Читать книгу Buried Angels - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 18

He’d been preparing for weeks. It had proved difficult to get an interview with John Holm in Stockholm, but since the politician was coming to Fjällbacka on holiday, Kjell had managed to persuade him to give up an hour of his time for a profile article to be published in Bohusläningen.

Kjell was sure that Holm would know of his father, Frans Ringholm, who had been one of the founders of the Friends of Sweden, the party which Holm now led. The fact that Frans was a Nazi sympathizer was one of the reasons that Kjell had distanced himself from his father. Shortly before Frans died, Kjell had come to some measure of reconciliation with him, but he would never share his father’s views. Just as he would never respect Friends of Sweden or its newfound success.

They had agreed to meet at Holm’s boathouse. The drive to Fjällbacka from Uddevalla took almost an hour in the summer traffic. Ten minutes late, Kjell parked on the gravel area in front of the boathouse, hoping that his tardiness would not cut into the hour he’d been promised for the interview.

‘Take a few pictures while we’re talking, just in case there’s no time afterwards,’ he told his colleague as they got out of the car. He knew this wouldn’t be a problem. Stefan was the newspaper’s most experienced photographer, and he always delivered, no matter what the circumstances.

‘Welcome!’ said Holm as he came to meet them.

‘Thanks,’ said Kjell. He had to make a real effort to shake Holm’s hand. Not only were his views repulsive, but he was also one of the most dangerous men in Sweden.

Holm led the way through the little boathouse and out on to the dock.

‘I never met your father. But I understand that he was a man who commanded respect.’

‘Well, spending a number of years in prison does have that effect.’

‘It can’t have been easy for you, growing up under those conditions,’ said Holm, sitting down on a patio chair next to a fence that offered some protection from the wind.

For a moment Kjell was gripped by envy. It seemed so unfair that a man like John Holm owned such a beautiful place, with a view of the harbour and archipelago. To hide his antipathy, Kjell sat down across from the politician and began fiddling with the tape recorder. He was well aware that life was unfair, and from the research he’d done, he knew that Holm had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

The tape recorder started up. It appeared to be working properly, so Kjell began the interview.

‘Why do you think you’ve now been able to secure a seat in the Riksdag?’

It was always a good idea to start off cautiously. He also knew that he was lucky to catch Holm alone. In Stockholm the press secretary and other people would have been present. Right now he had Holm all to himself, and he was hoping that the party leader would be relaxed seeing as he was on holiday and on his own turf.

‘I think the Swedish people have matured. We’ve become more aware of the rest of the world and how it affects us. For a long time we’ve been too gullible, but now we’re starting to wake up, and the Friends of Sweden has the privilege of representing the voice of reason during this period of awakening,’ said Holm with a smile.

Kjell could understand why people were drawn to this man. He had a charisma and a self-confidence that made others willing to believe what he said. But Kjell was too jaded to fall for that sort of personal charm, and it made his hackles rise to hear Holm’s use of ‘we’ when referring to himself and the Swedish people. John Holm certainly did not represent the majority of Swedes. They were better than that.

He continued with the innocent questions: How did it feel to enter parliament as a member? How had he been received? What was his view of the political work being done in Stockholm? The whole time Stefan circled around them with his camera, and Kjell could imagine what the pictures would show. John Holm sitting on his own private dock with the sea glittering in the background. This was a far cry from the formal photos that usually appeared in the newspapers, showing him wearing a suit and tie.

Kjell cast a quick glance at his watch. They were twenty minutes into the interview, and the mood he’d set was pleasant, if not exactly warm. It was now time to start asking the real questions. During the weeks that had passed since his request for an interview had been granted, Kjell had read countless articles about Holm and watched numerous clips of televised debates. So many journalists had made a poor job of it, barely scraping the surface. On the rare occasions they did slip in a probing question, they were invariably fobbed off with a self-assured response that was riddled with erroneous statistics and outright lies that they never thought to challenge. Such shoddy work made Kjell ashamed to call himself a journalist. Unlike his colleagues, he had done his homework.

