The Farm (24 page)

‘Murder! Murder!’

But I did no such thing. Sticking to the plan, I took my seat, feeling the heat on my face for the second time that day, and forced a smile, remarking how pleasant this was, how very pleasant. I vowed not to react. There’s no way he’s going to catch me, there’s nothing he can say or do, they’ve misjudged my mind, I’m not so fragile, not so easy to manipulate. They’d banked on the tooth turning me crazy. Instead, with my wits about me, I was demure and polite, complimenting him on the fineness of his house.

The doctor then asked if I’d prefer to speak in English. Håkan must have told him how much this insult irritated me, but I’d fallen for that trick once before, not again, and so I smiled, laughed, saying it was very kind of Norling to offer a choice of languages, but I was as Swedish as he was, our passports were the same, so it would be odd to communicate in English, as odd as two Swedes speaking to each other in Latin. He then gestured at the empty seats around the fire and told me he hosted many parties here. I thought to myself:

I bet you do, Doctor, I bet you do.

Sensing defeat, Norling attempted his second test, test number two, even more devious than the fire. He offered to show me the view through his binoculars set up on the decking, claiming it would allow me to study the boats out at sea. I was hardly in the mood but obliged, placing my eye on the lens, ready to say how pleasant, how very pleasant, only to be faced with a magnified view of the abandoned lighthouse, the old stone lighthouse where Mia had waited, dressed in bridal whites, the lighthouse where she’d hung the flowers on the door as a sign to an observer that she was inside. Those flowers were still there, wilted, dead and black, like the flowers by the side of a road where there’s been an accident. Norling had set up the binoculars, chosen this view. The provocation was clever and strong. I took hold of the binoculars, searching and finding the place on the beach where I’d hidden behind a shrub. I would’ve been visible – that’s why he didn’t show that day. Slowly, I straightened up, struggling to stick to the plan, but determined not to show any reaction. He asked me what I thought. I said I found his view revealing – very revealing.

His two tests had failed. Disappointed, Norling abruptly showed me inside, pressing a button, extinguishing the flames in the copper drum in an instant like some wizard grown tired of his own spell, showing me through the hallways past the cathedral windows, into a study. This wasn’t a room of intensive research, not a real study messy with papers and notes and dog-eared books, this was an interior design study, the kind constructed with unlimited money. The books were as beautiful as the view, floor-to-ceiling shelves with antique library ladders to reach the highest point. At a glance I saw books in several languages. Who knows if he’d read them all, or if he’d read any, these books were not to read but to be gawped at, propaganda for Norling’s mind. I considered the implication of the lighthouse. Previously I’d thought Norling a disciple of Håkan, but maybe I’d misjudged, maybe Håkan was a subordinate. Norling indicated I should take a seat, there were several to choose from, and I contemplated which to take, evaluating their height and angle of recline, not wishing to be slumped, or in a position of weakness. At this point I noticed on the coffee table, carefully positioned in the centre of the room – an article of evidence. It’s one you’ve already seen, one from my satchel. Can you guess which it was, can you guess what this man had on display in his third and final act of provocation?

• • •

I
THOUGHT UPON THE ITEMS
I’d seen and made a guess:

‘The biblical quote from the hermit’s farm?’

My mum was pleased. She reached into the satchel and placed the quote on the bed beside me:

‘I stole it. But not from Ulf, from Norling!’

‘How did the doctor have it?’

Exactly! Here it was, on his table! Spread out, the quote, with the mysterious coded message, stitched in the days before she hanged herself in the barn that no longer exists, before an audience of pigs. I grabbed it, forgetting my promise to remain calm, turning to Norling, fist clenched, and demanding to know who’d given it to him. Norling pressed home his advantage, relishing my emotional response, his soft voice tightening like hands around my neck, claiming that Chris had informed him about my fascination with these words, describing how I’d written out these lines many hundreds of times, how I’d mumbled them, chanted them like a prayer. Norling asked what these words meant to me, goading me to tell him what I thought was going on in this quiet corner of Sweden:

‘Talk to me, Tilde, talk to me.’

