a nursery school teacher, could that be right?’
She asked to be put through and waited with bated breath as the phone rang. The angels kept quiet.
An old-fashioned answer machine took the call. Her head was filled with a woman’s cheery voice against the slightly distorted background noise of a tape that’s been played too many times.
‘Hello, you’ve reached the home of the Axelsson family.’
Of course, the home of, we live here.
‘Thord and Margit aren’t in at the moment and the girls are at university, so leave a message after the beep. Bye for now.’
Annika cleared her throat as the machine clicked and whirred.
‘Hello,’ she said weakly after the signal on a tape somewhere outside Piteå. ‘My name’s Annika Bengtzon and I’m a reporter on the Evening Post. I’d like to apologize for intruding at a time like this, but I’m phoning about something particular. I know about the Mao quotation.’
She hesitated for a moment, not sure if the woman’s relatives knew that there were three letters with similar content.
‘I’m trying to contact Thord,’ she said. ‘I know you didn’t do it.’
She fell silent again, listening to the gentle hiss of the tape, wondering how long she could stay quiet before the call was cut off.
‘Over the last few weeks I’ve been investigating the explosion of a Draken plane at F21 in November nineteen sixty-nine,’ she said. ‘I know about Ragnwald; I know that he was together with Karina Björnlund—’
The receiver was picked up at the other end, and the change in background noise made her jump.
‘The explosion?’ a rough male voice said. ‘What do you know about that?’
Annika gulped. ‘Is that Thord?’
‘What do you know about F21?’ The man’s voice was curt, subdued.
‘Quite a bit,’ Annika said, and waited.
‘You can’t put anything in the paper unless you know,’ the man said. ‘You can’t do that.’
Red Wolf Page 28