‘Your budget is based on the huge savings which, according to your party, the country will achieve if immigration is halted. To the tune of seventy-eight billion Swedish kronor. How did you arrive at that figure?’

Holm gave a start. A furrow appeared between his eyebrows, signalling a slight annoyance, but it swiftly disappeared, to be replaced by his usual smile.

‘The numbers have been carefully substantiated.’

‘Are you sure about that? Because quite a few people have been saying that your calculations are wrong. Let me give you an example. You claim that only ten per cent of those who come to Sweden as immigrants actually get jobs.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. There’s high unemployment among the people that we allow into Sweden, and that places an enormous economic burden on our society.’

‘But according to the statistics I’ve seen, sixty-five per cent of all immigrants in Sweden between the ages of twenty and sixty-four have jobs.’

Holm didn’t reply, and Kjell could practically see his brain working overtime.

‘The figure I have is ten per cent,’ he said at last.

‘And you don’t know how that number was derived?’

‘No.’

Kjell was beginning to enjoy the situation. ‘According to your calculations, the country would also save a great deal because the cost of social services would be lowered if immigration was stopped. But a study of the period from 1980 to 1990 shows that the tax income contributed by immigrants greatly exceeds state expenditure on immigration.’

‘That doesn’t sound at all credible,’ said Holm with a wry smile. ‘The Swedish people can no longer be fooled by such fraudulent studies. It’s common knowledge that immigrants take advantage of the social service system.’

‘I have a copy of the study right here. Feel free to hang on to it and go through it at your leisure.’ Kjell pulled out a sheaf of papers and placed them in front of Holm.

He didn’t even glance at them. ‘I have people to attend to stuff like that.’

‘I’m sure you do, but they don’t seem to read very well,’ said Kjell. ‘Let’s consider how much it would cost to implement your proposals. For instance, the universal military service you want to institute – what would that bill run to? Shouldn’t you be able to list all the costs so we can see what they are?’ He slid a notepad and pen over to Holm, who glanced at them with an expression of distaste.

‘All the numbers are included in our budget. You can look it up.’

‘So you don’t have them memorized? Despite the fact that your budget figures are the core of your policy-making?’

‘Of course I have a thorough understanding of the finances.’ Holm shoved the notepad away. ‘But I have no intention of sitting here and jumping through hoops.’

‘All right, let’s forget about the budget figures for the time being. Perhaps we’ll have occasion to come back to them later.’ Kjell rummaged in his briefcase and took out another document, a list that he’d compiled.

‘In addition to a stricter immigration policy, you want to work towards instituting more severe sentences for criminals.’

Holm stretched as if to ease the muscles in his back.

‘Yes. It’s scandalous how lenient we are here in Sweden. Under our proposed policies, criminals will no longer get away with a mere slap on the wrist. Within the party itself we’ve also set a high standard, especially since we’re fully aware that historically we’ve been linked to a number of … well, undesirable elements.’

Undesirable elements. That was certainly one way of expressing it, thought Kjell, but he purposely didn’t comment. It sounded as though he was on his way to getting Holm precisely where he wanted him.

‘We’ve got rid of all the criminal elements on our parliamentary rosters, and we’re putting into practice a zero-tolerance policy. For instance, everyone has to sign an ethics oath, and all legal convictions, no matter how far they date back, must be revealed. No one with a criminal past is allowed to represent the Friends of Sweden.’ Holm leaned back, crossing his legs.

Kjell let him feel secure for a few more seconds before he placed the list on the table.

‘Why is it that you don’t make the same demands of people who work in the party’s government offices? No less than five of your co-workers have a criminal background. We’re talking about convictions for domestic abuse, intimidation, robbery, and assault on a civil servant. For example, in 2001 your press secretary was convicted of kicking an Ethiopian man to the ground at the marketplace in Ludvika.’ Kjell pushed the list closer, so that it was right in front of Holm. An angry flush was now visible on the party leader’s throat.

‘I don’t take part in the job interviews or day-to-day operations in the offices, so I can’t comment on this issue.’

