The Long Shadow

by Liza Marklund

  ‘What do you think you might do? Go back to the police?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘I want to study architecture. If I’m careful, the insurance money will last until I graduate.’ She measured some water into a saucepan and put it on the stove.

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’ Annika said. ‘Do you know if David had any connection to Morocco?’

  Julia looked up at her in surprise. ‘Morocco? No, none at all. Why would he have?’

  ‘He never mentioned Morocco? Or if he knew anyone there?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Annika took her time answering. ‘He might have relatives there.’

  Julia got the butter out of the fridge and a whisk from the cutlery drawer, poured some milk into a mug, added a large knob of butter and put it into the microwave, set it to two minutes and pressed start. ‘The only time he ever mentioned Morocco was when he talked about his stepfather, Torsten. He disappeared in Morocco when David was in his late teens.’

  Annika sat still, searching her memory. Julia had said something about the missing stepfather on some earlier occasion. ‘Did he ever find out what happened to him?’

  Julia got out three plates, glasses and cutlery. ‘I don’t think he ever really got over it. They were very close. He never knew his own father, so Torsten meant a great deal to him.’ She stopped. ‘It was the winter before David applied to Police Academy,’ she said.

  Annika took the plates and laid the table. ‘When you lived in Estepona, could David have gone to Morocco to look for Torsten?’

  ‘No,’ Julia said. ‘It was all such a long time ago. I can’t imagine that he did.’

  The microwave bleeped three times. The milk was hot, the butter melted. The water was boiling on the stove and Julia poured the potato powder into the buttery milk and stirred it energetically with the whisk. ‘Alexander! Lunch is ready!’

  He emerged from his room at once and stopped in front of Annika. ‘You’re in my place,’ he said. His voice was surprisingly low-pitched, not at all as Annika remembered it from that night in the forest all that time ago.

  ‘You can sit here, Alexander,’ Julia said, pointing to the place at the end of the table.

  The child’s face contorted into a grimace and he howled. He collapsed, his upper body jerking, his hands and feet banging the floor, as he screamed. Annika backed away in horror. Julia seemed neither surprised nor concerned, just picked him up and rocked him in her arms until the tantrum had passed. ‘Today you can sit in this seat,’ she said, putting him on the chair at the end of the table.

  He fired a hostile glare at Annika, then grabbed his knife and fork and set about the meatballs. ‘Ketchup?’ he asked, between mouthfuls.

  ‘Not today,’ Julia said.

  Annika ate in silence. Sure, her children were angry sometimes, but she’d never seen anything like that in such a small child.

  ‘Can I get down now?’ he said, when he’d finished.

  ‘Say thank you for the food and clear your plate away,’ Julia said.

  ‘Thanks for the food,’ he said, then leaped off the chair, picked up his glass, cutlery and plate in a somewhat unsteady grasp, then took them to the draining-board.

  He left the kitchen without a backward glance, went into his room and shut the door.

  ‘The seven years I spent as a beat officer make it easier,’ Julia said, with a sad smile. ‘Coffee?’

  Annika looked at the time. ‘I should probably get going,’ she said. ‘By the way, do you have any contact with your mother-in-law?’

  Julia filled a kettle with water and got out a jar of coffee. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘We brought her here last weekend, but she just wandered about looking for David. It was all a bit weird, so I don’t think we’ll be doing that again in a hurry.’

  ‘Which care-home is she in?’

  ‘Ramsmora.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In Nacka. I know it’s not far, but we haven’t got a car and it’s a bit tricky getting there on public transport. We don’t visit her very often.’

  ‘Would you mind if I went to see her?’ Annika said.

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  Annika decided to be honest. ‘Do you remember me asking if you’d ever heard the name Veronica Söderström or Astrid Paulson?’

  Julia nodded. ‘She was that ice-hockey player’s wife.’ She measured some coffee into a machine and pressed the start button.

  ‘I have reason to believe that David met her when they were children,’ Annika said. ‘You’ve never talked to Nina about that?’

  Julia shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Nina once told me that they grew up together, David and Filip Andersson, Yvonne Nordin and Veronica Paulson.’

  Julia started at the mention of Yvonne’s name.

  ‘We’ve talked about this before,’ Annika said. ‘That they were like siblings. It means their parents must have known each other, or at least their mothers. Have you ever heard of a woman called Astrid Paulson?’

  ‘Wasn’t she one of the people murdered in Spain last winter?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Annika said. ‘She was Veronica Söderström’s mother. Have you ever heard her name in any other context?’

  Julia shook her head.

  ‘Astrid Paulson, Nina’s mother and your mother-in-law, Hannelore, all knew each other.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Nina, Yvonne and Filip’s mother was called Siv. You knew her, didn’t you?’

  Julia put two mugs on the table. ‘She died soon after we got married. I always felt rather sorry for Siv. She was a fairly severe alcoholic. You take it black, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. David’s real father, Klas Lindholm, what happened to him?’

  ‘They divorced before David was a year old,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘He moved away, I don’t know where. They didn’t have any contact after that. He died a few years ago. David didn’t go to the funeral.’

  ‘Do you know if he went on to have another family?’

