We Shall Inherit the Wind (22 page)

Two weeks after the funeral I flew to Copenhagen, took a taxi from Kastrup Airport and caught the ferry across Øresund to Malmö. To the south I could see the new bridge over the sound taking shape, but the official opening was still at least eighteen months away. In my inside pocket I had an address in Malmö. It was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

There were not many people at the funeral. Karin had no close family left, but a few distant relations made an appearance: an old aunt, a couple of female cousins and one male cousin. Most of the others were colleagues from the National Registration Office and Inland Revenue, some neighbours I was on nodding terms with and some I couldn’t identify, perhaps some of her old school friends. I had expected Ranveig Mæland to turn up, but she didn’t. Both Helleve and Hamre were there. They came over and offered their condolences afterwards, but neither of them mentioned the case. All Hamre said was: ‘We’ll catch you later, Veum.’

The urn was placed in Møllendal ten days later. Only I and an employee from the church warden’s office were present. From her grave I could see the roof of the block where she had lived for as long as I had known her. Now her flat was empty. I had no idea who would inherit it. Perhaps it would be her aunt, perhaps one of the other relatives. I had dropped by to collect what was mine, a few books I knew she was particularly fond of, a few CDs we had enjoyed listening to and a photo album of the last years. In the end I stood looking around and it struck me: nothing had any meaning any more. That is the degree to which humans animate – give substance to – their surroundings. When you are gone everything becomes meaningless. I had dropped by before,
when she had been away on her travels, to water flowers and make sure everything was OK. Even then there had been a strange empty feeling. I certainly didn’t belong there when she wasn’t present. But now she wasn’t on her travels. She would not be coming back again. The dust could slowly settle. The flowers could wither and die. In fifty years’ time hardly anyone would remember her. Other than to our nearest and dearest, we mean nothing. Memento mori, I said to myself. Remember you will have to die too… Then I locked the door for the very last time.

I alighted from the hydrofoil just in front of the immense Kockums Crane, which stood like a modern version of a city gate in the old shipyard when you arrived across the sound from Copenhagen. I caught a taxi to Malmö Concert House, which I had been informed was a suitably discreet place to be dropped, not far from the address I had found on the net. The Concert House was a long, modern building, dominated by white marble tiles and matching window panes that reflected the façades of the buildings opposite in Föreningsgatan.

I crossed the street heading for a big, red-brick building which, according to the inscription above the entrance, belonged to the Nils Rosenquist Foundation. An oak chestnut tree flourished on the corner of Amiralsgatan. Across the street was a tall block of flats, five floors high, in a style that placed it at the end of the nineteenth century, with gables, towers and a plaster façade. According to the map, this was my destination.

At street level there were shops. I noticed an antiquarian book shop calling itself Alfa Böcker, and a little café called Clara. The storeys above appeared to be flats. There were several entrances, but by the door in one of them I saw the name I was looking for: Magnusson. The door was locked. I was not surprised.

I quickly rehearsed what I was going to say. Then I pressed the bell beside his name. I stood staring at the intercom as I waited for a reaction. No one answered. But he had picked up the phone when I had rung earlier in the day. I had then rung off without speaking. I hoped he wasn’t far away, but if he was I had made up my mind that I would wait. There was no reason to hurry any more. Mari and Thomas were still in
Italy. Helleve and Hamre had my statement. My creditors could afford to wait a few more weeks.

I went into the book shop. At a little table by the wall sat a frail man with a luxuriant moustache and large glasses. He didn’t know anyone called Magnusson. At any rate he wasn’t a regular customer in the book shop. He obviously wasn’t at Clara’s either, if she was indeed Clara, a blonde, middle-aged woman who served me a cup of coffee and a cake in the café facing the pavement. There were two empty tables outside, but no one chose to sit there in the chilly October weather. ‘No,’ Clara said. ‘There are so many people living in that block. Most of them in virtual seclusion. When they go out it’s probably to more sophisticated establishments than mine.’

‘It’s sophisticated enough for me,’ I said.

‘Yes, but you’re from Norway,’ she said with a little smile.

