Savage Spring (39 page)

And who was available?

Waldemar, and Börje had thrown the offer up in the air.

‘How about dinner and a drink back at mine? To help us wind down?’

Waldemar had given him a broad grin.

‘Sure. The old woman can pick me up when we’re done.’

They’d prepared the meal together. Talked about anything but work. Drunk whisky with the food, along with low-alcohol beer, letting themselves get a bit tipsy. They had talked about dogs, car alarms, guns, and summer cottages. They had talked about children, and not having children. About grief, and the fact that it is up to each of us what we do with our single life.

Then they go out to the dogs in the garden.

And now they’re standing there, patting the dogs in the mild spring evening, with the scent of dew-damp animal fur in their nostrils, and the promise of camaraderie that the smell seems to be hold.

‘How do you think Malin and Zeke are getting on?’ Börje asks.

‘I’m sure they’re doing brilliantly,’ Waldemar says, and Börje can smell the whisky on his breath.

‘What do you think about Sven letting her go off like that?’

‘Might as well let her have her way,’ Waldemar says. ‘For a bird, she’s a fucking good cop.’

A shadow of a human being.

The woman standing in front of Malin and Zeke can’t weigh more than forty kilos. She’s about ten centimetres shorter than Malin, her worn, stained jeans are hanging limply from her skinny hips, and her anorak, once white, is at least three sizes too big, her face partly hidden by its hood. For a moment Malin is struck by how much Josefina Marlöw resembles the figure on the bank video, then realises that it can’t be the same person.

Josefina Marlöw is shorter, and her movements are jerky and irregular. Her hands shake, and she seems to have difficulty talking, as if her tongue doesn’t quite want to obey the signals from her brain.

But the eyes . . .

The dark yet strangely colourless eyes sitting above the finely shaped, pointed nose are clear, and Malin can see grief and despair in them, and she realises that Josefina Marlöw knows what has happened to her girls.

From the refectory of the refuge comes the clatter of crockery and contented sighs.

‘Fucking good, Manuel!’ a male voice shouts, followed by a chorus of agreement, and Josefina Marlöw, who stopped when she caught sight of them and evidently wanted to talk to them, listened while Malin and Zeke told her why they were there, and now she gestures towards the door, saying: ‘McDonald’s up above, we can go there.’

Josefina Marlöw’s mouth around a Big Mac.

Her jaws seem huge. Her two top front teeth have grown together.

She’s starving.

Malin knows why she’s skinny. That’s what happens with heroin, the drug itself doesn’t attack the body, but it dies anyway because you just stop caring about looking after it, and your body and soul gradually wither away in the face of the constant desire for more.

Malin has never tried heroin herself, but she’s heard addicts talk about it.

The way the rush is like being completely enveloped by warm water, while you’re raised up into a world where everything is good, and there’s no need, no desire for anything. A world without cravings, where there’s no avarice, no cruelty.

Malin can appreciate the appeal, how irresistible it must be, and knows she’s had periods in her life when she would hardly have objected if anyone had insisted on her smoking a bit of heroin.

Josefina Marlöw takes another bite of the hamburger. Then she puts it down on the tray.

She’s pushed back her hood, and her greasy, shiny hair covers an emaciated skull, and her sunken cheeks are covered with blemishes that look like Kaposi’s sarcoma, a tumorous cutaneous disease common in people with HIV. Malin assumes that Josefina is in the advanced stages of Aids.

Josefina Marlöw looks out at Slussen, at the cars and buses passing in a steady stream on their way into the city centre, or up onto Södermalm, and when she turns around, the dusk light falls on her cheeks, accentuating the purity of her features, and neither Malin nor Zeke says anything, waiting for the person facing them, hoping that she will talk, tell them something important.

Malin has a hamburger in front of her. She hasn’t touched it, isn’t hungry, only bought it to seem sociable. She looks at Josefina Marlöw, wondering: How does anyone get to where you are, when every other option must have been open to you? The same question that occurred to her not long ago about Madelene Adeltjärn, but stronger now, and then the shadow in front of them starts to talk, saying: ‘The girls. I know what happened to the girls,’ and Malin can see that Josefina Marlöw is on the brink of crying, but it’s as if her ravaged body doesn’t contain enough moisture for tears.