  ‘David inherited an old Saab and a summer cottage outside Kramfors when he died. He was the only heir.’

  ‘Do you know if he used to go to Morocco?’

  Julia raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re really banging on about Morocco. What’s this about?’

  Annika felt herself flush. ‘I’ve heard about someone called Lindholm who’s supposed to be living in Morocco, and I was wondering if it could be a relative.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Julia said. ‘Lindholm’s a very common name. There’s one in the next building – we’re always getting each other’s post.’

  ‘Mummy?’ Alexander was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Yes, darling, what is it?’

  ‘My flying saucer’s finished.’

  Julia lit up. ‘How lovely! I must have a look. Would you like to see it too, Annika?’

  ‘If I’m allowed to?’ Annika said.

  Alexander nodded.

  They went into the boy’s room, next to Julia’s. Half of the floor was covered with a huge pile of plywood and chipboard, all nailed together. A few sticks, probably broom-handles originally, poked up towards the ceiling.

  Julia clapped her hands in delight. ‘That’s wonderful!’ she said. ‘I’m sure you could fly all the way to the moon in it.’

  Alexander regarded her solemnly. ‘I need to get higher than that,’ he said. ‘All the way to the stars.’

  ‘What do you want to go there for?’ Annika asked.

  He gave her a look of utter surprise. ‘To see Daddy, of course.’

  31

  Annika picked up the car from Skeppsbron. The parking-ticket had expired and she had been given a 500-kronor fine. She tossed the penalty notice into her bag, called Directory Enquiries, and asked for a text containing the phone number and directions to the care-home in Nacka.

  Alexander’s stare was still burning inside her.

  She started the ca
r. Slowly she steered towards Slussen and turned off onto Stadsgårdsleden. The traffic was heavy and sluggish. It had stopped raining, but the sludge on the road spattered the windows and she still had to keep the windscreen-wipers on.

  There was a sixteen-year-old girl called Amira Lindholm in Morocco, on a farm outside Asilah.

  Torsten Ernsten, David Lindholm’s stepfather, had disappeared in Morocco.

  As she was passing Skurusundet she thought the sky looked a bit brighter to the east, where she was heading.

  She carried on along the motorway towards Gustavsberg.

  Where had she heard the name Asilah?

  Who could have mentioned it to her?

  Suddenly she heard Niklas Linde’s voice in her head. It was saying something, and she was taking notes, something she hadn’t used in her article because it hadn’t seemed relevant, but what was it?

  It gets shipped out of two small coastal towns, Nador and Asilah, in February and March.

  They had been talking about the cannabis produced by the hash farmers in Morocco. They had been sitting in the tapas bar in the conference centre in Málaga, and Niklas Linde had been pressing his leg against hers under the table.

  She realized a moment too late that she’d missed the turning. She had to take the next exit instead, then turned round and drove straight to Ramsmora care-home.

  The building was long and low, and seemed to have been renovated in the 1990s. It was painted a glossy pink, which didn’t suit it, and was framed with rustling birches.

  She pulled up in the visitors’ car park and breathed out. She really didn’t drive anything like enough, regardless of what Tore the caretaker might think, and was always tense when she was forced to.

  She had closed the car door and was on her way to the entrance when her mobile rang. It was Berit Hamrin. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean you to have to go to that press conference.’

  ‘What press conference?’ Annika asked, before she remembered Filip Andersson.

  ‘I had to go to the dentist this morning or I’d have gone. Did he say anything?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Annika said, remembering his little wave.

  ‘You know I don’t think he’s innocent.’

  Annika didn’t answer, and carried on towards the entrance.

  ‘Where are you?’ Berit asked.

  ‘I’m going to visit a confused old lady. She’s a German Jew, and came here on the white buses after the war.’

  ‘She’s German?’ Berit said. ‘And came to Sweden on the white buses? You must have misunderstood.’

  Annika stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The white buses picked up Scandinavians who were held in German concentration camps, Danes and Norwegians. There weren’t any Germans.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Annika said.

  ‘It was claimed that the buses were going to rescue other nationalities as well, but that turned out to be a lie. The only Germans who got anywhere near those white buses were dying prisoners who were moved between various camps. Almost all of them died.’

  Annika looked up at the tops of the trees. She really shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing about these families seemed to be either true or normal.

  ‘Why did you ask?’ Berit wondered.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Annika said. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

  She reached the door, scraped the mud from her shoes and stepped inside the care-home.

  There was strip-lighting in the ceiling of the lobby, reflecting off the polished linoleum floor. A few pictures of indeterminate subject matter hung on the plastered walls, and there was a sharp smell of disinfectant.

  She stopped and listened.

  Two corridors led off from the entrance hall, one straight ahead and the other to the right. She couldn’t see anyone, but somewhere she could hear voices. To the left she could just make out a dining room through a half-open door. She walked over and pushed it open. Two women in their fifties turned towards her. They fell silent at once.

  ‘Hello,’ Annika said. ‘I’d like to visit Hannelore Lindholm. Which room does she live in?’

  They looked at each other and whispered something. Then one went off towards the kitchen while the other came towards her.

