Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

Surely it was her?

Without a doubt, I’d say.

What on earth was the matter with her?

Could it be. . Could it have something to do with that business of her husband? That we read about last summer. Rape. Good Lord, how little we know about other people!

I simply didn’t know. I couldn’t make up my mind. Maybe I had got away with it, despite everything? There was a minimal chance. After all, there are duplicates and doppelgängers in this world, people who are almost exactly like other people even though they are not twins. Perhaps the Wunsches had concluded that they were mistaken, and that the woman they had bumped into was somebody entirely different?

But I was quite clear about one thing: if the Swedish police were ever presented with a dead body belonging to the well-known literature professor Martin Holinek, and news of it leaked out into the press — which it would, of course — the Wunsches would have no difficulty in recalling their meeting with that woman in Kensington Gardens. The woman they had no difficulty in recognizing, but who denied she was who she was.

And they would now have a very obvious explanation for it.

I also realized that I ought to be careful when feelings of unvarnished optimism began to overcome me. I needed to raise my guard, to be more cautious. Perhaps I ought to change my hairstyle and dye my hair? But it was a bit late for that now. .

I left the cafe, urged Castor to stay close to me, and walked back to the hotel under a cloud of irritation and despondency.

We spent one more day in London. I actually did have a haircut, but didn’t have it dyed. And tried to understand how I could have been so naive as to think that I — with a face recognizable to half the Swedish nation — would be able to wander around unhindered in a city like London which is visited every day by. . well, goodness only knows. Ten thousand Swedish tourists? Quite apart from the hundred thousand or so Swedes who live here already.

This final day in the big city was grey and cloudy, with the usual characteristic, drizzly rain: but nevertheless I bought a couple of pairs of sunglasses, each of which covered about half my face.

And also a broad-brimmed hat and a fluffy shawl. I was presumably thinking about that photograph I’d seen of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, drinking coffee in a cafe in Uppsala. Or at least, that’s what a literature lecturer in Uppsala likes to believe, and has told Martin and me about it at least twice.

I bought pounds sterling for my euros in several small bureaux de change just as I had planned, and amassed over £8,000 without needing to show any kind of identity documentation. That ought to last for a few months — whatever I got up to when I reached Exmoor, I wasn’t intending to be extravagant; and surely it would be possible to change money in other places in this island kingdom if necessary, not just in the capital.

But the night before we set off on our westward journey I didn’t sleep a wink. All kinds of old detritus floated up to the surface from the murky depths of my memory: I was without a doubt being attacked by the life I was just taking my leave of. Or had already left, to be honest. It was as if all those memories and all those years were trying to drag me back to places and circumstances where I no longer belonged. Mind you, where I belonged now, to be precise and accurate, was also a question I couldn’t just answer and forget about and fall asleep. And how I was going to be able to drive us out of London in one piece the next day without an hour or two’s sleep in my body. . well, that was something that felt more and more difficult for every sleepless minute that ticked by.

In the end — at some point after four in the morning — I was exposed to an episode that drove aside everything else, and refused to leave me in peace: Vivianne’s lover. I didn’t understand why.

Vivianne was Martin’s elder sister. I write was , because she has been dead for many years. She threw herself out of a window on the sixteenth floor of a hotel in Singapore — or she might have been pushed, or it might have been an accident. It was the twenty-eighth of February 1998. She had rather a lot of alcohol in her blood, something that wasn’t exactly unusual in the final years of her life, and if I understood it rightly the police investigation was put on ice after a few weeks because there were no suspicions of any crime having been committed.

But the story of her secret lover happened twelve years before that, about a month before Olof Palme was murdered.

A thousand pages, he had said.

It took some time for me to get an idea of the actual amount, but I was inclined to reduce Martin’s estimate by about a half. But of course, it all depended on how you counted the pages. A handwritten page, even if it is A4 size, is not the same as a typewritten or printed page, and quite a lot of what I assumed was his ‘material’ was handwritten, in four thick notebooks of a kind that I recall Martin being very enthusiastic about when we first met, and for several years afterwards. Thick oilcloth covers with a hundred and forty pages in each book — I think he ordered them specially from Germany. On the unlined flyleaf at the beginning of each one he had noted meticulously the place and the time of writing: Samos, July-August 1977. Samos, June-July 1978. Samos, July 1979. Taza, July-August 1980 .

The first two books were more or less full. The third was a little more than half-full, and the fourth, from Morocco, roughly a third full. But he only wrote on the right-hand pages, it should be stressed. Martin has never liked writing on one page to leak through onto the other side, as it were. An empty page should be an empty page. I knew that he had taken a portable typewriter with him on his last trip to Samos and the one to Taza the following year, and assume that he had used this at least in part for the sort of diary entries he seemed to have been making on these later journeys.

But this was unclear as yet: before I even started to read the contents, I tried to estimate the scope. If I was going to examine the project as a whole, I had every reason to adopt a methodical approach.

Perhaps I also had Eugen Bergman at the back of my mind; I think so. A situation could well develop in which it would be useful if I knew a little about it, even if I were grateful for the fact that Martin always stubbornly refused to discuss the content of his work while it was in progress. That had been the situation for as long as he and Bergman had been working together: the publisher wouldn’t think there was anything odd about his not being informed in detail about how work was progressing while Martin was in North Africa.

But it seemed more or less inevitable that I would have to conduct a certain amount of e-mail correspondence in my husband’s name.

With Bergman and with others.

With G? That felt bizarre, and I decided not to think about that in more detail.

In the work chest — the large brown suitcase that contained exclusively books, writing tools and desk utensils — I found a bundle of almost three hundred typewritten pages in a file marked Writings . This material was not dated — not systematically, at least — and I had the impression that it comprised both fair copies of diary entries, and original texts. There were no page numbers, but when I leafed through it I saw that there were occasional headings and dates, and here and there also changes and additions made in pencil. There were also copies of photographs in some places, evidently produced by an ordinary photocopying machine on typing paper. I glanced quickly at a couple of them: the quality was awful, and they both depicted a small group of people sitting on chairs round a table. Martin appeared in both of them. It seemed possible that a tall woman standing in front of a white wall in the background of one of them was Bessie Hyatt. A mop of hair, large white tunic and bare legs — yes, I was convinced it was her.