Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

They sat down at the oval table, cluttered with empty coffee mugs and water bottles. Malmberg shook his head disapprovingly.

‘People never clean up after themselves. They have their meetings, and when they’ve finished they disappear and leave all their rubbish behind. How can I help? Have you changed your mind about those bridge lessons?’

She told him about what she’d discovered, about her connection to the mass murders.

‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘All I can gather from what’s in the papers and the news bulletins is that many people are dead, and the police don’t have any leads.’

‘I don’t mind admitting that I’m glad I don’t work in that district right now. They must be going through sheer hell. I’ve never heard of anything like it. In its way it’s just as sensational as the Palme murder.’

‘What do you know that isn’t in the newspapers?’

‘There isn’t a single police officer the length and breadth of the country who isn’t wondering what happened. Everybody has a theory. It’s a myth that police officers are rational and lack imagination. We start speculating about what might have happened right away.’

‘What do you think happened?’

He shrugged and thought for a moment before answering.

‘I know no more than you do. There are a lot of bodies, and it was brutal. But nothing was stolen, if I understand things correctly. The probability is that some sick individual was responsible. What lies behind it, goodness only knows. I assume the police up there are lining up known violent criminals with psychological problems. They’ve doubtless been in touch already with Interpol and Europol in the hope of finding a clue that way, but such things take time. That’s all I know.’

‘You know police officers all over Sweden. Do you have a contact up in Hälsingland? Somebody I could perhaps phone?’

‘I’ve met their chief of police,’ said Malmberg. ‘A man by the name of Ludwig. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that impressed by him. As you know, I don’t have much time for police officers who’ve never been out in the real world. But I can call him and see what he has to say.’

‘I promise not to disturb them unnecessarily. I just want to know if it was my mother’s foster-parents who died. Or if it was their children. Or if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether.’

‘That’s a fair-enough reason for calling them. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now. I have an unpleasant interview with a very nasty violent man coming up.’

That evening she told Staffan what had happened. His immediate reaction was that the doctor had done the right thing, and he suggested that she should take a trip to the south and the sun. His lack of interest irritated her. But she didn’t say anything.

Shortly before lunch the following day, when she was sitting in front of her computer and surveying holiday offers, her telephone rang.

‘I’ve got a name for you,’ said Hugo Malmberg. ‘There’s a woman police officer called Sundberg.’

‘I’ve seen that name in the papers, but I didn’t know it was a woman.’

‘Her first name’s Vivian, but she’s known as Vivi. Ludwig will pass your name on to her, so that she knows who you are when you call her. I’ve got a phone number.’

‘Thanks for your help. Incidentally, I might go south for a few days. Have you ever been to Tenerife?’

‘Never. Good luck.’

Roslin immediately dialled the number she’d been given. An answering machine invited her to leave a message.

Once again she took out the vacuum cleaner, but couldn’t bring herself to use it. Instead she returned to the computer and within an hour or so had decided on a trip to Tenerife departing from Copenhagen two days later. She dug out an old school atlas and began dreaming of warm water and Spanish wines.

Maybe it’s just what I need, she thought. A week without Staffan, without trials, without the daily grind. I’m not exactly experienced in confronting my emotions or indeed my life. But at my age I ought to be able to look at myself objectively and face up to my weaknesses and to change things if necessary. Once upon a time, when I was young, I used to dream of becoming the first woman to sail around the world single-handed. It never happened. But nevertheless, maybe I could do with a few days sailing out to Denmark, or strolling along a beach in Tenerife. Either will work out if old age is already catching up with me, or if I can scramble out of the hole I’m sinking into. I managed menopause pretty well, but I’m not really sure what’s happening to me now. What I must establish first of all is whether my high blood pressure and panic attacks have anything to do with Staffan. I must understand that we will never feel content unless we lift ourselves out of our current dispirited state.

She started planning her trip without further ado. There was a glitch that prevented her from finalising her booking online, so she emailed her name and telephone number, and specified the package she was interested in. She had an immediate reply, saying she would be contacted within an hour.

Almost an hour later the telephone rang. But it wasn’t the travel agency.

‘Vivi Sundberg here. I’d like to speak to Birgitta Roslin.’

‘Speaking.’

‘Ah. I’ve been informed who you are, but I’m not sure what you want. As you can probably understand, we’re under a lot of pressure right now. Am I right in thinking that you are a judge?’

‘Yes, I am. I don’t want to make too much of a fuss about this, but my mother — who died several years ago — was adopted by a family called Andrén. I’ve seen photographs that suggest she lived in one of the houses in Hesjövallen.’

‘Contacting the next of kin is not my responsibility. I suggest you speak to Erik Huddén.’

‘But am I right in thinking that some of the victims were in fact called Andrén?’

‘Since you ask I can tell you that the Andrén family was the largest one in the village.’

‘And are all of them dead?’

‘I can’t tell you that. Do you have the first names of your mother’s foster-parents?’

She had the file on the desk in front of her; she untied the ribbon and leafed through the papers.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to wait,’ said Vivi Sundberg. ‘Call me when you’ve found the names.’

‘I have them here. Brita and August Andrén. They must be over ninety, possibly even ninety-five.’

There was a pause before Sundberg responded. Roslin could hear the sound of papers rustling. Then Sundberg picked up the phone again.

‘They are on the list. I’m afraid they are both dead, and the oldest was ninety-six. Please don’t pass that information on to any newspaper.’

‘Why in God’s name would I want to do that?’

‘You’re a judge. I’m sure you know what can happen, and why I’m asking you to keep the details to yourself.’

Birgitta Roslin knew exactly what was meant, although she had occasionally discussed with her colleagues how they were seldom if ever buttonholed by journalists — reporters hardly thought that judges would release information that ought to be kept secret.

‘I’m obviously interested in how the investigation is going.’

‘Neither I nor any of my colleagues has time to release specific information. We are besieged by the mass media here. I recommend that you talk to Erik Huddén if you phone Hudiksvall.’

Vivi Sundberg sounded impatient and irritated.

‘Many thanks for calling. I won’t disturb you any longer.’

Birgitta Roslin hung up and thought over what had been said. At least she was now quite certain that her mother’s foster-parents were among the dead. Like everybody else, she would have to remain patient while the police went about their work.