‘But since you’re the one who’s ultimately responsible for staff hired by the party, shouldn’t this matter end up on your desk, regardless of whether or not you’re in charge of the practical details?’

‘Everyone has the right to a second chance. For the most part, we’re talking about youthful sins.’

‘A second chance, you say? Why should your staff members deserve a second chance when the same doesn’t apply to immigrants who commit a crime? According to your party, they ought to be deported as soon as they’re convicted.’

Holm clenched his jaw, giving his face an even more chiselled look.

‘As I said, I’m not involved in the hiring process. I’ll have to get back to you on this.’

For a few seconds Kjell considered pressing Holm further on this point, but time was running out. At any moment Holm might decide that he’d had enough and terminate the interview.

‘I have a few personal questions as well,’ Kjell said instead, referring to his notes. He’d actually committed to memory all the questions that he wanted to ask, but he knew from experience that it had an unsettling effect on the person he was interviewing if he seemed to have everything in writing. The printed word evoked a certain respect.

‘You’ve previously stated that your involvement in immigration issues started when you were twenty years old and two African students attacked and beat you. They were studying for the same degree as you were at the university in Göteborg. You reported the incident to the police, but the investigation was abandoned, and then you had to see those students every day in class. For the rest of your university years, those two sat and jeered at you, and by extension, at Swedish society as a whole. The latter is a direct quote from an interview you gave Svenska Dagbladet this past spring.’

Holm nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, that was an episode that had a strong impact on me and shaped my view of the world. It was a clear demonstration of how society functions and how Swedes have been demoted to second-class citizens while an indulgent attitude is shown to those we’ve been naive enough to welcome here from the rest of the world.’

‘Interesting.’ Kjell cocked his head. ‘I’ve checked up on this incident, and there are several things that are a bit … odd.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘First, there is no such report in the police files. And second, there were no African students enrolled in the same degree programme as you. In fact, there were no African students whatsoever at Göteborg University when you were studying there.’

Kjell watched as Holm’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.

‘You’re wrong. I remember the whole thing quite clearly.’

‘Isn’t it more likely that your views stem from the place where you grew up? I have information indicating that your father was a fervent Nazi sympathizer.’

‘I can’t comment on what my father’s views might have been.’

A quick glance at his watch showed Kjell that he had only five minutes remaining. He felt a mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. The interview hadn’t produced any concrete results, but it had been a pleasure to knock Holm off balance. And he wasn’t planning to give up. This was merely round one of the fight. He was going to keep digging until he found something that would bring John Holm down. He might need to meet with him again, so it would be better to wind up the interview now with a question that had nothing to do with politics. He smiled.

‘I understand that you were a pupil at the boarding school on Valö when that family disappeared. I wonder what really happened back then.’

Holm glared at him and then abruptly got to his feet. ‘The hour is up, and there are a lot of things demanding my attention. I assume that the two of you can find your own way out.’

Kjell’s journalistic instincts had always been good, and Holm’s unexpected reaction pushed his brain into overdrive. There was something related to this topic that Holm didn’t want him to know about. Kjell could hardly wait to get back to the editorial office and start poking around to find out what it might be.

‘Where’s Martin?’ Patrik looked at his colleagues seated around the table in the station’s kitchen.

‘He called in sick,’ said Annika, sounding evasive. ‘But I have his report on what he found out about the finances and insurance.’

Patrik glanced at her but didn’t ask any questions. If Annika didn’t want to tell them what she knew, they’d have to resort to torture to get anything out of her.

‘And I have the old investigative materials here,’ said Gösta, pointing at several thick manila folders on the table.

‘That was fast,’ said Mellberg. ‘It usually takes ages to find things in the archives.’

There was a long pause before Gösta replied. ‘I had them at home.’

‘You keep archival materials in your house? Are you out of your mind, man?’ Mellberg jumped up from his chair, and Ernst, who had been lying at his feet, sat up with his ears pricked. He barked a few times but then decided that everything seemed calm enough, and he lay back down.

