The Long Shadow

by Liza Marklund

  Part 3

  AFTER WHITSUN

  The Angel at Gudagården

  To start with there was only sky and meadows. Air and space and wind.

  There were Mother’s strong arms and the scented bed-linen. The pattern of the scrubbed floor-tiles, the shimmering water of the lake, and singing in the evenings.

  He has opened the pearly gates

  So that I may come in,

  Through His blood he has saved me

  To keep me with Him.

  She had no early memories of Father. He was there at a distance, always on the edge of her vision, because he was so tied to the earth: land, farm, winds. She herself was always slightly elevated, without any real contact with the ground, and that was because she was an angel.

  That was what Mother always said.

  ‘You’re my little angel,’ she said, or Du bist mein Engel, because Mother always spoke her own language, the Angels’ Language.

  And she would float and dance over Gudagården like the blessed child she was, conceived without sin with the approbation of the Lord. Father didn’t like her talking to the other children on the farm, but she did anyway, because God talks to everyone, and He sees and hears everything. And everyone was kind and friendly towards her, smiled and said nice things, because, of course, she was the preacher’s daughter. Everyone except the Troll Girl.

  It was a mystery.

  The Angel was a bit scared of the Troll Girl. Not very scared, because as an angel she was the servant of the Lord, and no one could be safer than God’s host of children, but the Troll Girl hid her voice and had narrow black eyes that could see round corners.

  The only person the Troll Girl was prepared to show her voice to was the Princess, the most beautiful of all princesses in the whole world. In fact she was almost an angel too, because she could actually speak the Angels’ Language. She had heard the girls talking to each other up under the roof where they lived; they only spoke when they thought no one was listening, and the Princess told stories about the Castle Among the Clouds, and the Troll Girl talked about the Little Match Girl who froze to death and became a falling star in the sky.

  But the Troll Girl’s weasel eyes saw her on the stairs and she drove her away with hard fists.

  Then came the day when Wall-eye put his hand on the Princess for the first time. The Troll Girl hit him on the head with a stone and he let go of the Princess and rushed after the Troll Girl, who hid right at the back of the tool-shed.

  And the Angel, she saw it all, and she knew that the task of angels is to protect and help, so she followed them into the shed and saw how Wall-eye found a knife and circled round the Troll Girl with the blade sticking out.

  ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ she said, in her high, clear angel’s voice, and Wall-eye looked in her direction, angry.

  ‘Get out of here,’ he said.

  But angels help people in need, even troll girls, so she took another step into the tool-shed.

  ‘Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon thy land,’ she said.

  ‘Ma’s dead and Dad’s been locked up to dry out. That’s why I’m in this hell-hole,’ Wall-eye said, his voice cracking.

  ‘We should fear and love God that we may not harm our neighbour’s life or cause him suffering, but help and defend him in every danger and need,’ the Angel said, going up to him and taking hold of the knife.

  Wall-eye sniffed, let go of it and ran for the door.

  It was completely quiet once the boy had disappeared. The dust danced in the rays of sunlight. The Troll Girl was staring at her open-mouthed, and then she let the Angel hear her voice. ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked, and all of a sudden the Angel felt bashful.

  ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,’ she said, ‘and thy neighbour as thyself. So Jesus says.’

  The Troll Girl took a step towards her and her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a bit simple?’

  The Angel shook her head.

  And from that day on she was allowed to go with the Troll Girl and the Princess wherever they went around the farm. Father and Mother didn’t want her to join in with the sowing and reaping, but she replied with the words of the Lord, ‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,’ and they let her be. Together they whirled round, between the mist’s frosty down, at rest and play, and the Angel learned of other worlds, where there was a great man who lost a mighty war, and cold nights in damp cellars where drunken men bought drink and love. Yes, they did everything together, through summers, autumns, winters and springs, until that night in August when the terrible thing happened and the Troll Girl and the Princess vanished from Gudagården for ever, and the Angel’s long journey towards the underworld began.

  —- Original Message —-

  TT NEWSFLASH: Filip Andersson cleared.

