What happened next isn’t clear, but she didn’t get any help, and nor did she show any significant improvement. In autumn 2002, Stockholm’s drug squad cleared a drug den in Bandhagen where they found Marika Alderin and others. She was convicted of possession and sent to a rehab centre. She was soon out, but within months she was once again in custody.
So it goes on, until 2005, when something happened: she absconded from a rehab centre at the end of April, took an overdose, and fell into the psychosis in which she remains to this day.
That was her condition when she attempted murder in central Stockholm, leading to her being sectioned that autumn. She was so heavily sedated on the drive up to Säter that she was all but unconscious.
‘She’s been with us about five years,’ says Plit. ‘You can see there, up at the top, when we took over her care from Säter. Twenty-fourth of August 2009.’
‘Does she know that her father is dead?’
‘Yes. We told her as soon as we found out.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did she react at all?’
‘Well, maybe she did,’ says Plit. ‘But not so we noticed.’
Marika Alderin has her legs crossed, and her hands in her lap, her neck and head hanging like a vulture’s. She was once dark-haired, but now her shoulder-length hair is streaked with grey. A limp centre-parting hangs over her forehead, fringe uneven, the hairstyle that young children end up with when their parents cut their hair. Her face was probably beautiful, but someone has twisted all her features, made her eyes too big for her nose, her mouth too wide for her chin. She looks funny, yet not funny at all. She moves her mouth mechanically, like someone chewing gum, and stares at Birck, who is sitting in the chair opposite her.
It feels as though he’s trespassing, entering a place where he really shouldn’t be.
‘Marika. My name is Gabriel. I would like to talk to you.’
Her voice is deep and dark, and as rough as sawdust.
‘The child is the father of the man.’
She looks from the tabletop to Birck, raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ Birck says gingerly.
‘Yes.’ She folds her arms as best she can and rocks from side to side in her chair. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
‘If you don’t want to talk to me, just say so. Then I’ll go away.’
‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.’
‘I think somebody has been coming here to see you. A man.’
She cocks her head to one side, blinks once, and smiles weakly.
‘It burned up. Soot and ash were all that was left.’
‘Marika, I want to ask you about the man who was here. I’m going to show you a picture of him. You can just say yes or no, that’s plenty. Do you understand?’
Her face shifts form again, to something approaching anticipation.
‘Yes.’
He clicks through to the picture of Charles Levin, and holds the phone up towards her. She leans forward.
‘Has he been here to visit you?’
‘Younger, eh?’
‘Was he younger, the man who visited you?’
She shakes her head.
‘Is he younger in the picture than he was in reality?’
‘You are much younger.’
This makes Birck laugh, a resigned chuckle.
‘It’s true.’
He leaves the phone on the table in front of her.
‘It burned up. Soot and ash were all that was left.’
‘What burned up, Marika?’
‘The car. It burned up.’
‘There was a car that burned up?’
‘Uh-huh. The car. Burned up.’
She looks down. Ribbons of grey and dark hair fall across her cheeks. The phone’s key lock kicks in, and the screen goes black.
‘Could you look at the picture again, Marika?’
‘If you like.’
‘I would like you to.’
Birck opens the picture again.
‘Pain,’ she says.
‘Are you in pain?’
‘Uh-huh. Pain from looking.’
‘So you do recognise him?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She starts rocking on the chair again. ‘Oh, yes. Never forget him.’
‘So he is the one that visited you?’
‘The child is the father of the man.’
‘Marika …’
‘Soot and ash were all that was left.’
Something bubbles up inside her, as if something’s waking up: a giggle. The giggle is intense, and it grows and grows until it escapes from her mouth and she flings herself from side to side in her chair, an invisible hand grabbing hold of her, and the giggle becomes a laugh that violently bounces back and forth from one wall to the other.
Bloody Leo, sending him here, to one of the saddest places on earth, for no good reason.
‘Thank you, Marika. I’ll leave you in peace.’
She goes quiet, stops, and looks at him. Her eyes reveal an emptiness so discomfiting that he shivers.
‘You can sleep with me if you like,’ she whispers.
Birck gets up from the chair and makes for the door. He’s embarrassed.
He’d like to have a stiff drink to dull his emotions, or smoke a cigarette to keep his hands busy, just something to do. He doesn’t do either; instead, he stands there in the car park and concentrates on his lungs, filling them with air and then letting it out again. Control, he thinks to himself. I must keep control of this.
Then he goes in again, past the security check and along the corridor that leads back there. When Birck returns, Plit raises an eyebrow.
‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘I just needed to go out for a little while.’
Plit looks like he understands. It might be something that everyone in here needs to do from time to time, just to get through it.
‘Lunch.’ Plit looks at the clock. ‘You hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. But we should go somewhere anyway.’
‘So yeah.’ Plit scratches his beard and takes a bite of his sandwich. The smell of roast beef and fried egg smothered in a surprising volume of curry mayonnaise is a strong one. ‘Talking to Marika Alderin isn’t that straightforward.’
