The Man From Beijing (10 page)

The sky seemed close; the stars shone brightly that night. I can see the surface, she thought. There is a connection, thin threads intertwining with one another. But what lay behind it all? What was the motive for killing nineteen people in a small village in the north of Sweden, and also putting an end to a family in the Nevada desert? Probably no more than the usual: revenge, greed, jealousy. But what injustice could require such drastic revenge? Who could gain financially by murdering a number of pensioners in a northern hamlet who were already well on their way to death? Who could possibly be jealous of them?

She went back indoors when she began to feel cold. She usually went to bed early because she always felt tired in the evening and hated to go to work the following morning without having had a good night’s sleep, especially when a trial was taking place. She lay down on the sofa and switched on some music, quite softly so as not to disturb Staffan. It was a cavalcade of modern Swedish ballads. Birgitta Roslin had secretly dreamed of writing a pop song that would be chosen to represent Sweden in the Eurovision Song Contest. She was embarrassed about this desire but at the same time felt very positive about it. She even had several preliminary versions of songs locked away in her desk. Perhaps it was inappropriate for a practising judge to write pop songs; but as far as she knew there was no rule against it.

It was three o’clock by the time she went to bed, and she gave Staffan a shake, as he was snoring. When he had turned over and fallen silent, she fell asleep herself.

The following morning she recalled a dream she’d had during the night. She had seen her mother, who spoke to her without Birgitta being able to grasp what she’d said. It was like being behind a pane of glass. It seemed to go on forever, the mother becoming more and more upset because her daughter didn’t understand what she was saying, the daughter wondering what was keeping them apart.

Memory is like glass, she thought. A person who has died is still visible, very close. But we can no longer contact each other. Death is mute; it excludes conversations, only allows silence.

Birgitta Roslin got up. A thought was beginning to form inside her head. She fetched a road map of Sweden. When the children were small, every summer the family used to drive to various cottages they had rented, usually for a month. Very occasionally, such as the two summers they had spent on the island of Gotland, they had flown there. But they had never taken the train, and in those days it had never occurred to Staffan that one day he would exchange his lawyer’s existence for that of a train conductor.

She turned to a general map of Sweden. Hälsingland was further north than she had imagined. She couldn’t find Hesjövallen. It was such an insignificant little hamlet that it wasn’t even marked.

When she put the map down, she had made up her mind. She would take the car and drive up to Hudiksvall. Not primarily because she wanted to visit the crime scene, but in order to see the little village where her mother had grown up.

When she was younger she had dreamed of one day making a grand tour of Sweden. ‘The Journey Home’, she used to call it. She would go to Treriksröset in the far north, where the borders of Sweden, Norway and Finland converged, and then back south to the coast of Skåne, where she would be close to the Continent, with the rest of Sweden behind her back. On the way north she would follow the coast, but on the way back south she would take the inland route. However, that journey had never taken place. Whenever she had mentioned it to Staffan, he had displayed no interest. And it had not been possible when the children were at home.

But now she had the opportunity to make at least part of that journey.

When Staffan had finished his breakfast and was preparing to join the train to Alvesta, the last one before he was due for several days off, she told him her plan. He didn’t object, merely asked how long she would be away and if her doctor would be happy about the strain that such a long drive was bound to impose.

It was only when he was in the hall with his hand on the front-door handle that she became upset. They had said goodbye in the kitchen, but now she followed him and threw the morning paper angrily at him.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Have you no interest at all in why I want to take this trip?’

‘But you’ve told me why.’

‘Doesn’t it occur to you that I might also need some time to think about our relationship?’

‘We can’t start in on that now. I’ll miss my train.’

‘There’s never a good time as far as you’re concerned! It’s no good in the evening, no good in the morning. Don’t you ever want to talk to me about our life?’

‘You know that I’m not as perturbed about it as you are.’

‘Perturbed? You call it being perturbed when I wonder why we haven’t made love for over a year?’

‘We can’t talk about that now. I don’t have time.’

‘You’ll soon have plenty of time.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Perhaps I’ve run out of patience.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘All I know is that we can’t keep going on like this. Go away, go to your damned train.’

She turned on her heel, headed for the kitchen and heard the front door slam. She felt relieved at having said at last what she’d been wanting to say for ages, but she was also anxious about how he would react.

He phoned that evening. Neither of them mentioned what had happened in the hall that morning. But she could tell by his voice that he was shaken. Perhaps it would be possible now, and not a moment too soon, for them to talk about what could no longer be suppressed?

The following day, early in the morning, she got into the car, ready to drive north from Helsingborg. Staffan, who had arrived home in the middle of the night, carried her bag out to the car and put it on the back seat.

‘Where are you going to stay?’

‘There’s a little hotel in Lindesberg. I’ll spend the night there. I promise to call you. Then I suppose I’ll find somewhere in Hudiksvall.’

He stroked her cheek gently and waved as she drove off.

A day later she found herself six or seven miles from Hudiksvall. If she turned off inland a bit further north, she would pass through Hesjövallen. She hesitated a moment, felt a bit like a hyena, but banished the thought. She had a good reason for going there, after all.

When she reached Iggesund she took a left, and went left again when she came to a fork in the road at Ölsund. She passed a police car travelling in the opposite direction, and then another. The trees suddenly gave way to a lake. A row of houses lined the road, all of them cut off by red-and-white police tape. Police officers were walking along the road.

She could see a tent erected at the edge of the trees, and a second one in the nearest garden. She scanned the village slowly through a pair of binoculars she’d brought with her. People in uniform or overalls were moving between the houses, smoking by the gates in groups. She sometimes visited crime scenes as part of her work and was familiar with the set-up – though not on such a scale. She knew that prosecuting counsels and other officers of the law were not especially welcome, as the police were often wary of criticism.

