Annika shut the door behind her and headed off towards the canteen. As she followed Berit, the world seemed manageable, safe, the floor stable, no need for any doubts.
The cafeteria was half-empty, the lighting subdued. Most of the light came from the row of windows at the far end of the room. No faces were visible, just dark silhouettes.
They sat at a table overlooking the car park with their steaming plates of microwaved lasagne.
‘What are you working on?’ Berit said, once she’d got to the bottom of the plastic dish.
Annika sliced suspiciously at the layers of pasta.
‘That journalist’s murder,’ she said, ‘and the attack on a plane at F21. The police have a suspect, have had for years.’
Berit raised her eyebrows, catching a piece of meat that was trying to escape from the corner of her mouth, and waved her fork in the air encouragingly.
‘His name’s Ragnwald, someone who fled the Torne Valley for the south, came back and became a terrorist, then went to Spain and joined ETA.’
Berit looked sceptical. ‘And when is this supposed to have happened?’
Annika leaned back and folded her arms. ‘End of the sixties, early seventies.’
‘Hmm,’ Berit said. ‘The delightful age of revolution. There were a lot of people who thought they could liberate the masses through terrorism, and not just in our circle.’
‘Which one was your circle?’
‘
The Vietnam Bulletin
,’ Berit said, scraping at the oil at the bottom of the dish. ‘That’s how I got started as a journalist; I must have told you?’
Annika checked quickly in her failing memory.
‘Which circles wanted terrorism, then?’
Berit was staring at Annika’s half-eaten dish. ‘Are you done with that?’
Annika nodded. Berit sighed, put down her knife and fork.
‘I’ll get coffee,’ she said, and stood up.
Annika stayed where she was, watching her colleague queue up, her short hair sticking out at the back, radiating patience. She smiled as Berit came gliding back with two cups of coffee and some biscuits.
‘Now you’re spoiling me,’ Annika said.
‘Tell me about your terrorist,’ Berit said.
‘Tell me about the sixties,’ Annika countered.
Berit put the cups carefully on the table and looked sharply at Annika.
‘Okay,’ she said as she sat down and stirred two lumps of sugar into her coffee. ‘It was like this. In nineteen sixty-three there was the official break between the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Chinese Communist Party. The split affected every communist movement around the world, including ours. The Swedish Communist Party split into three groups.’
She waved her left index finger.
‘The right-wing group,’ she said, ‘led by C-H Hermansson. They distanced themselves from both the Stalinists and the Maoists, and ended up with a sort of
old-fashioned revisionism that we may as well call Social Democracy. They’re today’s Left Party, with almost ten per cent of our parliamentary seats.’
Berit took a sip of coffee, then raised her middle finger.
‘Then there was the centre,’ she said, ‘led by the chief editor of
Northern Lights
, Alf Löwenborg, who lined up on the Soviet side.’
She changed fingers.
‘And then there was the left-wing group, led by Nils Holberg, which favoured China.’
‘When did all this happen?’ Annika asked.
‘The Swedish Communist Party broke up after its twenty-first party congress, in May nineteen sixty-seven,’ Berit said. ‘The party changed its name to the Left Party Communists, and the left-wing group broke away to form the Communist Association of Marxist-Leninists. After that things developed quickly. The Vietnam movement, Clarté, the Rs – the revolutionaries – all popped up. In the spring of sixty-eight it culminated with the occupation of the student union and the rebel movement in Uppsala. They were actually the worst of all, the Uppsala rebels. They spent the whole of that spring making threats against us.’
She held her right hand up to her ear like a phone. ‘“If you don’t attend the revolutionary mass-meeting to listen to the grievances of the masses, some comrades will come and fetch you.”’
‘Sounds nice,’ Annika said. ‘And they were Maoists?’
‘Well, the real Maoists were no problem. They always asked: what would the Master do? Would he personally have committed these acts in the name of the revolution? If the answer was no, they didn’t do it. It was the hangers-on who were worst, the ones out for kicks, with their mass psychosis and sect behaviour.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go. The Green Party have promised a statement about Baltic fishing quotas at one o’clock.’
