The Long Shadow (35 page)

A secretary came in with a sugar-bowl, which she put on the table, then glided out silently and closed the door.

There was a short and slightly oppressive silence once she had left. Annika looked around. Three windows filled almost the whole of the wall facing the street. You could see right into the building opposite: a conference room similar to the one she was sitting in. It was very quiet. The sun, creeping through the top few centimetres of the window, was making the dust dance near the ceiling.

Stig Seidenfaden cleared his throat and leaned forward across the table. ‘Rickard told me that you were interested in interviewing a Scandinavian solicitor in Gibraltar,’ he said. ‘There aren’t many of us and, of course, one of our number died last winter.’

‘You mean Veronica Söderström?’ Annika said.

The man nodded. ‘We tend to stick together, us Nordic types down here in the sun. Rickard’s friends are my friends. How can I help you?’

‘Did you know Veronica Söderström?’

Stig Seidenfaden poured some tea from the pot and sighed. ‘We weren’t close friends, but naturally we knew each other. Some tea?’

Annika moved her cup and the solicitor filled it. The
china was delicate, decorated with roses and a gold rim. The saucer was chipped. ‘What sort of law did she specialize in?’

The solicitor looked rather surprised. ‘Her practice was somewhat broader than mine. She dealt with business cases and crime. She was also authorized to work as a public notary, I seem to recall. I provide corporate services.’

‘Business and tax?’ Annika said.

He nodded.

‘Can you explain how the tax system in Gibraltar works?’

He nodded again and stirred his tea. ‘People have been able to register tax-free companies here since 1967,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t until Spain joined the EU in 1985 that things started to take off.’

She had taken out her pen and pad and was making notes. ‘Is anyone allowed to register a company here?’

The solicitor leaned back in his chair, holding the small handle of the teacup tightly and sticking his little finger out. ‘There are certain criteria that need to be fulfilled. The working capital of the company has to be over a hundred British pounds.’ He paused to give her time to write it down. ‘No resident of Gibraltar is allowed to be the ultimate owner of the company. The company is only allowed to conduct its business here if all its income is derived from sources outside Gibraltar.’

She glanced at the man, at his serious expression and bulging stomach.

Was this why Veronica Söderström had travelled to Gibraltar every day? To uphold some sort of washed-out British business morality in a make-believe country on the edge of Africa?

‘The company must have its official address here, and keep its register of shareholders here. Lastly, the proprietor
must be able to attest to his good standing and financial status.’

She made an effort to look interested. ‘Who provides those references?’

‘They have to be given by a bank, a solicitor or an accountant.’

Annika nodded. This was what Marmén had been saying.

‘And there’s no official oversight of companies registered here?’

‘All information is treated as confidential, and isn’t entered on any public register.’

‘And there are no taxes?’

‘There’s no income tax here, no tax on company profits, no stamp duty on the transfer of shares, and no taxation at source. The only thing that’s obligatory is a fixed tax of two hundred and twenty-five British pounds each year.’

Annika couldn’t help shaking her head. ‘It seems remarkable,’ she said, ‘that something can work like this in modern-day Europe.’

‘Not for much longer,’ the solicitor said. ‘The rules are changing. This system’s coming to an end. The EU is putting a stop to it.’ He sipped his tea. ‘But there’ll be alternative solutions,’ he said. ‘There always are.’

‘Will there be any more transparency after 2010?’

‘I can’t imagine there would be,’ the solicitor said. ‘Have you tried the scones? My wife made them.’

‘Your wife?’

‘And secretary.’

He spread some marmalade on one. It crunched as he bit into it.

‘I’ve spoken to people who describe Gibraltar as the biggest money-laundering machine in Europe,’ Annika said. ‘What’s your opinion?’

The solicitor chewed his scone, picked up a napkin and wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘I’m a solicitor,’ he said, ‘not a prosecutor. I have to trust my clients. If they say that a source of income is legitimate, then it isn’t my job to question that information. But I only provide references when I can personally guarantee the good standing of my client.’

