Lena started rolling another cigarette. She was quite clumsy about it, spilling tobacco on her untouched food.
"Mom was barely twenty when Olle was born, and dirty old Carl liked to show off his new family. But then his company went bust and the money ran out. The penniless child bride lost her charm, so the swine dumped Mom and Olle and married some loaded old bag instead."
"Dorotea Adelcrona," Annika said, and Lena nodded.
"Dorotea was the widow of some old timber magnate outside the city of Sundsvall. She was swimming in money, and Carl managed it well. The old cow died after only a year, and Carl became the richest widower in Norrland. He instituted a grand scholarship for some kind of idiotic achievement in the timber industry."
Annika nodded. "Right. It's still awarded every year."
"Anyway, Mother didn't get a cent. Socially, she was given the cold shoulder, of course. A destitute, divorced single mother wasn't exactly the flavor of the month with high society in the 1950s. She'd done some sort of bookkeeping course at the boarding school, so she moved to Malmö and got a job as private secretary for some director in the scrap metal industry. She placed Olle with an old couple in Tungelsta, outside Stockholm."
Annika looked up from her notes.
"She gave him up?"
"Yep. He was five years old. I don't know if she ever saw him again."
"But why?" Annika said, somewhat shocked. The mere thought of giving up her own son made her feel sick.
"He was difficult, that's what she said. But the real reason was of course that she wanted to work and not have a kid weighing her down. She was getting a career, remember?"
"Yes, and she certainly succeeded," Annika muttered.
"I think she had a really tough time to begin with. Her first boss harassed her sexually and made her pregnant, at least that's what she said. She went to Poland for an abortion and got really sick as a result. The doctors thought she'd never be able to have another child. She was sacked, of course, but got a new job at a bank in Skara. She kept at it, and eventually got a job at the head office in Stockholm. She climbed up the hierarchy, and somewhere along the way she met Dad. He fell madly in love with her. They married after a couple of years, and Dad started nagging her about having a child. Mom said no but stopped taking the pill to humor him. She knew she probably couldn't get pregnant again."
"But she did," Annika said.
Lena nodded.
"She was over forty. You can imagine how incredibly pissed off she was. Abortion was legal by then, but for once Dad stood his ground. He refused to agree to an abortion, threatening to leave her. She swallowed the bitter pill and had me."
The young woman made a face and drank some beer.
"Who told you all this?" Annika asked.
"My mother, of course. She never tried to hide what she thought about me. She always said she detested me. My first memory is of her pushing me away so that I fell over and hurt myself. Dad loved me but never dared be fully open with it. He was totally scared of her."
She thought this over for a while, and then continued: "I think most people were afraid of her. She terrified people. Everyone who ever came anywhere close to her had to sign an agreement of complete secrecy. They could never speak publicly about Christina without her permission."
"Is an agreement like that valid?" Annika wondered.
Lena Milander shrugged. "Didn't matter, people believed it and were frightened into shutting up."
"No wonder we haven't been able to find anything out," Annika said.
"Mom was afraid of only two people— me and Olle."
How sad, Annika thought.
"She was always worried about me setting fire to her," Lena said with a wry smile. "Ever since that day when I burned the parquet floor, she was on alert when it came to me and matches. She sent me to a treatment center for disturbed youths, but after I burned that down, I was allowed back home again. That's what happens to kids no one can cope with. When the social services can't manage any longer, the little bastards are sent back to their parents."
She lit her new, knobbly cigarette.
"Once I experimented with a homemade explosive charge in the garage. It went off early and sent the garage door flying, and I got shrapnel in my leg. Mom got it into her head that I was going to blow her up in the car, so after that she was hysterically afraid of car bombs."
She laughed without any mirth.
"How did you know how to make an explosive device?" Annika asked.
"There are plans on the Internet. It's not hard; do you want me to show you?"
"Thanks, that won't be necessary. But why was she afraid of Olof?"
"I don't know, actually, she never told me. All she said was that I should beware of Olle, that he was dangerous. He must have threatened her in some way or other."
"Have you ever met him?"
The woman shook her head, her eyes turning blank. She blew out the smoke and tapped off nonexisting ash against the edge of the plate.
"I don't know where he is," she said.
"But you think he's alive?"
Lena took a deep drag on the cigarette and looked at Annika.
"Why else should Mother have been so scared?" she said. "If Olle was dead, we wouldn't have had to have secret identities."
True, Annika thought. She hesitated for a moment but then asked an unpleasant question.
"Do you think your mother ever met anyone else that she may have fallen in love with?"
Lena shrugged. "I don't give a shit," she said. "But I doubt it. Mom hated men. Sometimes I think she hated Dad as well."
Annika dropped the subject.
"As you see, she was hardly an 'ideal woman'," Lena said.
"No, she wasn't," Annika agreed.
"Will you ever write that again?"
"I hope we can avoid it," Annika said. "But to me it sounds as if your mother also was a victim."
"What do you mean?" Lena said, immediately wary.
"She was sent away, just like Olof."