‘She did recognise Levin, though — I could tell.’
The little canteen at the far end of St Göran’s is calm and quiet; the air is light and pleasant. A good place for Plit, now busy with another bite of his sandwich, to talk about the kind of things he really should be keeping quiet about. Birck pokes a carrot stick into the little plastic tub of hummus.
‘The problem is that there’s this invisible wall between her and the outside world,’ Plit says.
‘But she’s no cabbage. She does register things.’
‘Yes,’ says Plit. ‘Sometimes, some days, like today. We know that music helps — she likes listening to music. She did have an MP3 player for a while, but we had to take it off her a week or so ago. She’s only allowed to have it in her room, but she’d taken it out with her.’
‘But if music helps …’
‘I know. But rules is rules — what am I supposed to do? The only time I’ve ever heard her saying anything coherent, in the whole time she’s been here, she was talking to another client. We think they must be old acquaintances, that their paths must have crossed at some point, and that Marika used to enjoy his company. It seemed to activate something inside her. That made us look again at our assessment of her condition. We believe that —’
‘Who?’ Birck interrupts.
‘Eh?’
‘Who,’ Birck continues slowly, ‘is the client?’
NOVEMBER 1984
Charles and Paul meet up with the Resident to receive the
remainder of their share of the money from the VAX computers. The Resident calls it their remuneration. They arrive in Paul’s car and then drive round the block.
As they climb out of the car, there’s a bright flash in Charles’ peripheral vision, like one from a camera. He turns his head. There’s some kind of party, a banquet or reception, going on in the building over there. It might have been that.
The Resident doesn’t notice it, but Charles, still standing by the car, about to close the passenger door, goes stiff.
Shadows. Shadows in the darkness.
A man calls Paul’s direct number. He’s upset and angry. He works as a secretary at one of the companies set up by The Bureau’s Operations Department for use in their undercover missions. Setting up companies in the first place had been the Director’s idea, but now, years later, he seems to regret it. They’re hard to control. The man on the phone says that something weird happened an hour ago.
‘There was a woman here asking whether a black Citroën with registration SOM 364 is registered to this company.’
SOM 364. Paul’s car.
‘I said yes,’ said the secretary. ‘What the hell was I supposed to say? “Has it been stolen?” she asked. “No,” I said, “not as far as I know.” Then she asked if we were an ordinary firm of accountants. “Yes, sure,” I said, “we are indeed.” Then she asked how come, since the car is registered to us, and it hasn’t been stolen, it’s being used by two SEPO employees.’
‘Now I don’t follow,’ Paul says into the receiver, and Charles is sitting right next to him.
It feels like a cold grasping hand, going straight for the heart.
‘She showed me a photograph,’ the secretary says. ‘A picture taken close to the East German Embassy. Your face and your colleague’s face are clearly visible. Worse still, the East German Resident Minister in Sweden is also visible.’ The secretary is quieter now, sounds more curious than upset. ‘What kind of contact have you had with him?’
‘What’s the journalist’s name?’
‘Cats Falck.’
Paul ends the call. Charles is still there in his room. They discuss it at length: How could she get that close to them? What have they missed? Could she have seen the car and made a note of its numberplate? If so, when?
‘For fuck’s sake, Paul. She’s got photographic evidence.’
Paul is chain-smoking. Charles opens the window. Paul goes and closes it. Charles sees the paranoia in his eyes, and it’s getting worse.
Time. Time is the only thing in life that can’t be frozen, the only thing in constant motion, at the same speed, regardless of whether or not you try to resist. Certain phenomena are much greater than man.
The digital clock is ticking away in front of Charles: 22:14:55, 22:14:56, 22:14:57. Next to it, the cassette is in place in the recorder, still and silent, activated only when the receiver at the other end picks up a sound.
22:15:00. Forty-five minutes remaining until Paul arrives.
A cold evening rain is falling.
The city is closing in around him, allowing the shadows to form and the countless alleys to become even deeper. Whatever you’re looking for in this city, you can find it on one of its backstreets. To enter one is tempting — to allow yourself to disappear down its throat.
The apartment is opposite Barnängsgatan 40, and the kitchen is the only place where the static crackle isn’t unbearable. This is also where the shadows are longest.
22:19:42.
He adjusts the headphones. They’re scratchy, and as soon as you touch them the connection scrapes and crackles so loud that it could be coming from inside your own head.
Charles has started reacting every time he hears sirens, imagines that they’ve found him out and that they’re coming to take him away.
Paul planted the mic yesterday, once she’d left the flat for the day. Charles recalls a small living room, and yes, it should be in there somewhere, perhaps in a vase or inside a lampshade. The receiver is supposed to activate only in response to human voices, but it’s old equipment and can also react to radio or television or creaking doors and windows.
Crackling. Charles swears.
22:47:11.
22:47:12.
Now.
She arrives home, gets off her bike, and disappears into the entrance. The lights in the stairwell flicker.
22:48:09. The light in her hall comes on.
