by Hans Koppel
Hans Koppel is a pseudonym for an established
Swedish author who was born in 1964 and lives
in Stockholm.
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 9780748129034
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Hans Koppel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
1
She’d written that she liked walks in the forest and cosy nights in and was looking for a man with a twinkle in his eye. It was almost a joke, like a parody of the blandest person in the world. She’d also sprinkled her post with smileys. Not a row without a yellow face.
They’d spoken on the phone the night before and agreed to meet at Gondolen.
Anders thought she sounded older than thirty-two. He made a joke about it, said she’d maybe posted a photo that had been taken a few years ago, when she was a few kilos lighter. That was when she sent the most recent one, taken just before going to bed, holding her mobile at arm’s length.
Anders looked at it and thought to himself that she could be a hundred and thick as a plank, he couldn’t care less.
A drink was best. It usually took about half a minute to decide whether it was worth the effort or not. Dinner was digging your own grave. Sitting there suffering for hours, with a fixed smile. No, anyone with any experience met for a drink. If things went well, you could always go on.
It was half past six on the dot and Anders looked out through the dark to the lights on Skeppsholmen and Djurgården.
What was the flaw, he wondered. It couldn’t be the dumb blonde act. Not with that body. Maybe a hideous laugh that pierced your eardrums. Breath like an old dog. Was she frigid?
No, no, keep calm, he persuaded himself.
His mobile started to vibrate. He answered it.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘It’s me. Sorry that I didn’t call earlier. I’ve been sitting in A&E all afternoon.’
‘A&E? Are you okay?’
Anders Egerbladh was impressed by his own apparent concern. Now that’s what he called being on the ball. A natural enough question to ask, but it would also let him know if whatever had happened would affect his chances of getting into her knickers.
‘Fell down the stairs and sprained my foot. I thought I’d broken it, as I could hardly stand on it.’
‘Oh, you poor thing …’
Anders took a sneaky sip of beer and swallowed it silently so he wouldn’t come across as disinterested.
‘It’s not that bad, really,’ she said. ‘I’ve got crutches and a support bandage. But it might be a bit difficult to hobble down to Gondolen, so I thought maybe you could come to my place instead? I’ve got a bottle of white in the fridge.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Anders said. ‘I’d love to. If it’s not too much trouble, that is … We could always meet another time, if you don’t feel up to it.’
Jesus, what a genius he was.
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she assured him. ‘I could do with a bit of cheering up after five hours in A&E.’
‘Have you had anything to eat?’ Anders asked. ‘I can pick something up on the way.’
Albert bloody Einstein.
‘That’s sweet of you, but there’s no need. My fridge is full.’
She gave him the address and a few quick directions. Anders memorised them and decided to pop down and buy some flowers from the stall. He didn’t understand why, but it always worked. Flowers and bubbles.
The rest could wait until next time.
He bought something colourful with long stems and a box of children’s plasters from a newsagent. A bit of fun. He thought it would be a smart trick.
With a light step, he headed up to Katarinavägen, turned into Fjällgatan, just like she’d said, walked down the street on the right-hand side until he got to Sista Styverns Trapp, a flight of wooden steps that linked Fjällgatan with Stigbergsgatan above.
Probably named after some drunken docker, Anders mused, who’d spent all his wages before going home to his toothless wife and their fourteen kids who were pulling at her skirt. He didn’t pay any attention to the car that was parked by the pavement. He wasn’t to know that the woman behind the wheel was the same woman he’d just spoken to on the phone and she was now phoning her husband to say that it was time.
Anders started up the steps between the reverentially renovated old buildings. He imagined himself examining the woman’s swollen foot with sensitive hands, his head cocked in sympathy, how he would massage her tight shoulders, be understanding, agree and nod. Had she really had to wait for five hours? The Swedish healthcare system was truly appalling.
Anders didn’t know that the photographs he’d seen had been copied from the Internet and were in fact of a single mother from Holland who kept a blog. Nor was he to know that the man he met on the steps had a hammer stuffed up the sleeve of his coat.
They reached the step by the park bench at the same time, each from a different direction. The man stopped.
‘Anders?’ he said.
Anders looked at him.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ the man asked. ‘Annika’s dad. You remember Annika, don’t you?’