His voice was so alluring, and he was right, I wanted nothing more than to tell the truth, even though I knew it was a trap. Sensing that my will was faltering, I closed my eyes, reminding myself not to speak, to stick to the plan!

Norling picked up the bottle of water. He poured me a glass. I meekly accepted the water even though I was worried that he might use mind-altering chemicals, invisible to the eye, with no taste, a chemical that might make me speak and incriminate myself. I was so thirsty I raised the glass to my lips and drank. Within seconds I felt an instantaneous and overwhelming urge to talk, not a compulsion that came from my heart but an artificial desire, chemically stimulated. The idea occurred to me that this room was rigged with video cameras, tiny cameras, the size of buttons, or hidden in the tops of pens. Despite my fears the urge to speak grew stronger and stronger. I tried to keep the words down but it was no good. If I couldn’t control the urge to speak I could, at the very least, control the content of what I said, and so I spoke words that couldn’t hurt me, a description of my vegetable garden, how it was the largest vegetable garden we’d ever planted, producing lettuces, carrots, radishes, onions, red onions, white onions, chives, and fresh herbs, basil, rosemary and thyme. I must have spoken for five, ten, twenty minutes, I don’t know, but when I turned around Norling was seated in the exact same position, on that exquisite leather sofa, giving off the impression he was happy to wait forever. My defences crumbled.

I told him everything.

• • •

M
Y MUM PULLED A
newspaper clipping from her journal, the second that she’d shown me so far. She placed it neatly on my lap. It was cut from
Hallands Nyheter
, dated late April, only a few weeks after they’d arrived in Sweden.

I don’t need to translate it for you. It’s a critical study of the adoption system, asking whether there needs to be a review of procedures following the suicide of a young girl. The girl was born in Angola, the same country Mia was adopted from, brought to Sweden when she was just six months old. Aged thirteen she killed herself using her adopted father’s gun. The journalist discusses the difficulties of growing up as a young black girl in remote rural Sweden. The article caused a sensation. When I rang the journalist to ask him about the story he refused to talk, saying he didn’t want to comment further. He sounded scared. He was right to be. This article only touches the surface of a much deeper scandal.

• • •

N
O MATTER HER AVERSION TO CONCLUSIONS
, it was time to ask: ‘Mum, what is this scandal?’

‘You must be able to see it.’

Consistently she’d maintained a tight control over her account, precise and forceful, yet when it came to the conclusions, surely the most important part, I had the impression she’d much prefer to present them unshaped, like the model kits that required assembly. No matter how much guilt I felt over my lack of involvement during the summer, or over the last few years, I couldn’t collaborate in her accusations:

‘The police are going to ask direct questions. What happened? Who was involved? You can’t imply. You can’t ask them to infer. They weren’t there. I wasn’t there.’

My mum spoke slowly and carefully:

‘Children were being abused. Adopted children were being abused. The adoption system has been corrupted. These children are vulnerable. They’re seen as property.’

‘Including Mia?’

‘Particularly Mia.’

‘Is that why she was murdered?’

‘She was strong, Daniel. She was going to expose them. She was going to save other children from having to experience the pain she lived through. She knew if she didn’t make a stand then it would happen again. And her story would be the story of other girls and boys.’

‘Who killed her?’

‘One of the men from my list, perhaps Håkan. She was his daughter, his problem, and he would’ve felt duty-bound to deal with her. Or it might have been one of the others – an encounter gone wrong, perhaps one of them became obsessed with her. I don’t know.’

‘The body?’

‘I can’t dig up forests or dredge rivers. That’s why we need the police to investigate.’

‘But the scandal involved more than just Mia.’

‘Not every adoption, not even the majority, but a minority, a significant minority. Earlier I showed you a map of Sweden. The cases aren’t in one village or town. They’re spread across a vast area. The journalist was right: the statistics don’t lie. Their failure rate was too high. Look at the numbers, the numbers don’t lie.’