From where I was sitting I had an uninterrupted view of the relevant door. I had to lean forward and look hard to see properly. From her place behind the counter Clara, or whatever she was called, stared at me with her inquisitive, blue eyes, but she said nothing. She knew where I was from.

At some point a taxi stopped outside. A man and a woman got out, both in their fifties, him small and delicate, her with crimson hair beneath a green beret. Fifteen minutes later a tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket appeared, stopped by the door, studied his surroundings warily and pulled out a bunch of keys from a side pocket. Then a young woman came, with fair hair fluttering in the wind, pushing a buggy in which there was a small child. The tall man held the door open for her, and they exchanged a few words as she passed by. Then he followed her in. After fifteen more minutes another taxi pulled into the kerb. It waited there until an elderly, white-haired woman wearing an elegant but old-fashioned cape came out of the house. The taxi-driver got out and opened a door for her, and she took a seat in the rear. Five minutes later a well-dressed gentleman turned up, around sixty years old, a prosperous accountant type, rang one of the doorbells and waited to be buzzed in.  

After that, the comings and goings tailed off. I took the last bite of the cake, drained my cup, thanked Clara and strolled over to the door again.

This time someone answered. ‘Yes,’ came a dark voice from the speaker.

‘Stig Magnussson?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘My name’s Veum. I’m Norwegian. I have an important message for you.’

‘A message for me? From Norway?’ He sounded unconvinced.

‘… From Mons Mæland.’

Silence. It went on for so long I felt I had to say something. ‘Hello?’

‘What was your name again?’

‘Veum. Varg Veum. It’s important we talk.’

Again silence. Even longer.

Then the door buzzed. From the speaker I heard: ‘Come on up. I’m on the second floor.’

I pushed the door wide open. There was an elegant staircase, in the same style as the façade. On the stone floor there was a worn chequered pattern and light streamed in from the backyard windows. As I approached the second floor he was waiting for me in the doorway. To my surprise he turned out to be the first arrival, the frail man in his fifties. At close range I could see he had a thin moustache, so thin it was barely visible in the dim light of the stairwell. He was wearing a yellow suede waistcoat over a pink shirt, brown slacks and elegant shoes. He kept his unsmiling eyes on me.

I stopped in front of him. ‘Stig Magnusson?’

‘That’s me.’ His voice was conspicuously dark and deep. It didn’t match the person at all.

I held out my hand. ‘Varg Veum. Have you got a moment?’

He shrugged. After all, he had let me in, so he had agreed to talk to me. ‘You’d better come in. My wife has put the kettle on. We were going to have a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits.’

In the hall he took a clothes-hanger from a wardrobe, draped my
coat over it and hung it in the wardrobe. With a brief gesture he ushered me into the flat.

We entered a light, spacious lounge. The tall windows faced the street, the three middle ones were part of an oriel. The room was fitted out with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, the pictures on the walls had gold frames and in the main showed Swedish rural scenes. A bookcase revealed rows of brown, leather-bound spines while a grandfather clock of impressive vintage had a pendulum that swung from side to side as time audibly ticked by, minute by minute. The aged, floor-length curtains were of green velvet, and the walls were papered with a discreet lily pattern, also ravaged by time. There was a TV set in one corner and a newspaper lying on a small table.
Sydsvenska Dagbladet
, I saw.

Stig Magnusson motioned me to a chair by a small coffee table. I sat down. He left the room without making any comment. I heard sounds coming from the kitchen, and after a minute or two he returned carrying a tray of tea cups and dishes, which he placed on the table. He set three places, still without saying anything. Then he left the room again.

When he returned this time he had his wife with him. She was wearing a light-grey dress with a little belt tied loosely around her waist. He brought in a dish of biscuits and a bowl of jam; she carried a pot of steaming tea. She set down the teapot and said: ‘It has to brew for a while.’

I nodded, got up, shook her hand and introduced myself.

She met my eyes. ‘Eva Magnusson.’

Her dark-red hair framed a face with attractive, regular features, on which life had not failed to leave its traces. Her eyes were blue, and the gaze she sent me revealed a mixture of curiosity and concern, as though she was wondering who I was and what my business with them could be.