Suddenly, Anders had a very dry throat. His face, which had been relaxed and full of expectation only moments before, was now wary and stiff.
‘After all, it wasn’t yesterday,’ the man continued, smoothly.
Anders pointed up the steps with his empty hand.
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
The man smiled as
if he understood and indicated the flowers.
‘Meeting someone special?’
Anders nodded.
‘And I’m late,’ he said, trying to make it sound natural. ‘Otherwise I’d love to stop and chat.’
‘I understand,’ the man said.
He smiled, but made no sign of moving. Anders turned, uncertain, and put his foot on the next step.
‘I spoke to Morgan,’ the man said as he let the hammer slip down into his glove.
Anders stopped on the step with his back to the man. He didn’t move.
‘Or rather, it was him who talked to me,’ said the man. ‘He had a lot to say that he wanted to get off his chest. In the eleventh hour, but still. He was just skin and bones when I saw him. It must have been the morphine that made him get so hung up on the details. He just wouldn’t stop talking.’
Anders turned slowly around. On the periphery of his vision he saw something hurtling towards him, but it was too late to duck or raise his arms in defence. The hammer struck his head and broke his skull just above the temple. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The man stood over Anders and raised the hammer again. The second and third blows were probably what killed him, but the man continued hitting him to be sure. As if he wanted to erase any impressions and experiences that were stored in Anders’ brain, to flatten his entire existence. The man didn’t stop until the hammer got caught in the skull bone.
He left it there, glanced hastily around and then walked away from the steps and jumped into the waiting car. The woman pulled out from the pavement.
‘Was it difficult?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ the man said.
2
Good morning, my name is Gösta Lundin and I’m a professor emeritus of psychiatry and the author of The Victim and the Perpetrator, which I presume some of you have read.
No need to put up your hands. But thank you, thank you. I appreciate it.
Before I start, how many of you are policemen? Now you can raise your hands.
Okay, and social workers?
About fifty-fifty. Good, I just like to get an idea. The question is actually irrelevant, as I don’t tailor the content of my talks to whichever professional group I’m addressing. I guess I’m just curious. Maybe I would stand with my feet further apart if there were only policemen, sceptical policemen with their arms folded. It’s possible, I don’t know.
But what does it matter anyway? The theme for today is: How is it possible?
It’s a question we often ask ourselves. How is it possible? Why don’t they react? Why don’t they run away?
Very similar to the questions children ask when they first hear about the Holocaust. How was it possible? Why didn’t anyone do anything? Why didn’t they escape?
So let’s start there. With Adolf Hitler.
As you all know, the moustachioed Austrian is no longer simply a historical figure, he has also taken on mythical proportions. Today Hitler is a yardstick, he is the very symbol of pure evil.
I was just following orders is a stock phrase, and a reminder that we constantly need to question authority and act on our convictions.
Adolf Hitler’s polar opposite in this country goes by the name of Astrid Lindgren.
Astrid Lindgren symbolises all that is good in life. The wise and moderate humanist who cultivates and believes in the good in people.
A whole host of edifying stories and phrases have been attributed to Astrid Lindgren. One of the most famous quotes being that sometimes we have to do things even if they are dangerous. Because otherwise we’re not human beings, just pieces of dirt.
Adolf and Astrid, black and white, evil and good.
This naive approach to right and wrong is seductive and appeals to us. We want to be one of the good guys, to do the right thing.
Having spent years interviewing both victims and perpetrators – who are also victims, something we often like to forget – I know that the majority here in this room, myself included, could be persuaded one way or the other.
We all have an Adolf and an Astrid inside. It would be foolish to claim otherwise.
But enough philosophising. I’m here to talk about how it works in practice.
The methods used by perpetrators to subjugate their victims are the same the world over and as old as the hills. Bosses use the same techniques as dictators, for the simple reason that there are only two ways of ruling, the carrot or the stick. There might be more of one and less of the other, but all methods are variants of these two.
Unfortunately, I’m not paid to stand here and talk about difficult things in simple language. I’m an academic, after all, and as such have considerable experience in arguing my point and making myself look intelligent and profound.
Which is precisely why PowerPoint presentations were invented.