Annika gave a theatrical yawn.
‘Ha ha,’ Berit said, standing up and picking up the sticky plastic tray to take over to the bin. ‘It’s all right for you, writing about your dead journalists. Over in my corner we’re dealing with the really important stuff, like all those murdered cod . . .’
Annika laughed, then silence fell coldly around her. A whiff of old lasagne wafted up at her, sticky and fatty, and she pushed it away. She became conscious of the colleagues around her, some of them talking quietly, but most of them on their own, bent over newspapers as they clutched their plastic cutlery. Somewhere behind the counter a microwave pinged, and two men from sport were buying eight pastries.
She drank her coffee slowly, one of the many dark silhouettes outlined against the cold light, one of the workers at the newspaper factory.
A function. Not an individual.
Thomas never really liked meetings in the offices of the Federation of County Councils. Even if he was broadly in favour of looking into how far the two associations should be merged, he always felt slightly at a disadvantage when they met on Sophia Grenborg’s home turf. It was mostly small things, like not knowing his way around, using the wrong lift, forgetting the names of the other staff.
Mind you, he didn’t know their names at the Association of Local Councils either, he realized.
He took a deep breath and pushed open the door out onto Hornsgatan, feeling the cold bite at his ears immediately. Entering the Federation of County
Councils, he found his way through the labyrinth on the fifth floor, feeling slightly stressed. Sophia came towards him, her blond bob swaying, shiny and straight, as she walked, her jacket unbuttoned, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
‘Welcome,’ she said, taking his hand in hers, small and soft, warm and dry. ‘The others are already here.’
He started to shrug off his coat, immediately anxious that they had been waiting for him.
She took a step closer, and he noticed her perfume. Light, fresh, sporty.
‘You’re not late,’ she whispered. ‘They’re drinking coffee in the conference room.’
He breathed out, smiled, surprised that she had known what he was thinking.
‘Good,’ he whispered back, looking into her eyes. They were a strikingly bright blue.
‘How do you feel today?’ she whispered back. ‘A bit hungover?’
He grinned. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said quietly. ‘You can’t be hungover. You look absolutely great.’
She lowered her eyes, he could have sworn she was blushing, then he heard his own words as an echo, realized their meaning, and started to blush himself.
‘I mean . . .’ he said, stepping back.
She looked up, took a step forward to keep pace with him, and put her arm on his coat.
‘It’s fine, Thomas,’ she whispered, so close that he could feel her breath.
He looked into her eyes for a few seconds, then turned away, pulling off his scarf and putting his briefcase on a bench, opening it and putting the scarf inside. Wondered if his ears were still bright red.
‘I’ve handed out the brochures,’ she said. ‘I hope that was okay.’
He stiffened slightly, looking down at the pack of brochures he had planned to hand out. Now the whole initiative, which was partly his responsibility, looked like it had come from Sophia and the Federation of County Councils.
He shut his briefcase.
‘Of course,’ he said shortly, feeling his smile stiffen. ‘You can tell your webmaster to get in touch with ours, because we’ve got the content online, and it would make sense if you did too.’
She twisted her fingers nervously and showed him to the conference room.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know.’
Per Cramne, the representative from the Ministry of Justice, stood up as he entered the room, and hurried over to greet him.
‘I really must apologize about yesterday,’ he said. ‘It’s these damn EU elections . . .’
Thomas put his briefcase on the table and raised both hands. ‘No problem. We had other things to discuss anyway. The Association of Local Councils and the Federation of County Councils have a congress in the spring, we’re discussing a possible merger, and I’m in the planning group, so . . .’
He realized his mistake too late. Cramne had already glazed over, couldn’t care less about any merger.
‘Is everyone here?’ Cramne said, turning away. ‘Let’s get going then. It is Friday, after all.’
Thomas took out his documents, refusing to look round to see if anyone had witnessed the embarrassing incident.