‘Do you see any dangers with this system?’

‘It wasn’t constructed by lawyers,’ he said. ‘We just make sure that it’s adhered to. Any solicitors who actively participate in money-laundering, who set up fake companies and slalom around the legislation – well, I dissociate myself entirely from them.’

‘Do you know of any like that?’

He smiled. ‘Even if I did, do you think I’d tell you?’

She smiled back politely. ‘I doubt it. Would it be all right if I took a picture of you?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose so. Where? Here?’

‘In your office, perhaps? With some files and documents in the background?’ Usually it was best to avoid pictures of men sitting behind desks, but in this case it would serve a purpose. The reader would see the files, wonder what they contained and hear the washing-machine rumbling in the background.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t let anyone in there,’ he said.

Smart man. She took out the camera, switched it on and held the viewfinder up to her right eye. It looked a bit odd. There was a pot-plant in the background, and the solicitor was sitting directly between her and it. As a result, a plant seemed to be growing out of the top of his head.

‘Perhaps we could move closer to the window,’ she said. ‘For the light.’

She positioned the man beside one of the windowsills, with his profile facing the glass. Then she stood in front of him. The daylight was soft and indirect. Half of his face was clearly visible, the other half in shadow. The effect was rather striking.

She took several pictures of him sitting at the table as well, and then she was done. They stepped out into the little hallway again, and the secretary-wife materialized on silent feet to ask if everything had gone all right. She spoke English with a British accent.

‘Very well,’ Annika said politely. ‘And thank you for the scones. They were delicious.’ Then she remembered she hadn’t had one. ‘Veronica Söderström,’ she said quickly. ‘Where was her office?’

‘I suppose it’s still there,’ Stig Seidenfaden said. ‘It’s in Tareq’s Passage. Opposite the church.’

Annika did up the zip on her bag, shook his hand and thanked him.

‘Say hello to Rickard,’ Stig Seidenfaden called down the stairs after her.

The stream of people on Main Street had thickened into a dark mass. The street led vaguely uphill, and she took out the camera and stood on one of the benches. Using the telephoto lens she compressed the crowd still further, then took a few portrait shots and several in landscape.

There, enough establishing shots.

She stood there for a few minutes trying to identify a suitable subject for a photograph: a young man with broad shoulders and jeans that clung to his thighs. He was walking up Main Street with his arm round his girlfriend. He was even wearing a sports shirt.

‘Hello,’ Annika said, going up to him with her hand out.

Taken by surprise, the couple stopped and shook her outstretched hand: an instinctive reaction in Westerners. Annika explained that she was a photographer, and asked if she could take a picture of the young man from behind: she needed an anonymous picture of a young man to illustrate a newspaper article.

The man seemed pleased, but his girlfriend was unhappy. ‘What’s the point of that?’ she said.

‘What sort of article?’ the young man asked.

‘It’s for a Swedish paper, the
Evening Post
,’ she said. ‘Have you ever seen it?’

He hadn’t.

Annika positioned him so he was facing a dark-grey building, asked him to spread his legs, hook his fingers in the waist of his jeans, and put most of his weight on his right leg.

He was almost a carbon copy of Niklas Linde.

She took a series of shots, then asked him to turn his head slightly to the left. The sun was hitting his hair and back, putting his profile in shadow. It would do as an anonymous picture of the heroic Swedish police officer on the Costa del Sol.

She thanked him for his help.

‘When can I see the picture?’ the young man asked, with interest.

‘Keep an eye on the online edition of the Swedish
Evening Post
,’ Annika said.

She put the camera away and made her way to the church. It was white, and looked like all the churches in Pedro Almodóvar’s films. In front of it was a small square. On the far side there were two alleyways, each entered through an archway: Giro’s Passage to the right, and Tareq’s Passage on the left.