We sat down. As no one took the initiative I leaned back in my chair, looked at Stig Magnusson and said: ‘So you did know Mons Mæland?’

He sighed. ‘There once was a business connection, as it’s called, yes.’

‘A business connection?’

‘Yes. In Norway.’  

‘What business?’

He coughed. ‘Now I think we should start at the very beginning,
herr
… Veum. Who are you?’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

He had no comment to make, just gestured for me to continue.

‘About a month ago I was given an assignment to track down Mons Mæland, who had disappeared. I found him after a few days, but … He was dead.’

He raised his eyebrows. His wife gasped.

I looked at her. ‘You knew Mæland, did you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I was just reacting to the terrible news.’

‘The reality was indeed terrible. He had been crucified.’

She opened her eyes wide and grasped her throat. ‘What did you say?’

‘Crucified?’ repeated Stig Magnusson. ‘As in the Bible?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘Hm.’ He looked concerned, but made no further remark.

His wife watched me with a mixture of disbelief and abhorrence. Then she seemed to pull herself together and become the hostess again. She took the teapot. ‘I’m sure it’s ready now,’ she said, and poured. I noticed that her hand was trembling slightly.

Magnusson pushed the dish of biscuits and the bowl of jam in my direction, but I said: ‘No, thank you. I’ll wait a bit.’

He shrugged, helped himself to a biscuit, spread some jam and took a bite. It crunched between his teeth. From the street came the sound of traffic. Otherwise there was silence again.

She raised the cup to her mouth, carefully tasted the tea and smiled apologetically to me. ‘It’s hot …’ Stig Magnusson didn’t smile. He looked at me with a serious, expectant expression.

I said as gently as I could: ‘So that’s the end of the regular payments from Norway.’

He shifted his gaze and made a slight movement with his head, the way you do when you have a stiff neck and you want to loosen the muscles. When he looked at me again there was an expression on his
face that was hard to define. All he had to say was the typically lilting Swedish ‘Ja-ha’.

‘It was his son, Kristoffer, who discovered these payments – just over a month ago. He’d had no idea they existed.’

‘Right,’ Magnusson articulated this time.

‘Naturally he wondered what these payments might be. And there are a few of us wondering the same now.’

I could clearly see him weighing up the pros and the cons. In the end, he decided: ‘They were payments for services rendered. That’s all anyone needs to know.’

‘Services rendered?’

He nodded.

‘Related to his first wife’s disappearance?’

He arched his eyebrows and sent me a quizzical look. ‘What are you talking about?’

His wife put down her cup abruptly, as if she had scalded herself. I looked at her. ‘It’s not that hot now, is it … Lea?’

Stig Magnusson rose from his chair. I stayed seated. I wasn’t afraid of him. Nothing could frighten me any longer. ‘What the hell are you …?’

‘Stig …’ Her voice was resigned and clear. ‘I knew this had to happen. One day someone would come.’ Within two sentences she had switched from Swedish to Norwegian. She straightened her back and looked into my eyes. ‘But I’d never thought it would be a total stranger.’

‘Fate has its own envoys,’ I said. ‘More demanding guests may come later. Your children, for example.’

Her mouth twitched, and she exclaimed with vehemence: ‘My children! They were … misadventures! But I’ve never expected anyone to understand what I was thinking, why I did what I did.’

Stig Magnusson was still standing. ‘Eva …’

She smiled wryly. ‘We can take off our masks now for a while, Stig. This man here is waiting for an explanation. He’s been sent by fate, he says. A diplomat from hell.’

I softly shook my head. ‘It’s not that hot where I come from, I’m afraid.’  

She riposted with a jeer: ‘No, but it might be when the curtain comes down for you, too. What good will it do you, coming here and raking up the past?’

‘There were a lot of people left with unanswered questions after you disappeared.’

‘I’ve got a question too! For you. How did you find …? When did you realise that I was here?’

‘A quarter of an hour ago when I met your husband here for the first time. I saw you both arrive earlier and …’ I glanced at Stig Magnusson. ‘
Herr
Magnusson doesn’t exactly look like a contract killer, and dyeing hair is pretty standard for a woman who wishes to remain under cover.’