"That was different. Gran actually couldn't take care of her, there was a war on, and Gran really loved her. Gran's great sorrow in life was that Christina couldn't grow up with her."
"Is your Gran alive?"
"No, she died last year. My mother actually went to the funeral, anything else would have looked bad, she said. But they were together on all holidays when Mom was little, and they always celebrated Mom's birthdays together."
"It sounds like you can forgive your gran but not your mother," Annika said.
"And when did you become a fucking psychologist?"
Annika held up her hands in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry."
Lena watched her warily.
"Okay," she said in the end, finishing her beer. "I'm going to stay here and get drunk. Do you want to join me, into the mist and down the river?"
Annika smiled wanly. "I'm afraid not," she said and started collecting her things. She put on her coat and scarf, hanging the bag over her shoulder. Then she stopped suddenly and said:
"Who do you think killed her?"
Lena's eyes narrowed. "All I know is, it wasn't me."
"Did she know a man named Stefan Bjurling?"
"The new victim? Haven't got a clue. I just want you to stop writing crap," Lena Milander said and demonstratively turned in the other direction.
Annika took the hint, went over to the waitress and paid for her and Lena's orders, and left the restaurant.
* * *
The woman walked inside the ultramodern entrance of
Kvällspressen,
trying to look like she belonged. She was dressed in a straight, half-length coat, alternating between navy and purple depending on the light; her hair was obscured by a brown beret. A small and elegant Chanel copy bag dangled from her left shoulder, and in her right hand she carried an oxblood red leather briefcase. She wore gloves. When the front doors slid shut behind her, she stopped for a moment, looking around. Her gaze landed on the glassed-in reception in the far left-hand corner. She adjusted the thin shoulder strap and headed over to it. Inside it sat a porter, Tore Brand, who had relieved the regular receptionist who'd gone for a cup of coffee and a smoke.
Tore Brand pushed the button that operated the opening mechanism of the glass panel when the woman reached the counter. He assumed an official look and said:
"Yes?"
The woman again adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag and cleared her throat.
"I'm looking for one of the reporters, Annika Bengtzon is her name. She works at…"
"Yes, I know," Tore Brand interrupted. "She's not in."
The porter's finger was poised above the button, ready to close the panel. The woman fingered the handle of the briefcase.
"Oh, isn't she in…? When will she be back?"
"You never can tell," Tore Brand said. "She's out on a job, and then you never know what could happen or how long it may take."
He leaned forward and said, in a confidential tone:
"This is a newspaper, you know."
The woman gave a nervous laughter.
"Thanks, I'm aware of that. But I would very much like to see Annika Bengtzon. I have something for her."
"Oh, what's that then?" the porter said curiously. "Is it something I can hold for her until she gets back?"
The woman took a step backwards.
"It's meant for Annika. She's the recipient. We spoke about it yesterday; it's quite important."
"If it's papers or anything like that, I can take care of it and make sure she gets them."
"Thanks, I think I'll just return later."
"You know, we get people bringing in whole cases of papers everyday. Hard-done-by, insurance victims, and lunatics, but we listen to them all. Just give me the stuff and I'll deal with it."
The woman abruptly turned on her heel and hurried toward the door. Tore Brand closed the panel and realized he was dying for a smoke.
* * *
Annika elbowed her way past Christmas shoppers on Götgatan. She realized she was only a few blocks from Helena Starke's house. Instead of fighting against the torrent of people emerging from the subway station, she turned around and moved with it. She slipped and slid along Ringvägen— South Island was just as badly plowed as her own part of town. Her memory for numbers didn't let her down; she remembered the entry code for the street door. She took the elevator up, and this time Helena Starke answered the door on the first signal.
"You don't give up, do you?" she said when she opened the door.
"I'd just like to ask a few questions," Annika said benignly.
Helena Starke groaned loudly.
"What is it with you? What the hell do you want from me?"
"Please, not out here in the hallway…"
"I don't care, I'm leaving anyway."
She yelled out the last words so the old women in the building would hear; now they'd have something to gossip about.
Annika looked over the woman's shoulder. It did look like she was packing her things. Helena Starke sighed.
"Well, come on in, but be quick about it. I'm leaving tonight."
Annika decided to be upfront.
"I know you lied to me about the boy, Olof, but I don't care about that. I'm simply here to find out if it's true you had a relationship with Christina Furhage."
"If I did— is that any of your fucking business?" Helena Starke said calmly.
"No, except I'm trying to make sense of the whole thing. So, did you?"
Helena Starke sighed again.
"And if I were to confirm it, it would end up on the front pages all over the country tomorrow, right?"
"Of course not," Annika said. "Christina's sexual preference had nothing to do with her public functions."
"All right," Helena Starke said, almost amused. "I confirm it. Happy?"
Annika lost the thread for a moment.
"So what are you going to ask me now?" Helena Starke said acidly. "How we did it when we fucked? Did we use dildos? Did Christina shout when she came?"
Annika cast down her eyes. She felt like a fool. This really was none of her business.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You must say that a lot. It's your job," Starke said. "Do you want anything else?"
"Did you know Stefan Bjurling?" Annika said, and looked up again.