  ‘My name’s Annika Bengtzon,’ Annika said, holding out her hand and smiling. ‘I know Julia and Alexander. Julia told me that Hannelore visited them at home in Bondegatan last weekend and—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Barbro, the manager. We do read the papers at Ramsmora. You found Alexander.’ She was very red under her nose, as if she had a cold and had been blowing her nose too much. ‘Are you going to send something to the paper?’

  People generally couldn’t tell the difference between the various types of article in the daily papers: long, explanatory reports, incisive interviews, sharply focused news stories, diaries, notes, op-ed pieces or adverts. For a lot of people, including Barbro, it was all just something you sent in.

  ‘No,’ Annika said. ‘I’m not going to write anything. I’d just like to see Hannelore and talk to her.’

  ‘About what?’

  Annika adjusted her bag on her shoulder. ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  The woman blushed. ‘This way,’ she said. She led the way through the lobby and carried on straight ahead. Annika followed behind. ‘At Ramsmora, we focus on a number of particular areas,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘We have forty-eight apartments in total. We strive to make the atmosphere as homely as possible. We have a care-home section, some sheltered housing and a section for people suffering from dementia. That’s where we are now.’

  The walls were pink, with a painted row of darker pink flowers along the middle. After a few metres the corridor opened out and became wider, with a carpet on the floor. There were groups of armchairs and small tables placed at regular intervals along one wall. The other contained a series of doors, some open, others shut.

  ‘So Hannelore Lindholm has been diagnosed with dementia?’

  ‘I can’t discuss the medical details of our residents,’ Barbro said, stopping at one of the closed doors and knocking on it. She pulled it open and went in without waiting for an answer. ‘Hannelore,’ she said, far too loudly, as if the old lady was hard of hearing. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  Then she let Annika into the room. She remained standing there with her hand on the door-handle.

  ‘Thanks,’ Annika said. ‘I’ll be able to find my own way out.’

  Barbro hesitated, then walked out and closed the door.

  To her right Annika saw a bathroom, and to her left a rudimentary kitchen. The rest of the flat consisted of a single room that was seriously over-furnished. A heavy, cracked-leather sofa, an ornate writing-desk, bookcases made of yew, and a narrow bed in the corner closest to the kitchen. The furniture looked exposed and out of place on the yellow linoleum floor.

  A woman with long white hair was standing by the window, fiddling with a pot-plant. She didn’t seem to have noticed that Annika was in the room.

  Annika cleared her throat loudly.

  No reaction.

  ‘Mrs Lindholm?’ Annika said. ‘Hannelore? My name’s Annika Bengtzon. I’ve come to talk to you.’

  The woman cast a surprisingly alert glance over her shoulder. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asked, in a completely normal tone, as she turned her attention back to the plant.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Astrid and Siv,’ Annika said.

  The woman’s hands stopped in the middle of what they were doing. She turned round. Annika noticed that her hands were full of brown leaves. She was strikingly attractive.

  ‘Is Astrid here?’ she asked.

  She had no trace of a German accent. On the contrary, she had the same Södermanland accent as Annika.

  ‘No,’ Annika said. ‘She’s not here at the moment. Shall we sit down?’

  Hannelore Lindholm hesitated. ‘I just have to get rid of this rubbish fi
rst,’ she said, heading for the little kitchen.

  Annika pulled off her jacket and dropped it with her bag on the floor by the door, then went over to the sofa and armchairs.

  ‘When is Astrid coming?’ the old woman asked expectantly.

  ‘Astrid won’t be coming again,’ Annika said, sitting down in one of the armchairs. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit about her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Hannelore was tall and slender, her back bent but her shoulders straight. Her hair had been carefully washed and brushed. Her eyes were large and bright blue, and the look on her face reminded Annika of a surprised doll. She had rouge on her cheeks.

  She had walked round the flat on Bondegatan looking for David, even though she had been told countless times that he was dead. There was no point in Annika telling her Astrid was dead, when she might already have been told and forgotten.

  ‘She’s on the Costa del Sol,’ Annika said, because she didn’t know if the bodies had been moved or, if so, where to.

  Hannelore Lindholm sat down on the sofa. ‘She’s so happy there,’ she said. ‘Does she still have the estate agency?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Annika said.

  Hannelore laughed. ‘Astrid’s so courageous,’ she said. ‘She’s always the one who dares to do all the dangerous things.’ She smiled and nodded for emphasis.

  ‘What sort of thing does Astrid dare to do?’ Annika asked.

  The answer came promptly and easily. ‘Jump off the biggest haystack. Ride the wild bull.’ Hannelore laughed again. ‘She’s crazy!’

  The laughter died. Annika waited. Nothing else followed.

  ‘Where did Astrid jump off the haystacks?’ Annika asked.

  The surprised expression returned to Hannelore’s face. ‘At Gudagården, of course! She’s already there when I arrive. She’s the only one who’s kind to me.’ She leaned over an antique table and lowered her voice. ‘Astrid’s a very good person,’ she said quietly. ‘She always looks after anyone who’s weak or scared. She’s not a little troll girl at all.’