‘They were my girls,’ and Josefina Marlöw’s eyes turn empty and she falls silent.

‘Why did you turn your back on your family?’ Zeke asks, and Malin is taken aback by the bluntness of the question, but sees how the clarity, the absence of any hidden agenda, makes an impression on Josefina Marlöw, and she shakes her head and blurts out, whispers her reply: ‘It was impossible.’

‘What was impossible?’

‘Living there.’

‘Why?’

‘There was no love.’

‘In what way?’

‘The idea of having us had nothing to do with love.’

‘Having us?’ Malin interjects.

‘Yes, they were never interested in love. Just other things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Money.’

‘They were interested in money?’

But Josefina Marlöw doesn’t answer.

The dusk light slips away from her face, and her skin takes on the shimmering, mute hue that Malin recognises from dead bodies.

‘And an image,’ Josefina Marlöw goes on. ‘They wanted to project an image.’

Mum, Malin thinks. The lack of love in you, your desire that everything should be something else, better than it really was. The way it shaped your life, eventually turning it into a lie. Is that the kind of image you mean?

‘Tell us about the image.’

Malin can tell from Zeke’s voice that he thinks her story is important, even if he probably couldn’t explain exactly why.

But Josefina Marlöw drifts off, her hands start to shake uncontrollably, and the look in her eyes becomes clouded and unsettled, and she seems to want to get up, but it’s as if her legs won’t carry her.

‘My mum,’ she says. ‘My mum.’

‘Your mum?’ Malin asks.

‘Father. And my brothers.’

‘What about them?’

Then Josefina Marlöw pulls herself together.

‘There was no love in that home. And they were sadists, both of them, Mum and Father, but in different ways. I had to leave my family. You can’t live in a world like that.’

‘Did they hurt you?’

‘They used to lock me up. And my brothers. But mostly they just left us alone, when children aren’t supposed to be on their own.’

‘How did they lock you up?’

‘In a cramped, dark room. A cold room. And they left us alone with the shame. I couldn’t let them anywhere near the children, how could I have done that?’

Josefina Marlöw falls silent. Seems to think before going on: ‘They didn’t really care about me. And Father and Mum consciously messed up my brothers and made them scared and obsessed with money and everything that comes with it. They were to do whatever money demanded, for what they thought was Father’s love.’

A couple of young Goth boys sit down at the next table.

‘What happened to your brothers?’

Josefina Marlöw looks at Malin.

A sudden, boundless exhaustion in her expression. Her eyes turn black.

‘Father tried to make them into the perfect businessmen,’ she says.

‘How?’

Josefina Marlöw shakes her head, says: ‘By making them ruthless.’

‘Ruthless?’

Then Josefina Marlöw closes her eyes, seems to disappear inside herself, shaking as if a powerful electric current were passing through her body.

She waves her hand, as if to fend off Malin’s question.

‘What did he do to them?’

No answer.

‘Do you have any contact with your brothers?’ Malin asks. ‘Do you know where they are?’

‘It’s impossible,’ Josefina Marlöw says in a weak voice. ‘It’s impossible.’

Then she manages to get to her feet, and Malin wants to keep her there, wants to delve deeper into her story, but Josefina Marlöw turns her back on them, walks away from them, mutters something inaudible before stopping and turning around to look at them again.

‘I didn’t want the girls living anywhere near them,’ she says. ‘There has to be love. Otherwise life on earth is hell, isn’t it?’

Malin and Zeke look at Josefina Marlöw. The way she could collapse at any moment, slump lifeless in front of them, and the clarity has gone from her eyes, and whatever it is she has to tell them, she won’t be able to find it now.

McDonald’s revolving door whirrs.

And the shadow is gone.

Swallowed up by Slussen’s crowds.

The receptionist of the Hotel Tegnérlunden hands them each a key.

Malin looks at the receipt before slipping it into her wallet.

Three thousand, eight hundred kronor.

For two single rooms, one night.

So expensive! But Sven has authorised them to stay the night, and they won’t find any cheaper rooms in Stockholm in the middle of the conference season.