  Press Conference: Lawyer Sven-Göran Olin’s office

  Skeppsbron 28, at 10.30 a.m.

  (nnnn)

  Tuesday, 14 June

  29

  It felt as if summer would never arrive. There hadn’t been a single day when the air had been mild. The north winds had the whole country in a cast-iron grip, and the weather-forecasters had nothing good to say.

  Annika pulled her jacket tighter round herself as she headed for the bus. Rain was lingering in the treetops. She passed the billboards for that day’s papers outside a Seven-Eleven: ‘HOW TO GET AWAY TO THE SUN’ and ‘RAIN FORECAST FOR MIDSUMMER’. Sadly her paper had the negative message, and their competitors the optimistic one. So there was no doubt who was going to win the circulation war today.

  She missed the bus and waited in the doorway of number 32 Hantverkargatan to escape the rain that had now decided to fall. She looked up at the arched doorway above her head: this was where she and Thomas had lived together for several years. It seemed so unreal, like something she’d read about or seen in a film.

  He hadn’t been in touch since the Costa del Sol. ‘I’ll call you,’ was the last thing he had said when he’d dropped her off at the airport, and he had looked as if he meant it, but he hadn’t.

  She hadn’t called either. In fact she had bought Kalle a mobile phone and taught him how to charge it so that she wouldn’t have to call the flat on Grev Turegatan when she wanted to say goodnight to the children.

  She missed them already, even though she had had them for the Whit weekend and had only just dropped them off at their schools.

  She hadn’t heard anything from Niklas Linde either, but she hadn’t been expecting to.

  Not even Jimmy Halenius had called, but that was probably down to a mass break-out from Österåker Prison, which had had serious political consequences. Obviously, all the opposition parties were calling for the justice minister’s resignation, as if he had personally driven the bulldozer through the wall of the prison. It looked as if he’d survive, as usual, thanks to a few tactical appointments and a large dose of natural political talent.

  The bus pulled up and she scrambled on board. She had to stand all the way to Gjörwellsgatan.

  Tore the caretaker made straight for her when she came through the door. ‘You didn’t fill up the car the last time you borrowed it,’ he said, standing squarely in front of her.

  Her mobile rang and she fished it up at the end of the hands-free cable and checked the screen: a number she didn’t recognize.

  ‘Do you think I’m some kind of errand boy with nothing better to do than clear up after you?’ he said.

  ‘Hello?’ Annika said, into the phone.

  ‘Annika? Hi! It’s Polly.’ The voice was high-pitched and bright, like a little girl’s. She closed her eyes to shut out the whining caretaker. Polly: Polly Sandman, Suzette’s friend. She’d never heard her voice before, just exchanged emails with her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, turning away from Tore and walking towards the newsroom. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Next time you want a car from here you can whistle for it!’ Tore shouted after her.

  �
�You said I should call you,’ Polly said, ‘if Suzette got in touch.’

  Annika stopped in the middle of the newsroom. Patrik caught sight of her from the newsdesk and leaped to his feet, bouncing towards her with a bundle of notes in his hand.

  ‘Has she?’ Annika asked. ‘She’s been in touch?’

  ‘As Mr Gunnar Larsson,’ Polly said. ‘This time she wrote a message as well.’

  ‘Press conference at Skeppsbron, half an hour,’ Patrik said, handing her a printout from the bundle. ‘You’re going at once, with Steven.’

  ‘What?’ Annika said, taking the earpiece out. ‘Who’s Steven?’

  ‘Filip Andersson’s been released. New temp photographer.’

  ‘Hello?’ Polly said in the earpiece.

  Annika put it back in. ‘Can we meet up?’ she asked. ‘Bring your laptop or a printout of the message. Where will you be at lunchtime?’

  Polly mentioned a café on Drottninggatan, right in the city centre. Annika had never heard of it, which probably meant it was terribly trendy. She saw a tall man, very young, festooned with camera cases, rushing towards her. ‘Hi, I’m Steven.’