Cramne began, of course; the Ministry of Justice was always top of the hierarchy. Then Thomas stood up and presented the information they’d put together, specifying the arguments why unknown threats against
politicians were a real danger to democracy, outlining the proposed changes.
‘I believe we need to investigate public opinion,’ he concluded. ‘This is a problem that concerns everyone. Not just every politician, but every citizen. We have to make it clear that this is a broader issue. How does society regard such violence and threats of violence against our politicians? What values do we apply to attempts to silence them? And can we change those values with a public information campaign?’
He turned over a sheet of paper, aware that he had the complete attention of the group.
‘I think we should try to instigate a debate in the press,’ he said, ‘try to influence public opinion the old-fashioned way. Articles that show local politicians as heroes for our time, examples of people battling right-wing extremists and anarchists in small towns, but without exaggerating the threat and scaring off people just starting out in politics . . .’
The decision to set up a research group to look into this, under Thomas’s leadership, was swiftly taken.
Thomas concluded the meeting with an anecdote about a councillor from Jämtland that always got a laugh, then they packed up, the meeting was dissolved, and within minutes the others had all vanished.
It was Friday afternoon, after all.
He was left standing with his papers, sorting his notes as Sophia collected the material the delegates had left behind. He wasn’t sure how to handle the fact that he had ignored her and taken the credit for the whole initiative. The folder was just as much her work as his, as was the discussion of a survey.
‘Well, I have to say,’ Sophia Grenborg said, standing next to him, ‘you were really fantastic today.’
He looked up in surprise, aware that beads of
sweat were breaking out on his forehead.
She didn’t seem annoyed, in fact quite the reverse. Her eyes were beaming.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘You really know how to present things and get the right decisions taken,’ she said, taking another step towards him. ‘You got everyone to go along with it, even Justice.’
He looked down in embarrassment.
‘It’s an important project.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and it shows that you think so. You really believe in what you’re doing, and it feels so right to work with you on this . . .’
He took a deep breath, giddy with her perfume.
‘Have a good weekend,’ he said, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.
Annika dialled Inspector Suup’s direct line, after nagging the receptionist to let her have the number, with a sense of foreboding in her stomach. The more she thought about it, the stranger he had seemed during their conversation that morning. Was he regretting letting her have the information about Ragnwald? Had he thought it would be in the next day’s paper? Was he disappointed?
Her hands were damp with sweat as she listened to the phone ring.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked him when he had picked up.
‘Something really bad,’ he said. ‘Linus Gustafsson is dead.’
Her first reaction was relief: the name meant nothing to her. ‘Who?’
‘The witness,’ Suup said, and the shutters went up in her brain, a blinding white light filled her head, guilt consuming all of her other turbulent thoughts. She heard herself gasp.
‘How?’
‘His throat was cut, at home in his bedroom. His mum found him in a pool of blood when she got home this morning.’
She was shaking her head violently. ‘No, it can’t be true,’ she whispered.
‘We believe that the killings are somehow connected, but we don’t know how yet. The only common denominator so far is that the boy was a witness to the first murder. The methods are completely different.’
Annika sat, her right hand over her eyes, feeling the dead weight in her chest pounding, making it hard to breathe.
‘Is this my fault?’ she managed to say.
‘What did you say?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Linus told me that he thought he recognized the killer,’ she said. ‘Did he tell you who he thought it was?’
The inspector was no good at pretending. His surprise was genuine, and extreme. ‘That’s news to me,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’
She forced herself to think logically and take her responsibility as a journalist.
‘I promised him complete anonymity,’ she mused out loud. ‘Does that apply now that he’s dead?’
‘It doesn’t matter any more. He came to us of his own accord, which releases you from your responsibility,’ the police officer said, and Annika knew he was right. She breathed out.
‘When I spoke to him he said that he might have recognized the murderer, but I didn’t put it in my article. I didn’t think it made sense to highlight that.’
‘You were right not to,’ the policeman said. ‘It’s a shame it wasn’t enough.’