‘Once in a while I review the files, and it got to be too much trouble, running to the archives every time. Besides, it’s just as well I already had the files out – otherwise we wouldn’t have them here now.’

‘How bloody stupid can you be!’ Mellberg went on, and Patrik could see that it was time to intervene.

‘Sit down, Bertil. The important thing is that we have access to the material. We can discuss any disciplinary measures later.’

Mellberg grumbled something but reluctantly complied. ‘Have the techs started work yet?’

Patrik nodded. ‘They’re breaking up the entire floor and collecting samples. Torbjörn has promised to contact us as soon as he knows anything.’

‘Can anyone tell me why we should be wasting time and resources when the statute of limitations has already expired?’ said Mellberg.

Gösta glared at him. ‘Have you forgotten that somebody tried to burn the place down?’

‘No, I haven’t. But I don’t see any reason to believe that one case is linked to the other.’ He pronounced each word with exaggerated care, as if trying to provoke Gösta.

Patrik sighed again. They were both acting like kids.

‘You’re the one who decides, Bertil, but I think it would be a mistake not to look a bit closer at what the Starks discovered yesterday.’

‘I’m aware of your opinion in the matter, but you’re not the one who has to answer to the higher-ups when they want to know why we’re squandering our meagre resources on a case that is past its expiry date.’

‘If it’s connected to the arson, as Hedström thinks, then the disappearance of the family is relevant,’ Gösta stubbornly insisted.

For a moment Mellberg sat in silence. ‘Okay, then we’ll spend a few hours on it.’ He gestured for Patrik to continue.

Patrik took a deep breath. ‘All right. Let’s start by looking at what Martin found out.’

Annika put on her reading glasses and peered at the report. ‘Martin didn’t find any discrepancies. The summer camp is not heavily insured – quite the contrary. So the Starks wouldn’t get a large sum in the event of a fire. As far as their personal finances are concerned, they have a lot of money in the bank from the sale of their house in Göteborg. I assume that the money is going to be used for the renovation and all their daily expenses until they get their bed and breakfast up and running. In addition, Ebba has a business registered in her name. It’s called My Angel. Apparently she makes angel jewellery in silver and sells the pieces online, but the income is negligible.’

‘Good. We won’t drop that aspect of the investigation entirely, but at least it seems we can rule out insurance fraud. Then we have yesterday’s discovery,’ said Patrik, turning to Gösta. ‘Could you tell us how the house looked when the police searched it after the family disappeared?’

‘Sure. You can also see for yourselves – here are the original photographs,’ said Gösta, opening one of the file folders. He took out a stack of yellowing photos and handed them around. Patrik was surprised. In spite of their age, the pictures of the crime scene were of excellent quality.

‘In the dining room there were no clues as to what happened,’ said Gösta. ‘The family had begun to eat their Easter lunch, but there was absolutely nothing to indicate any sort of struggle had taken place. Nothing was broken, and the floor was clean. Take a look if you don’t believe me.’

Patrik did as he said, studying the photos carefully. Gösta was right. It was as if the family had simply stood up in the middle of lunch and left. He shivered. There was something ghostly about the table with the half-eaten food still on the plates and the chairs neatly pushed into place around the table. The only thing missing was the people. And the discovery under the floorboards cast a whole new light on the scene. Now he understood why Erica had devoted so many hours to trying to find out what was behind the mysterious disappearance of the Elvander family.

‘If it’s blood, can we determine whether it belonged to the family?’ asked Annika.

Patrik shook his head. ‘That’s not my field of expertise, but I doubt it. I reckon the blood is too old to do that kind of analysis. About the best we can hope for is confirmation whether it’s human or not. Besides, we have nothing to compare it with.’

‘Ebba is still alive,’ said Gösta. ‘If the blood came from Rune or Inez, maybe they could work up a DNA profile and see if it matches Ebba’s.’