She headed left. The archway led straight through the building at the end and into a narrow alley. She was met by the deafening roar of a huge air-conditioning unit and stood there at a loss. The old buildings lining the alleyway were poorly maintained. Electricity cables hung like lianas between the windows. Water and drainage pipes had been stuck to the outside of the buildings, making them look misshapen. All the shutters on the windows of the lowest two floors were closed and padlocked.

She walked further down the alley and found a door with a entry-phone but no identifying label. Round the corner there was a small brass sign:

VS: Veronica Söderström.

But where was the entrance?

She walked on another ten metres, passing an estate agency that looked closed, and a chemist that was just opening, and stopped to think. What had Veronica Söderström spent all her time doing in this run-down building?

Had she fought to defend those let down by society? People who had been wrongly convicted? Had she arranged contracts worth billions for the fishing industry?

Or had she laundered money?

If you don’t ask any questions, you don’t get any answers.

She looked down at her clothes. Trainers, jeans and a sweater from H&M: there was no way she could pass as a chief executive or international investor. She walked determinedly towards the unlabelled entry-phone, pressed the button and held it down. Eventually an intercom came to life with a great deal of crackling.

‘Yes, what is it?’ a voice said, in an American accent. It sounded young, male and annoyed.

‘Hello, my name’s Annika Bengtzon, and I need some help with a legal problem,’ she said. ‘Can I come up?’

The phone was still making a noise. The irritated young man hadn’t hung up.

‘A legal problem?’ he said. ‘I can’t help you with that. I’m very sorry.’

Annika didn’t believe him. He didn’t sound the slightest bit sorry.

‘I can go somewhere else,’ Annika said, ‘but Veronica would have wanted me to come here first.’

Another silence. More crackling.

‘You knew Veronica?’

‘I’m their stable manager. I look after My’s pony.’

The lock clicked.

She hurried to push the door open and stepped into a pitch-black stairwell. The door closed behind her and she blinked a few times to get her eyes used to the dark. Then she saw a luminous red button just to her left. She pressed it and the lights came on with an audible click.

A naked bulb cast an uncertain light over a small entrance hall. A narrow staircase led up steeply in front of her. The walls and ceiling had seen better days. The floor must have been beautiful once upon a time: under a layer of dirt she could make out a blue, white and brown mosaic.

There were two doors, one on the right, one on the left. They were both barred and padlocked. She headed for the stairs and started climbing them, almost literally.

There didn’t seem to be any other businesses in the building. The doors on the first floor were barred as well.

The office of VS Counselling was right at the top, on the second floor. On the door there was a brass sign similar to the one down in the street. She couldn’t see a bell and knocked so hard her knuckles hurt.

The door opened so abruptly that she had to take a step back.

‘Good morning,’ she said shyly, holding out her hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

The man really was very young. He was dressed in
a neatly ironed shirt and tie, suit trousers and polished leather shoes. His expression softened as he looked her up and down. She evidently wasn’t a threat. ‘Henry Hollister,’ he said, sounding rather less irritated now.

‘I’ve never needed legal advice before. This all feels rather strange.’

‘Come in,’ he said, stepping aside to let her into the office.

It looked like an old flat that hadn’t been changed very much to adapt it to its new function. The doors were all open, three small rooms to the right, a kitchen straight ahead and a larger room to the left. It was completely quiet. The place seemed deserted, apart from the young American. Annika could smell coffee and unaired fabrics.

‘Can I offer you anything to drink?’ Henry Hollister asked.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ Annika said.

The young man showed her into the large room on the left. It was a conference room, very similar to Stig Seidenfaden’s. Solicitors in Gibraltar evidently never saw people in their own offices.

They sat down opposite one another. Henry Hollister frowned deeply and folded his hands on the table. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘how can I help you?’

‘I’m not actually the one who needs help,’ Annika said. ‘It’s my brother. He’s been arrested for possession of drugs, hash.’

There was a silence. The man blinked several times.

‘Possession of hash?’ he said. ‘Where?’