The Crow Girl (57 page)

The room is a den, a place of refuge where she can be herself.

WORDS ARE STREAMING
out of Kenneth von Kwist’s mouth as he explains his role in the follow-up interview with P-O Silfverberg, and Jeanette notices that he’s doing so without checking a single fact. Von Kwist has all the details in his head, and she has a growing feeling that he’s reciting a story he’s learned by heart. The prosecutor peers at her as if he’s trying to work out what she’s after.

‘As I remember it, the Copenhagen police called in the morning,’ he says. ‘They wanted me, in my capacity as a prosecutor, to sit in on the interview with Silfverberg. The session was conducted by former police commissioner Gert Berglind, and Per-Ola Silfverberg had his own lawyer, Viggo Dürer, present.’

‘So there were just the four of you?’

Von Kwist nods, then takes a deep breath.

‘Yes, we talked for a couple of hours, and he denied all the allegations. He claimed that his foster-daughter had always had a vivid imagination. I recall him saying that she had been abandoned by her biological mother soon after birth and had been placed in foster care with the Silfverberg family. I clearly remember that he was very sad and deeply affronted about having such allegations made against him.’

When Jeanette asks him how he can remember something that happened so long ago in such detail, he replies that he has an excellent memory and a quick mind.

‘Was there good reason to believe him?’ Jeanette attempts. ‘I mean, Per-Ola and his wife left Denmark as soon as he was released, and to my mind at least, that seems to suggest that he had something to hide.’

The prosecutor lets out a deep sigh. ‘We were confident that he was telling the truth.’

Jeanette shakes her head in bewilderment. ‘Even though his daughter claimed he’d done all manner of things to her? It seems quite incredible to me that he should be exonerated so easily.’

‘Not to me.’ The prosecutor’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. A faint smile plays on his lips. ‘I’ve been doing this so long that I know that mistakes and miscalculations are always happening.’

Jeanette realises she’s not going to get any further and changes the subject.

‘What can you tell me about the Ulrika Wendin case?’

‘What do you want to know?’ He takes a deep gulp of water. ‘That was seven years ago now,’ he goes on.

‘Yes, but with your excellent memory I’m sure you remember that it was the same Gert Berglind who was in charge of the investigation into Karl Lundström, which was also dropped. You didn’t see any connection?’

‘No, it never occurred to me that there might be one.’

‘When Annette Lundström gave Karl an alibi for the night that Ulrika Wendin was raped, you dropped the case. You didn’t even check if her information was correct. Have I got that right?’

Jeanette can feel herself getting angry, and tries to control herself. She knows she mustn’t explode. That she must stay calm no matter what she might think of the prosecutor’s actions.

‘I made a choice,’ he says calmly. ‘A decision based on the information I had available to me. My interview was concerned with whether or not Lundström had been present. And my interview with him showed that he hadn’t been. It was as simple as that. I had no suspicions that he might have been lying.’

‘You don’t think now that you should have followed the whole thing up rather more rigorously?’

‘Annette Lundström’s account was just one part of the information I had, but obviously it could have been followed up better. Everything could have been followed up better.’

‘And you told Gert Berglind and the investigating team that they should continue?’

‘Of course.’

‘Yet that didn’t happen?’

‘That would have been a decision they made based on all the facts at their disposal.’

Jeanette sees von Kwist’s smile. His voice is that of a snake.

THE MENTAL HEALTH
Care Reform that came into force on 1 January, 1995, intended to integrate the mentally ill into society, was poorly thought out. The fact that it had a very personal impact on the chairman of the committee behind the reform, the minister of social affairs, Bo Holmberg, is a bitter irony. His wife, Foreign Minister Anna Lindh, was murdered by a man whom the Court of Appeal decreed was mentally ill, and who ought therefore to have been in secure accommodation. A large number of hospitals may have been closed in the 1970s, but it’s impossible not to wonder what might have happened if the Mental Health Inquiry had reached a different conclusion.

There are approximately two thousand beds in homeless shelters in Stockholm, and five thousand homeless people, most of them with alcohol and drug problems, which means that there’s a constant battle for them to get a roof over their heads.

Because something like half of them also suffer from some form of mental illness, fighting often breaks out over the available beds, and many of them therefore choose to sleep elsewhere.

In the large caverns beneath St Johannes Church whole colonies of people have developed, all sharing the fact that they have fallen outside the protection of ordinary society.

In the damp, cathedral-like spaces they have found something resembling security.

Small shelters made of plastic or tarpaulin stand alongside some pieces of cardboard and a sleeping bag.

The quality of these shelters varies hugely, and some could almost be regarded as rather elegant.

At the top of Jutas backe she turns onto Johannesgatan and walks along the churchyard railing.

Every step carries her closer to something new, a place where she might be able to stay, and be happy. Change her name, change her clothes, and get rid of the past. A place where her life can take a new direction.

She pulls her woolly hat from her coat pocket and takes care to hide her blonde hair as she puts it on.

The familiar tingle in her stomach is back, and, just like last time, she wonders what to do if she needs to go to the toilet.

It had all resolved itself in the end, seeing as the victim had let her in, had even invited her in. Per-Ola Silfverberg had been naive, far too trusting for his own good.

He had been standing with his back to her when she drew the large knife and cut the artery on his lower right arm. He had slumped to his knees, turned round and looked at her, then at the pool of blood on the pale parquet floor. His breathing was laboured, but he still tried to get up, and she had let him, knowing he didn’t stand a chance. When she took out her Polaroid camera he had looked surprised.

It had taken her almost two weeks to track the woman down to the caves beneath the church. In spite of her background, Fredrika Grünewald had ended up on the streets, and had over the past ten years become known as the Duchess. She knows that the Grünewald family, as a result of Fredrika’s poor judgement and risky investments, has lost the whole of its fortune.