  She dropped her mobile into her bag and shook hands with him. ‘I suppose we should set off at once,’ she said, glancing at the printout of the newsflash from the agency that Patrik had given her: 28 Skeppsbron. In Gamla stan, then, with parking spaces on the quayside opposite the building.

  ‘I don’t drive,’ Steven said.

  Great, Annika thought, and made for the caretaker’s desk.

  ‘No chance,’ Tore said, when he saw her coming towards him. ‘You need to learn to fill the tank before you try that again.’

  ‘It’s your job to fill the tank, and it’s my job to think,’ Annika said. ‘Get me a car.’ She got the shabby old Volvo he usually gave her.

  ‘What do we want from this press conference?’ the photographer asked, as Annika drove out of the car park. ‘Dramatic or formal? Who’s the victim? Who’s the hero? Is there a bad guy?’

  She glanced at him to see if he was making fun of her, but he seemed deadly serious. ‘I suppose Filip Andersson’s the victim, and the lawyer’s the hero,’ she said, ‘but neither of them looks particularly good in their respective roles. Filip Andersson’s like a gangster and Sven-Göran Olin is a cuddly old uncle.’

  ‘And the bad guy is a well-dressed man with a suntan and trustworthy blue eyes?’

  ‘The bad guy is an ordinary-looking woman who was shot by the police in the forest outside Garphyttan in December last year. Called Yvonne.’

  The rain had stopped. She crept through the heavy traffic in the city centre and parked on the quayside at Skeppsbron, paying 260 kronor for two hours. It would have been cheaper to take a taxi.

  She wondered how long the press conference would last. If it looked like it was going to drag on she’d abandon it. Her meeting with Polly in the café was more important, no matter what Patrik might say.

  It might be a false alarm, she thought. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a sign of life from Suzette. Polly was prone to dramatizing.

  The legal firm’s waiting room was already stuffed with journalists, television cameras and radio transmitters, which surprised Annika. It had been fairly clear since last winter that Filip Andersson was going to be released. I suppose they’re here to get a look at him, she thought.

  She forced her way through the room and found an empty chair next to the lavatories. The various sections of that day’s illustrious broadsheet lay on the arm. She sat down with a sigh and opened the culture section. She flicked through it without reading anything until she got to page four, where she was brought up short. The double-page spread was dominated by a review of a photography exhibition at Kulturhuset, entitled ‘The Other Side of the Costa del Sol’. The photographer, Lotta Svensson Bartholomeus, was praised for having ‘captured and sensitively documented the underbelly of the over-exploited Costa del Sol: the women on their way to market, craftsmen’s abandoned tools …’ The article was illustrated by a close-up of the plate-shears from the drug warehouse in La Campana.

  Who’d have thought it, Annika mused, and put the paper down.

  She looked straight ahead for a few minutes with a growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. Then she picked up the culture section again and studied the strange picture, remembering Lotta’s assertion that art was more real than journalism. There was something about this that she didn’t understand, that much was clear. How, in principle, could a broken pair of plate-shears on a warehouse floor be interesting? What was she missing? She lacked the capacity to see anything exceptional in it.

  She folded that section of the paper into a hard little bundle and stuffed it under her chair, then got up and waited until the doors to the conference room were opened. There was an immediate crush in the doorway. She heard Sven-Göran Olin urging everyone to calm down. She stayed where she was until most people had gone in, then went through the doors and stood just inside them.

  Up at the front, by an ordinary table with three chairs on the other side, the photographers, television people and radio journalists were jostling for position. She could see Steven in the crush – he was much taller than all the others.

  She tried to catch a glimpse of the exonerated murderer. He wasn’t there yet.

  Her unease showed no sign of letting up.

  Filip Andersson had been locked up for five years for a grotesque crime that he hadn’t committed. Was it possible to emerge from something like that in a healthy mental state, or did you have to be Nelson Mandela to cope with it?