Removal, social isolation
Breaking-in violence
Starvation
Violence / threat of violence
Deprecation
Debt
Friendliness, privileges
Denial of the self
Future with no hope
Can everyone see? Good. So let’s start with the first point …
3
Jörgen Petersson waited while the shop assistant rang up a poster of Homer Simpson, a present for his youngest son, whose birthday was coming up soon. Jörgen looked around the shop and a picture by Lasse Åberg caught his eye. For once the motif wasn’t Mickey Mouse. The picture was of an old class photo, where half the faces had started to blur and fade. Only a few were still intact. A bit too clear perhaps, but the simplicity of it appealed to Jörgen. He hadn’t thought of wasting his days at auctions at Bukowskis in search of suitable work by some overrated ABC artist.
He really didn’t understand rich people’s fascination with art. What was it, other than a futile attempt to buy themselves free? A way of distancing themselves from those who had neither the money nor the opportunity.
Jörgen could easily fill the walls of his house with the three masters. Anders Zorn was bearable, but Bruno Liljefors’ wildlife paintings and Carl Larsson’s happy homes he could do without, thank you very much.
And he already had a Zorn. A poster from the museum in Mora adorned the outside toilet at his cabin. Jörgen looked at it while he was having a shit. Pragmatism and pleasure in gracious harmony. Neither his wife nor his children understood the charm; they would never dream of using the privy when they could sit comfortably indoors with underfloor heating. Jörgen’s wife had even suggested they should pull the old thunderbox down.
Jörgen had piped up then, though he normally didn’t interfere with decisions made in or about the home. But there were limits. A three-acre property, nearly four hundred metres of beach and he wasn’t allowed to have a dump in peace on his own lavvy? In the forgiving company of a half-solved crossword in some bleached old magazine.
It had been a good move on Jörgen’s part, to put his foot down. His wife respected him more as a result and it had consolidated the image of him as eccentric and obstinate, not bad qualities for a rich man.
He studied the Åberg picture for a while and wondered what his own class photos would look like.
Who had he forgotten? Who could he remember?
And who could remember him?
It was possible that they’d read about him. Quite a bit had been written in the financial press and obviously there was a lot of chat about money and progress, but not to the extent that people reacted when he got on the metro.
Jörgen’s life was a bit like a successful game of Monopoly. Suddenly there he was with all the hotels and property and the money kept pouring in without any effort. His coffers were overflowing.
He’d made his first million with an Internet company, which, behind all the big words about the future and opportunities, in fact provided run-of-the-mill web design. But that was back in the day when only the initiated understood the concept of IT and the company still had
to send its employees on courses to learn how to use the most basic word-processing programmes.
Jörgen had avoided the limelight for the simple reason that his two colleagues, whom he’d founded the company with, were lens-loving boys.
The company had never run at a profit, but the stock market value nevertheless climbed to over two billion following its flotation. Jörgen had shaken his head at this madness, which annoyed his two ambitious colleagues who let the success go to their heads. They were frequently quoted on the business pages and obviously believed wholeheartedly in their visions of the future. They eventually offered to buy Jörgen out for half the value of his shares and had a good laugh when he accepted their offer, one hundred million kronor in his pocket, thank you very much.
The headline in the paper had read: Dumbest Deal of the Year? The greater part of the article was identical to a press release that Jörgen’s colleagues had slickly allowed to be sent out.
One year later, Jörgen’s former colleagues were in debt, the company had been restructured and was practically worthless.
Then suddenly Jörgen was the one all the papers wanted to talk to. He’d given a firm but friendly no to all requests and sent a silent thanks to his closest friend, Calle Collin, a freelance journalist for the weeklies, who repeated his words of wisdom about living in the public eye whenever he got drunk.
‘There’s nothing positive about being visible, absolutely nothing. No matter what you do, never show your face. If you’re not Simon Spies, keep out the way.’
Calle Collin was one of the few who hadn’t been erased from Jörgen’s imagined class photo. Who else could he remember? A couple of the pretty girls who had been out of his league. Jörgen wondered where they were today. Wrong, he didn’t wonder where they were at all, he wondered what they looked like. He had googled them but hadn’t found any pictures, not even on Face book. Which couldn’t just be a coincidence.
He imagined their faces ravaged by cheap wine, consoled himself with the thought that their bodies were in decline. Their tits that had once defied gravity and been the stuff of his wanking fantasies now sagged and spilled out of heavily padded, wired bras.