For a while she wasn’t sure about following through with her plan to exact revenge on Fredrika Grünewald, since everything’s already gone to hell for her, but you have to finish what you’ve started.

There’s no space for sympathy.

Memories of Fredrika Grünewald come back to her once more. She sees a filthy floor and hears their breathing. The stench of sweat, damp earth and machine oil.

No matter whether Fredrika Grünewald was the instigator or just someone carrying out her role, she was guilty. Choosing not to act can also confer guilt.

She turns into Kammakargatan, then left again down into Döbelnsgatan. She’s now on the opposite side of the church, where the entrance is supposed to be. She slows and looks hard for the door the beggar told her about. Some fifty metres ahead of her she sees a dark figure standing under a tree. Beside him is a grey metal door, ajar, and from inside comes the faint sound of voices.

She’s found the caverns.

‘And who the fuck are you?’

The man steps out from the darkness under the tree.

He’s drunk, which is good, because his memory of her will be vague, possibly even non-existent.

‘Do you know the Duchess?’ She looks him in the eye, but because he’s badly cross-eyed she finds it hard to know which one to focus on.

He stares back. ‘Why?’

‘I’m a friend of hers, and I need to see her.’

The man chuckles to himself. ‘Oh, so the old bag’s got friends? I’d never have guessed.’ He pulls out a crumpled cigarette packet and lights a butt. ‘What’s in it for me? I mean, if I show you where she is.’

She’s no longer sure he’s drunk. There’s a sudden clarity in his gaze that scares her. What if he remembers her?

‘You can have three hundred if you show me where she is. All right?’

She gets out her purse and gives him three hundred-krona notes that he looks at with a satisfied grin before holding the door open for her and gesturing to her to go in.

A cloying, suffocating stench hits her, and she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket. She holds it over her nose and mouth to stop herself from throwing up, as the man chuckles at her reaction.

The staircase is long, and when her eyes have got used to the darkness she can see a faint light at the bottom.

When she steps out into the large cavern she can’t believe her eyes. It’s the size of a football pitch and the roof must be ten metres high. All around there’s a clutter of tents, boxes and shelters around small open fires and a mass of people lying or sitting around the fires.

But the most noticeable thing is the silence.

The only sounds are low whispering and snoring.

There’s something respectful about the place. As if those who live here have come to a tacit agreement not to disturb one another, to let each of them be in peace with their own worries.

The man walks past her, and she follows him into the shadows. No one seems to have noticed her.

‘This is where the old bag hangs out.’ He points to a den made of black bin bags, large enough for at least four people. The entrance is covered with a blue blanket. ‘I’m off now. If she asks who showed you the way, just say it was Börje.’

When she squats down she can see someone moving inside. Slowly she removes the handkerchief from her mouth and takes a cautious breath. The air is thick and stuffy, and she makes an effort to breathe through her mouth. She takes out the piano wire and hides it in her hand.

‘Fredrika?’ she whispers. ‘Are you there? I need to talk to you.’

She moves near to the entrance, takes the Polaroid camera from her bag and carefully pushes the blanket aside.

If shame has a smell, then that’s what hits her nose.

ANN-BRITT INFORMS
her that Linnea Lundström has arrived, and Sofia Zetterlund goes out into the waiting room to meet her.

Just as with Ulrika Wendin, Sofia intends to use a three-stage process in her treatment of Linnea.

The first part of the treatment is exclusively about stabilisation and trust. Support and structure are the keywords, and Sofia hopes medication won’t be needed, for either Ulrika or Linnea. But it can’t be ruled out yet. The second part is about remembering, discussing, reliving and working on the sexual trauma. Finally, in the last phase, the traumatic experiences have to be separated from sexual experiences now and in the future.

Sofia had been surprised by Ulrika’s story of picking up a stranger from the bar, a purely sexual act that had clearly made Ulrika feel better.

Then she remembers Ulrika’s reaction when she caught sight of the picture of Viggo Dürer. Dürer had a central role in Linnea’s childhood.

What role might he have played in Ulrika’s life?

Linnea Lundström sits down opposite Sofia. ‘Feels like I was only just here,’ she says. ‘Am I so ill I’ve got to come here every day?’

Sofia is relieved that Linnea is relaxed enough to be making jokes.

‘No, it’s not about that. But it’s good to have frequent sessions at the start, so we can get to know each other quickly.’

Very gradually, Sofia leads the conversation towards the subject that is the real reason for her meetings with Linnea: the girl’s relationship with her father.

Sofia would rather Linnea bring the subject up herself, as she had done during their meeting the previous day, and soon enough her hopes are fulfilled.

‘Do you think I’d understand myself better if I understood him better?’

Sofia pauses before answering. ‘Maybe … But first I want to be completely sure that you think I’m the right person to talk to.’

Linnea looks surprised. ‘Well, who else is there? My friends, or what? I’d die of shame …’

Sofia smiles. ‘No, not necessarily any of your friends. But there are other therapists.’

‘You talked to him. You’re the most suitable, at least according to Annette.’

Sofia looks at Linnea and decides that the best word to describe her is ‘stubborn’. I can’t lose her now, Sofia thinks. ‘I understand … So, back to your father. If you want to talk about him, where would you like us to begin?’

Linnea digs a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and puts it on the desk. It looks like she’s embarrassed. ‘I kept something from you yesterday.’ Linnea hesitates, then pushes the piece of paper towards Sofia. ‘This is a letter Dad wrote to me this spring. Read it.’

The handwriting is beautiful, but difficult to decipher. The letter was written during a flight just a few weeks before Karl Lundström was arrested.

The first part is just the usual phrases. Then it gets increasingly fragmentary and incoherent.