  She realized she was about to get an answer because a door at the far end of the room opened and Filip Andersson came in, dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt. The sporadic clicking of the photographers turned into a torrent, the television lamps came on, casting a blue sheen over the whole room, and reporters performed animated pieces to camera.

  Andersson didn’t look at any of them. He sank onto one of the three chairs and stared ahead without blinking. Annika craned her neck to get a better view. He’d lost weight since they’d met in the visitors’ room in Kumla Prison last autumn. His hair had been cut, and he’d shaved. Sven-Göran Olin sat down beside him, and finally a young woman came in and sat on the chair at the end.

  ‘It is with great pleasure,’ the lawyer began, ‘that we have today received the decision of the Swedish Court of Appeal to exonerate Filip Andersson entirely of all three cases of murder on Sankt Paulsgatan.’

  The camera clicking subsided slightly. The radio journalists sat down.

  ‘Filip Andersson has been locked up for over five years,’ the lawyer went on. ‘As I pointed out when the verdict of the City Court was announced, he was found guilty on very weak evidence on both occasions. Everyone involved in the case seemed to be mainly preoccupied with making things easy for themselves.’

  By now there was complete silence in the room.

  Annika looked at the man’s face for signs of emotion, relief, sadness, joy or bitterness, but she couldn’t identify anything. His face was utterly blank, his eyes staring fixedly at a point slightly above the heads of the crowd. His shoulders seemed broader – maybe he’d been exercising in anticipation of his release.

  ‘A judgment of this sort means that we have simultaneously more and less faith in the legal system,’ Sven-Göran Olin said. ‘That it is possible to raise an appeal and put things right in retrospect is positive. But at the same time it is very troubling that such miscarriages of justice can occur.’

  You could have heard a pin drop. Annika studied her colleagues. They were all staring at Filip Andersson, their faces showing disappointment and uncertainty. What could they make of this in their papers?

  Filip Andersson was pretty terrible in the role of victim. He didn’t have a cute family gathered round him with cake and children’s drawings, no beautiful wife holding his hand and gazing in gratitude at the cameras with tears in her eyes. He looked what he was: a slightly overweigh
t, unscrupulous financier who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no way they’d be able to drum up much sympathy for him among their readers.

  ‘Since the chancellor of justice has rejected our application, today we will be submitting a claim for damages against the Swedish state,’ Sven-Göran Olin said. ‘Filip Andersson is claiming twelve million kronor, five million of which represent reparations for the suffering caused, and seven million his loss of income.’

  The woman beside him stood up and started handing out printed documents, presumably copies of the claim.

  There was murmuring in the room. A record-breaking claim for damages wasn’t going to make the public feel particularly sympathetic.

  ‘Filip Andersson, how does it feel to be free?’ a radio journalist shouted.

  Sven-Göran Olin leaned towards the microphone again. ‘My client would prefer not to comment at the present time,’ he said.

  ‘So why’s he here, then?’ someone shouted angrily.

  ‘Olin forced him,’ someone replied. ‘He’s conducted the whole case pro bono, and this is the payoff.’

  Annika didn’t think the lawyer was getting much return on his investment, although he hadn’t had to do a great deal. It had been her articles about Yvonne Nordin that had set the ball rolling, and the attorney general herself had requested the judicial review.

  The woman distributing the documents had reached the back of the room, and handed one to Annika. Annika leaned towards her and whispered in her ear: ‘Can I have an exclusive interview with Filip? My name’s Annika Bengtzon. I wrote the articles about Yvonne Nordin which—’

  ‘Filip Andersson isn’t making any comment,’ the woman said expressionlessly. ‘Not now, not to anyone.’

  The other reporters were frowning at her as if she’d just tried to jump the queue in the Co-op.

  She glanced anxiously at the time. If she couldn’t get any comment, the whole morning would have been wasted. It was impossible to write an article for the evening tabloids about a man who had nothing to say.

  The journalists began to drift away. She stood aside and pretended not to see her colleagues as they streamed out into the hall. ‘If he wants that amount in damages, he could at least have the sense to speak out about those lost years,’ a woman in the crowd said, as she passed.