‘See you back here in half an hour,’ Zeke says.

Malin nods and heads towards the stairs as Zeke presses the lift button.

It’s nine o’clock.

Half past nine.

Is that too late to pay a visit to Josef Kurtzon? If he’s actually at the address on Strandvägen. Of course it isn’t. There’s no reason to show any respect to money or age under these circumstances.

The room is small.

A bed.

A burgundy-coloured carpet, polka dot walls and a print of forest scenery above the bed.

Malin lies down, stretches out.

She can feel her mobile in the front pocket of her jeans, wonders about calling Tove, but feels she doesn’t have the energy. Then she pulls herself together, takes the phone out and calls her daughter.

Five rings.

Then she hears Tove’s voice.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hi.’

‘Are you still in Stockholm?’

‘Yes, in some scruffy hotel near Tegnérlunden.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘In the city centre.’

‘I’ve got no idea.’

‘We’ll have to come up sometime. To Stockholm. Go to a few museums.’

‘Sure,’ Tove says. ‘Are you getting anywhere with the bombing?’

‘I don’t know,’ Malin says. ‘You know what adults are like. All sorts of odd things can happen.’

Tove murmurs on the other end of the line.

Seems to be gathering breath.

Then an explosion in Malin’s brain.

The monster with her hands around Tove’s neck, the time she was kidnapped by a killer, and Malin looks out of the window towards the park, a tree, she concentrates on the tree, she can’t see what sort it is – is it a chestnut, or lilac? – and the tree has the most exquisite white flowers she’s ever seen, thousands of them, like an explosion of everything beautiful in the world.

Cherry blossom? A tree brought over from Kyoto?

‘Did you want anything in particular, Mum?’

‘I just wanted to hear your voice.’

And show that I care about you. To soothe my guilty conscience. But it isn’t that easy, is it?

‘OK, well, you’ve done that now. I need to get on with my homework.’

‘Lundsberg. Shit. I forgot to email the headmaster. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.’

‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Tove says. ‘I’ve already done it, in your name.’

‘Tove, you can’t do that.’

‘I knew you’d forget to do it.’

What can I say to that?

‘So when are we going to see my uncle?’ Tove goes on.

‘As soon as this is over.’

‘OK.’

They hang up.

And I want to tell you how much I love you, Tove, Malin thinks. And I want to say sorry for not always being able to show it, sorry if my love for you has ever let you down.

44

The old, white, tar-scented boats anchored by the quayside along Strandvägen look as though they belong to the sea, rocking gently back and forth.

The building Josef Kurtzon is supposed to live in is halfway along Strandvägen, and Malin feels very small as she stands in the huge archway enclosing the doors that lead into this palace of wealth.

The flat she and Tove lived in out in Traneberg.

A rather different view from there.

Down on the quayside a flood of human flesh is moving, and the spring evening is mild and the avenue of lime trees rustles: the trees appear to be proud of their pale green chlorophyll costumes.

Kurtzon. The name on a small brass plaque next to an entryphone.

Not so secret that there isn’t a sign.

A small camera lens next to the phone. The name Wallenberg on another sign. The logo of ‘Economic Business Leadership’. Names like Brusser, Kviisten.

People good for billions, but how good are they?

Malin feels hungry and thirsty. Would love a drink, this evening was almost made for drinking beer at a pavement bar, and she presses the button of the entryphone and soon there’s a crackle, then nothing but silence.

‘Do you think he’s here?’ she asks Zeke. He had been looking more and more tired as the day had worn on, but now he looks alert again, ready to tackle whatever this evening and night might drop them in.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he says, and then there’s a different sort of crackle from the speaker, and a female voice says: ‘Yes, Kurtzon?’

How old? Thirty, no more.

Zeke explains why they are there and the woman asks them to wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Something in the woman’s voice makes them wait patiently; they’re sure she’s going to come back.

‘You can come up. Fourth floor.’

The woman sounds businesslike, and as the tall double doors of the apartment on the fourth floor open, Malin and Zeke are already astonished at the splendour of the stairwell, where a hand-woven rug forms the foundation for an orgy of expensively glossy stone, and the predominantly blue paintings of Leander Engström on the walls.