22:48:50. Clicking in the headphones. Charles holds his breath. The tape starts rolling, misses the opening words.
‘… Cats. Is Lena there? Thanks.’
Her phone, shit, they should’ve tapped the phone, too.
‘Hi, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, but I’ve only just got in … No, at work … Listen, Lena, you don’t get it, I’ve been hanging around the embassy all afternoon. I’ve got a fucking huge thing in the works. They’re going to give me a Pulitzer for this.’
She laughs.
Charles is nauseous.
‘We will, tomorrow when we meet up. That’s what I wanted to double check. I’m coming round to yours and then we’ll clean up. Later on, in the evening, how about drinks at Öhrns Hörn? … Ring your brother then, and make sure we get a table. Then we can go to Café Opera afterwards … Good. Okay … Yep, I’ll call Ulla as well. How nice. It’ll be really fun. See you tomorrow … Bye.’
She hangs up, but there’s a thirty-second delay before the microphone deactivates, so Charles can hear her dial another number. The conversation that follows between her and Ulla — who is that? — is shorter than the last one, they only mention tomorrow.
He’s sweating. It’s running down over his temples, and the headphones are getting wet, the sound even noisier. He adjusts them again, wipes his ears with his T-shirt.
Half a minute goes by. The noise stops, and the microphone shuts down. The lights in the flat stay on. She sallies past, a little way away from the window.
22:54:31. Another click in the headphones. The radio’s on, that’s why. He can hear her footsteps; hear her brushing her teeth, running the tap. He hears Bob Dylan singing about fate, hears her getting undressed. It’s an intimate moment, one that makes him feel ashamed.
22:58:50. Out in the hall, the barrel of the lock turns. Paul arrives.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks.
‘She’s got something on the go, something she thinks will win her a Pulitzer prize.’
Paul laughs.
‘Pride comes before a fall.’
Charles leaves the room, goes out into the hall, and picks up the phone. The receiver is heavy and red.
Marika is at Jenny’s. That much he remembers, but not the telephone number of their house out in Danderyd. Charles sighs and calls Pauline. It’s a while before she answers, and when she does she giggles out her name. There’s loud music in the background, and shouting. Once he’s got the number out of her, he says thanks. Pauline hangs up without saying anything. Maybe she is a spy after all, he thinks to himself.
‘Hi,’ Charles says when Marika comes to the phone. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Watching a film.’
‘Which one?’
‘Dad, what do you want?’
‘I just want to know what you’re doing.’
‘Why?’
Charles has only met Jenny once, but he doesn’t like her. She was wearing worn-out, patched-up jeans and a shameful amount of make-up, and had the sweet smell of perfume and cigarettes. There was something in her eyes that worried him.
‘What are Jenny’s mum and dad doing?’
‘They’re away.’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘I did actually, but you weren’t listening.’<
br />
‘Marika, are you drunk?’
She slams the receiver down so hard that it rebounds off the hook and the line stays open. Charles hears her walking away, hears Jenny ask, ‘What the fuck was that about?’ and Marika answering, ‘Nothing. No one.’ Then, Marika again: ‘Top me up?’
They are twelve. Twelve.
There’s a song playing in the background, perhaps on the telly, and it’s a song he’s heard before, but it’s never hit him like this before. He’s standing there in the darkness with the receiver in his hand listening to ‘Dancing in the Dark’ and his daughter getting a top-up, giggling, saying, ‘Not too much, you’re spilling it, you’re spilling it,’ until the track fades out.
Charles returns to the kitchen and starts to say something, but Paul hushes him while staring without blinking, his jaws clenching tightly as he listens.
Charles sits down on the far side of the table. The tape is rolling. The time: 23:14:02. There’s a burning sensation behind his eyes. He needs a night of undisturbed sleep. He can’t remember when he last managed to grab more than two or three hours in a row. Every night he’s woken by sweat, paranoia, fear.
The sound leaks from the headphones: Cats Falck’s voice. Has she got visitors? Is she on the phone again? He glances at the window. The curtains are dark green and look a bit like a fringe.
The headphones go quiet. The seconds tick away.
What will he do if something happens to Marika? What if she gets too drunk?
The tape stops. Paul takes off the headphones.
‘What?’ says Charles. ‘What is it?’
Paul stares out the window.
‘We should’ve bugged the phone.’
‘That occurred to me, too.’
He rewinds the tape a bit.
‘She called someone, I don’t know who. Put the headphones on.’
Charles listens to the recording’s background noise. Then, the voice: ‘Hello? … Hi, it’s me, is this a bad time?’ Short silence. ‘Okay, great. Yes, listen, I’d like to talk to you again. I just came back from … My phone, at home. Why? … Aha, no, no worries. I’m starting to understand how it all adds up now. What I’d like to ask is … Yes, sure, but all I want you to do is confirm something, if it’s true, of course. You don’t need to mention any names … No, yours won’t be mentioned. You’re my background, that’s all. Right, so …’
Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case Page 21