‘Possibly. But I think that blood breaks down very quickly, and too many years have gone by. Regardless of the results of the blood analysis, we need to find out what happened on that Easter weekend. We need to transport ourselves back in time.’ Patrik set the photographs on the table. ‘We’ll have to read through all the interviews that were done with people connected to the boarding school and then have another talk with them. The truth is out there somewhere. A whole family can’t simply disappear. And if it’s confirmed that we’re dealing with human blood, then we have to assume that a crime was committed in that room.’

He glanced at Gösta, who nodded.

‘Yes, you’re right. We need to transport ourselves back in time.’

Some people might find it strange to have so many photographs on display in a hotel room, but if so, no one had ever mentioned it to him. That was the advantage of living in a suite. Everybody assumed that a person with so much money might be a little eccentric. And his appearance gave him the opportunity to do as he liked without caring what anyone thought of him.

The photos were important to him. The fact that he always kept them on show was one of the few things that Ia was not allowed to meddle in. Otherwise, he was in her power, and he knew it. But what he had once been and what he’d accomplished were things that she could never take away from him.

Leon rolled his wheelchair over to the chest of drawers where the photos stood. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment allowed himself to be carried back in his mind to the places shown in the pictures. He imagined the desert wind burning his cheeks and how the extreme cold made his fingers ache. He had loved the pain. ‘No pain, no gain’ had always been his motto. Now, ironically enough, he lived with pain every second of every day. Without gaining a single thing from it.

The face that smiled back at him from the photos was beautiful – or rather, handsome. To say it was beautiful implied that it was a feminine face, which was misleading. He radiated manliness and strength. A bold daredevil, longing to feel adrenalin rushing through his body.

He stretched out his left hand which, unlike his right hand, was whole, and picked up his favourite photograph, taken at the top of Mount Everest. It had been an arduous climb, and several members of the expedition had been forced to drop out at various stages. Some had given up before starting. That sort of weakness was incomprehensible. Giving up was not an option for him. Many had shaken their heads at his attempt to reach the summit without oxygen. Those with an understanding of what was involved said that he’d never succeed. Even the expedition leader had begged him to use oxygen, but Leon knew he could do it. Reinhold Messner and Peter Habeler had done it in 1978. Back then it was also considered impossible; not even the native Nepalese climbers had managed it. But he’d made it to the summit of Mt. Everest on the first attempt – without oxygen. In the photograph he was smiling broadly, holding the Swedish flag in one hand, with the colourful prayer flags behind him. At that moment he was on top of the world. He looked strong. Happy.

Leon carefully set the photo down and picked up the next one. Paris to Dakar. Motorcycle division, of course. It still bothered him that he hadn’t won. Instead he’d had to settle for placing among the top ten. He realized this was an amazing accomplishment, but for him first place was the only thing that counted. It had always been like that. He wanted to stand on the first-place podium, no matter what the endeavour. He ran his thumb over the glass covering the framed photo, holding back a smile. If he smiled, one side of his face tugged unpleasantly, and he hated that feeling.

Ia had been so scared. One of the competitors had been killed at the very start of the race, and she had pleaded with him to pull out. But the accident merely increased his motivation. It was the sense of danger that drove him, the realization that his life could be taken from him at any moment. Danger made him love what was good in life all the more intensely. The champagne tasted better, the women seemed more beautiful, the silk sheets felt smoother against his skin. His wealth was more valuable if he stood to lose it. Ia, on the other hand, was afraid of losing everything. She loathed the way he laughed at death and gambled for high stakes at the casinos in Monaco, Saint-Tropez, and Cannes. She didn’t understand the rush he felt whenever he lost big, only to win it all back the following night. On those nights she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned in bed while he peacefully smoked a cigar out on the balcony.

In his heart he had actually enjoyed her distress. He knew that she loved the life he could offer her. She not only loved it, she needed and demanded it. That was what made it so exciting to see her expression whenever the roulette ball landed in the wrong slot. He would watch her bite her cheek, trying not to scream out loud whenever he bet everything on red and it came up black.

Leon heard the sound of a key in the lock. Gently he set the photo back on the chest of drawers. The man on the motorcycle gave him a big smile.