Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

Although she was in a rush, she checked the basement. Nothing was missing; nothing had been touched. My imagination’s running away with me, she thought. I had enough of a persecution complex in Beijing — I don’t need any more of the same here in Helsingborg.

Birgitta Roslin locked her front door and walked down the hill to the town and the district court. When she arrived she went to her office, switched off the telephone, leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, and thought over the case she had to deal with about a Vietnamese gang accused of smuggling cigarettes. In the back of her mind she ran through the most important parts of the case against the two Tran bothers, which had resulted in their being arrested, three separate times, before finally being charged. Now they faced being tried and sentenced. Two more Vietnamese men, Dang and Phan, had been arrested during the investigation.

Birgitta Roslin was pleased to have prosecuting counsel Palm in her court. He was a middle-aged man who took his professional duties seriously. On the basis of the material she had access to, Palm had insisted on a thorough police investigation, which didn’t always happen.

As the clock struck ten she entered the courtroom and sat at her desk. The lay assessors and recording clerks were already in their places. The public gallery was packed. There were both police officers and security guards on duty. Everybody had been required to pass through metal detectors. She opened proceedings, noted down names, checked that all involved were present, then let the prosecutor take over. Palm spoke slowly and clearly and occasionally addressed his remarks to the public gallery. There was a large group of Vietnamese present, most of them very young. Birgitta Roslin also recognised journalists and a sketch artist working for several national newspapers. Birgitta had a drawing of herself, done by the same artist, that she had cut out of the paper. She had put it in a desk drawer, as she didn’t want her visitors to think she was vain.

It was a hard day. Although the police investigation had made it obvious how the crimes had been committed, the four young men started blaming one another. Two of them spoke Swedish, but the Tran brothers needed an interpreter. Roslin was forced to point out on several occasions that the translation was not clear enough — indeed, she wondered if the girl really understood what the brothers were saying. She also needed to instruct some of the people in the public gallery to be quiet and threatened to remove them if they didn’t calm down.

While she was having lunch, Hans Mattsson called in to ask how things were going.

‘They’re lying,’ Birgitta said. ‘But the case against them is solid. The only question is whether the interpreter is up to it.’

‘She has a good reputation,’ said Hans Mattsson in surprise. ‘She’s supposed to be the best one available in Sweden.’

‘Perhaps she’s having an off day.’

‘Are you?’

‘No. But it’s taking time. I doubt we’ll be finished by tomorrow.’

During the afternoon proceedings Birgitta continued to observe the people in the public gallery. She noticed a middle-aged Vietnamese woman sitting alone in a corner of the courtroom, half hidden from those sitting in front of her. Every time Birgitta glanced over, the woman seemed to be looking at her, whereas the rest of the Vietnamese were mainly watching their accused friends or family members.

Birgitta remembered when she had sat in the Chinese courtroom a few months earlier. Maybe I have a colleague from Vietnam observing me, she thought ironically. But surely somebody would have mentioned it. Besides, that woman doesn’t have an interpreter sitting next to her.

When she concluded the day’s proceedings, she was uncertain how much more time was necessary to wrap up the case. She sat in her office and made an assessment of what still needed to be done. One more day might be enough, if nothing unexpected happened.

She slept deeply that night, without being disturbed by strange noises.

When the trial resumed the following day, the woman was in the same seat again. Something about her made Birgitta feel insecure. During a brief adjournment she summoned an usher and asked him to check if the woman kept to herself even outside the courtroom. Just before the court reconvened, he called in to report that she did indeed — she hadn’t spoken to anybody at all.

‘Please keep an eye on her,’ said Birgitta Roslin.

‘I could remove her if you like.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘That she worries you.’

‘No, I’m just asking you to keep an eye on her. No more than that.’

Although she was doubtful until the last minute, she did manage to conclude proceedings late that afternoon. She announced that sentences would be passed on 20 June and declared the case closed. The last thing she saw before going back to her office, having thanked her various assistants, was the Vietnamese woman, who had turned to watch Birgitta leave the courtroom.

Hans Mattsson came by. He had been listening to the closing arguments by the prosecuting and defending counsels on the internal speaker system.

‘Palm has had a few good days.’

‘The only question is how to hand down the sentences. There’s no doubt the brothers are the ringleaders. The other two are also guilty, of course, but they seem to be afraid of the brothers. It’s hard to avoid the suspicion that they might have shouldered more guilt than they deserve.’

‘Just let me know if you want to discuss anything.’

Birgitta gathered her notes and prepared to go home. Staffan had left a message on her mobile phone to say that all was well. She was about to leave when her office phone rang. She hesitated. Then she picked up the receiver. It was the usher.

‘I just wanted to say that you have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘The woman you asked me to keep an eye on.’

‘Is she still around? What does she want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If she’s related to any of the accused Vietnamese, I’m not allowed to talk to her.’

‘I don’t think she’s a relative.’

Birgitta was beginning to get impatient. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that she’s not from Vietnam. She speaks excellent English. She’s Chinese. And she wants to speak to you. She says it’s very important.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Waiting outside. I can see her from here. She’s just plucked a leaf from a birch tree.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘I’m sure she does. But she hasn’t told me what it is.’

‘I’m coming. Tell her to wait.’

Birgitta walked over to the window. She could see the woman, standing on the pavement.

A few minutes later she left the courthouse.

The woman, whose name was Ho, could have been Hong Qiu’s younger sister. Birgitta was struck by the resemblance, not only the sleeked-back hair but also the dignified posture.

Ho introduced herself in excellent English, just as Hong Qiu had done.

‘I have a message for you,’ said Ho. ‘If I’m not disturbing you.’

‘I’ve just finished work for the day.’

‘I didn’t understand a single word of what was said in court,’ said Ho, ‘but I could see the respect that was shown to you.’

‘A few months ago I attended a trial in China. The judge on that occasion was also a woman. And she was also treated with great respect.’

Birgitta asked if Ho would like to go to a cafe or restaurant, but Ho simply pointed to a nearby park where there were several benches.

They sat down. Not far away a group of elderly drunks was arguing noisily. Birgitta had seen them many times before. She had a vague memory of having found one of them guilty of some misdemeanour, but she couldn’t remember what. Drunks in parks and the lonely men who rake dead leaves in churchyards are the very hub of Swedish society she often said to herself. Take them away, and what’s left? She noticed that one of the drunks was a dark-skinned man. The new Sweden was asserting its identity even here. Birgitta smiled.