I sat back on the bed and crossed my legs, using my limited Swedish to read the article. Under pressure my mum had given me her allegation in summary form. There was a paedophile ring wired into the adoption system. There was a conspiracy to cover it up. The article confirmed that there was an issue with integration and listed several examples of failure, including one loss of life. I asked:

‘You believe the conspiracy involved many of the men you’ve spoken about – the detective, the mayor – even though they didn’t have adopted children?’

‘There were parties. That’s how your father became involved. He was invited to one. That’s a fact. I don’t know what went on at these parties, so I’m speculating. Some took place in Norling’s beach house. Others took place behind that second padlocked door. There was drink. They took drugs. One of the girls was brought out.’

‘I don’t know the others so I can’t comment. But I know Dad.’

‘You think you do. But you don’t.’

My mum had connected a series of dots, some of which, I agreed, were highly suggestive and disturbing. However, the lines she’d drawn between them were her own. I tried to pull together the threads, searching either for an argument that could be clearly contradicted, or one that couldn’t be dismissed as conjecture. I asked:

‘The woman who killed herself in the barn?’

‘She must have discovered the truth. She must have! That’s what her message was referring to – “For-my-struggle-is-against-flesh-and-blood-against-the-rulers-against-the-authorities-against-the-powers-of-this-dark-world-and-against-the-forces-of-evil-in-this-earthly-realm.” Maybe her husband was involved. She wasn’t strong like Mia. She died of shame.’

‘You can’t be sure of that.’

‘Everything I’ve told you connects to this conspiracy. Why were we brought to that location? Cecilia knew. But she was too frail to fight it. She understood that only outsiders could expose the truth.’

‘Mum, I’m not saying you’re wrong. It’s also impossible for me to say you’re right. Cecilia never told you that.’

Her response was strangely abstract:

I told you earlier nothing is more dangerous than to be desired. I’ll add this: nowhere is more dangerous than the space behind closed doors. People will always find a way to follow their desires. If no legal options exist, people will turn to illegal ones. Håkan and others created an elaborate organisation to satisfy their needs. Mia was exploited. I’m not sure by how many. She wasn’t a daughter. She was an asset. She was property. Now, please, Daniel, let’s go to the police.

• • •

M
Y MUM FOLDED THE STITCHED FABRIC,
packing it into her satchel. She was ready to leave. I placed a hand on hers:

‘Sit with me, Mum.’

With some reluctance, she sat on the bed, so light and small in size that the mattress needed only a faint adjustment to her body weight. We were both facing forward, like two children pretending to ride a magic carpet. She seemed tired and sank her glance towards the plush carpet. Addressing the nape of her neck, I said:

‘What happened next? You told your theory to Dr Norling?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you claim that he was involved?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

He didn’t say anything. I sat there and he stared at me. His expression was blank. It was my fault. I told the story wrong. I started with my conclusions, presented in summary form, without the detail or the context. I’ve learned from those mistakes, which is why I’ve been much more thorough talking to you, beginning at the beginning, with my arrival in Sweden, following the chronology of events, not letting myself skip ahead despite your demands for quick answers.

During the time I’d been talking, the blond butler had entered the room. He was standing behind me, summoned in somehow, a panic button perhaps because Norling hadn’t said a word. I asked if I could go to the bathroom, weakly at first, like a schoolgirl asking a teacher, then more assertively – I needed the toilet and they couldn’t refuse me that. Norling stood up, agreeing to my request, the first words he’d spoken since my accusation. He gestured for the housekeeper to show me the way. I said that wasn’t necessary, but Norling ignored me, holding open the study door. I followed the housekeeper, observing his sinewy arms. Suddenly I wondered whether this man might be an orderly from the hospital, in disguise as a butler, ready with drugs and restraints. He escorted me to the bathroom, not allowing me to deviate or wander off, and as I shut the door he looked into my eyes with pity. Or was it contempt – pity or contempt? They can be hard to tell apart.