A uniformed police officer tapped on her windscreen and interrupted her thoughts.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I didn’t realise that I’d strayed inside the cordoned-off area.’

‘You haven’t. But we keep an eye on everybody who comes here. Especially if they have binoculars. We hold our press conferences in Hudiksvall, in case you didn’t know.’

‘I’m not a reporter.’

The young police officer eyed her suspiciously.

‘What are you, then? A crime-scene junkie?’

‘Actually I’m a relative.’

The officer took out his notebook.

‘Of whom?’

‘Brita and August Andrén. I’m on my way to Hudiksvall, but I can’t remember the name of the person I’m supposed to see.’

‘Erik Huddén. He’s the one responsible for contacting relatives. Please accept my condolences.’

‘Thank you.’

The officer saluted; she felt like an idiot, turned round and drove off. When she got to Hudiksvall she realised that it wasn’t only the battalions of reporters that made finding a vacant hotel room impossible. A friendly receptionist at the First Hotel Statt told her that there was also a conference taking place that involved delegates from all over Sweden, ‘discussing forests’. She parked her car and wandered around the little town. She tried two hotels and a guest house, but everything was full.

She looked for somewhere to have lunch and found a little Chinese restaurant. It was quite full, but she got a small table next to a window. The room seemed to be exactly like every other Chinese restaurant she’d been to. The same vases, porcelain lions and lamps with coloured ribbons serving as shades.

A Chinese woman came with the menu. Birgitta Roslin ordered with difficulty; the young woman could speak practically no Swedish at all.

After her hasty lunch, she rang for a room and eventually got one at the Andbacken Hotel in Delsbo. There was a conference going on there as well, this one for an advertising company. Everyone in Sweden appeared to be tied up travelling between hotels and conference venues.

Andbacken turned out to be a large white building on the shore of a snow-covered lake. As she waited in the queue at reception, she read that the advertising folk would be busy that afternoon with group work. In the evening there would be a gala dinner at which prizes would be distributed. Please God, don’t let this be a noisy night with drunks running up and down the corridors and slamming doors, she thought.

Her room looked out over the frozen lake and the wooded hills. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes for a short while, then got up, put on her jacket and drove to Hudiksvall. Reporters and TV crews thronged the police station. Eventually she found herself face to face with a young, exhausted receptionist and explained what she wanted.

‘Vivi Sundberg doesn’t have time.’

The dismissive response surprised her.

‘Aren’t you even going to ask me what I want to see her about?’

‘I take it you want to ask her questions, like everybody else. You’ll have to wait until the next press conference.’

‘I’m not a journalist. I’m a relative of one of the families in Hesjövallen.’

The woman behind the counter changed her attitude immediately.

‘I apologise. You need to speak to Eric Huddén.’

She dialled a number and told Eric that he had a visitor. It was evidently not necessary to say any more. ‘Visitor’ was a code word for ‘relative’.

‘He’ll come down and collect you. Wait over there by the glass doors.’

She found a young man standing by her side.

‘Unless I’m much mistaken, i think I heard you say that you were a relative of one of the murder victims. Can I ask you a few questions?’

Birgitta Roslin usually kept her claws tucked into her paws. But not now.

‘No. I’ve no idea who you are.’

‘I write.’

‘For whom?’

‘For everybody who’s interested.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘Obviously, I’m very sorry about your sad loss.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not sorry at all. You are speaking softly in order not to attract attention – so others don’t realise you’ve found a relative.’

The glass doors were opened by a man with badge informing the world that he was Erik Huddén. They shook hands. A photographer’s flash was reflected in the glass doors as they closed again.

There were people everywhere. The tempo here was radically different from that in Hesjövallen. They went into a conference room where a table was covered in files and lists. This is where the dead are gathered together, Roslin thought. Huddén invited her to sit down and took a seat opposite her. She told the full story from the beginning, the two different name changes, and how she discovered that she was related to the victims. She could see that Huddén was disappointed when he realised that her presence was not going to help.

‘I appreciate that you no doubt need other information,’ she said. ‘I work in the law, and I’m not totally unaware of the procedures involved.’

‘Obviously, I’m grateful that you’ve come to see us.’

He put down his pen and squinted at her.

‘But have you really come all the way from Skåne to tell us this? You could have phoned.’

‘I have something to say that is relevant to the investigation. I’d like to speak to Vivi Sundberg.’

‘Can’t you tell me? She’s extremely busy.’

‘I’ve already spoken to her, and it would be useful to continue where we left off.’

He went out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Roslin slid the file labelled
BRITA AND AUGUST ANDRÉN
towards her. What she saw horrified her. There were photographs, taken inside the house. It was only now that she realised the scale of the bloodbath. She stared at the pictures of the sliced and diced bodies. The woman was almost impossible to identify, as she had been slashed by a blow that almost cut her face in two. One of the man’s arms was hanging from just a couple of thin sinews.

She closed the file and pushed it away. But the images were still there; she wouldn’t be able to forget them. During her years in court she had often been forced to look at photographs of sadistic violence, but she had never seen anything to compare with what Erik Huddén had in his files.

He came back and beckoned her to follow him.

Vivi Sundberg was sitting at a desk laden with documents. Her pistol and mobile phone were lying on top of a file filled almost to the bursting point. She indicated a visitor’s chair.

‘You wanted to speak to me,’ said Sundberg. ‘If I understand it rightly, you’ve travelled all the way from Helsingborg. You must feel what you have to say is important.’