The Man From Beijing (56 page)

Over and over again Ya Ru returned in his diary to his frustration at Hong Qiu’s failure to understand that the path China was now following was the only right possibility, and that people like Ya Ru must be the controlling influences. Birgitta began to realise that Ya Ru had many psychopathic traits that, reading between the lines, he even seemed to be aware of himself.

Nowhere could she find any redeeming features in his character. No expression of doubt, of a guilty conscience with regard to the death of Hong Qiu, who after all was his own sister. She wondered if Ho had edited the text in order to depict Ya Ru as a brutal man. She even wondered if Ho had invented the whole diary herself. But she couldn’t really believe that. San had committed murder. Just as in the Icelandic sagas, he had taken bloody revenge for the death of his mother.

By the time she had read through Ho’s translation twice, it was almost midnight. There were many obscurities in what Ho had written, many details that still weren’t explained. The red ribbon – what was its significance? Only Liu Xan could have explained that, if he had still been alive. There were threads that would continue to hang loose, perhaps forever.

But what still needed to be done? What could or must she do on the basis of the insight she now had? She would spend part of her holiday thinking about it. When Staffan was fishing, for instance – an activity she found deadly boring. And early in the mornings, when he was reading his historical novels or biographies of jazz musicians and she went for walks on her own. There would be time for her to formulate the letter she would send to the police in Hudiksvall. Once she’d done that she’d be able to put away the box containing memories of her parents. It would all be over as far as she was concerned. Hesjövallen would fade slowly out of her consciousness, be transformed into a pale memory. Even though she would never forget what had happened, of course.

They went to Bornholm, had changeable weather, and enjoyed living in the cottage they had rented. The children came and went, days passed by in an atmosphere generally characterised by drowsy well-being. To their surprise Anna turned up, having completed her long Asian journey, and astonished them even more by announcing that she would be embarking on a political science degree at Lund in the autumn.

On several occasions Birgitta decided that the time had come to tell Staffan what had happened, both in Beijing and then later in London. But she didn’t – there was no point in telling him if he would never be able to get over that she’d kept it from him. It would hurt him and be interpreted as a lack of confidence and understanding. It wasn’t worth the risk, so she continued to say nothing.

She did not say anything to Karin Wiman either about her visit to London and the happenings there.

It all stayed bottled up inside her, a scar that nobody else could see.

On Monday, 7 August, both she and Staffan went back to work. The previous evening they had sat down at long last and discussed their life together. It was as if both of them, without having mentioned it in advance, realised that they couldn’t start another working year without at least beginning to talk about the decline of their marriage. What Birgitta regarded as the major breakthrough was that her husband raised the question of their almost non-existent sex life of his own accord, without her having put the idea into his head. He regretted the situation and was horrified not to have the desire or the ability. In response to her direct question he said that no one else attracted him. It was simply a matter of a lack of desire, which worried him but was something he usually preferred not to think about.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked. ‘We can’t live another year without touching each other. I simply couldn’t take it.’

‘I’ll try to get help. I don’t find it any easier than you do. But I also find it difficult to talk about.’

‘You’re talking about it now.’

‘Because I realise that I have to.’

‘I hardly know what you’re thinking any more. I sometimes look at you in the morning and think that you’re a stranger.’

‘You express yourself better than I ever could. But I sometimes feel exactly the same thing. Perhaps not as strongly.’

‘Have you really accepted that we could live the rest of our lives like this?’

‘No. But I’ve avoided thinking about it. I promise to call a therapist.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not the first time. Later, if necessary.’

‘Do you understand what this means to me?’

‘I hope so.’

‘It’s not going to be easy. But with luck we’ll be able to get past this. It’s been a bit like wandering through a desert.’

He started his day on 7 August by climbing aboard a train to Stockholm at 8.12 in the morning. She didn’t arrive in her office until about 10. As Hans Mattsson was still on holiday she had responsibility for all the district court’s activities and began with a meeting for the legal and secretarial staff. Once she was convinced that everything was under control, she withdrew to her office and wrote the long letter to Vivi Sundberg that she had spent the summer composing in her head.

She had obviously asked herself what she wanted or at least hoped to achieve. The truth, naturally; the hope that all the happenings in Hesjövallen would be explained, including the murder of the old hotel owner. But was she also looking for some kind of redress for the distrust shown her by the police in Hudiksvall? How much was personal vanity, and how much was a genuine attempt to persuade the investigation team that the man who had committed suicide, despite his confession, had nothing to do with it?

In a way it also had to do with her mother. In searching for the truth Birgitta wanted to pay tribute to her mother’s foster-parents who had met such a grisly end.

It took her two hours to write the letter. She reread it several times before putting it in an envelope and addressing it to the police in Hudiksvall, attention Vivi Sundberg. Then she put it in the tray for outgoing post in the reception area downstairs and opened the windows in her office wide in the hope of blowing out all thought of the victims in those isolated houses up in Hesjövallen.

She spent the rest of the day reading a consultative document from the Department of Justice regarding what seemed to be a never-ending process of reorganisation affecting all aspects of the Swedish judiciary.

But she also made time to dig out one of her unfinished pop songs and attempted to write a couple more lines.

The idea had come to her during the summer. It would be called ‘A Walk on the Beach’. But she found it hard going, today especially. She crumpled up her failed attempts and tossed them into the bin before locking the unfinished text in one of her desk drawers. Nevertheless, she was determined not to give up.

At six o’clock she switched off her computer and left her office.

On the way out, she noticed that the post outbox was now empty.

37

Liu Xan had snow under his feet, and was surrounded by freezing cold air. It was 12 January 2006. Earlier in the day he had noticed a thermometer saying it was minus nine degrees Celsius. He kept shuffling his feet in an attempt to keep them warm. It was still early in the evening In several of the houses he could see from where he was standing that the lights were on or in some windows the bluish glow from television screens. He strained his ears
b
ut couldn’t hear a single sound. Not even dogs. Liu Xan thought that people in this part of the world kept dogs to guard them during the night. He had seen tracks in the snow, but gathered that they were being kept indoors.

Vivi,

This narrative is in a diary written by a man called Ya Ru. He had been given an oral report by the person who first went to Nevada, where he killed several people, and then continued to Hesjövallen. I want you to read it so that you can understand all the other things I’ve written in this letter.

None of these people are still alive. But the truth of what happened in Hesjövallen was bigger, far different from what we all thought. I’m not sure that everything I’ve written can be proved. It’s probably not possible. Just as, for instance, I can’t explain why the red ribbon ended up in the snow at Hesjövallen. We know who took it there, but that’s all.

Lars-Erik Valfridsson, who hanged himself in a police cell, was not guilty. At least his relatives ought to be told that. We can only speculate about why he took the blame on himself.

I understand that this letter will wreak havoc with your investigation. But what we are all searching for, of course, is clarity. I hope that what I have written can contribute to that.