The Marita Leander who had deposited one hundred thousand kronor into Jürgen Stiller’s bank account just days before his death lived on Sjöbjörnsvägen in Gröndal. Which, it transpired, was the address of the renowned Stjärnhus buildings – a sort of post-functionalist style of architecture that had reputedly been copied the world over. Sara would have liked to live here, were it not for the noise of traffic from the Essingeleden motorway. But they were charming buildings in a fantastic location and with incredible views.
Sara parked the car by the motorcycle bays and pulled down the shade to show the police emblem. The buildings facing the street were a warm yellow, but the façades facing inwards were green or white. She entered the leafy inner courtyard where the main door for number 52 was located, tapped in the police door code and opened it.
Leander lived on the northern side of the Stjärnhus buildings, with views of Lilla Essingen and Marieberg. After showing her police ID, Sara was admitted to the flat, albeit with some reluctance, she thought. While Leander carefully locked the door behind her, Sara noted a comfy armchair outside on the balcony beside a small table on which she saw a teacup and a book about cultural profiles. There were pots filled with plants and flowers of every kind. Sara had never seen such a verdant balcony. Inside the flat, the counters and windowsills were filled with small pots and milk cartons cut in half and filled with soil and small, sprouting shoots and saplings. Hoya, spotted begonia, aloe, Christmas cacti, cyclamen, hortensia, she was told.
Sara scrutinised the owner of the flat. Marita Leander was a white-haired woman with a long plait and round glasses, Gudrun Sjödén attire and an open smile. Just as expected, Sara thought, almost a little disappointed.
Leander gestured to indicate that Sara should sit down on the sofa in the living room. It was a neat sofa, with two armchairs from the forties recovered in mismatching upholstery with patterned blankets on top. A real festival of colour.
‘Look out for the cats,’ the Gudrun Sjödén lady said.
Lying on the sofa were two sleek, grey pedigree cats, glowering at her with disinterested green eyes.
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ said Sara. If there was one thing she had learned in her years as a police officer, it was that it always paid to praise people’s children and pets.
‘Korats,’ said Leander. ‘They’re called Palle and Stina. As in Palestine. Inventive, right?’
Sara smiled politely.
‘We also have a cat,’ she said. ‘Walter.’
‘Named after the pistol?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like tea?’ Leander added.
‘No thanks. I’ve just got a few quick questions to ask you. About Jürgen Stiller.’
Sara stopped speaking to interpret Leander’s reaction. All she noticed was mild annoyance.
‘You deposited one hundred thousand kronor into his bank account a few days ago.’
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Isn’t it true?’ Sara asked.
‘I thought banking transactions were a private matter in this country.’
‘Jürgen Stiller is dead. Murdered, but made to look like a suicide.’
Silence.
‘Did you know him?’
Marita Leander took a deep breath.
‘I-I bumped into him a couple of times. Many years ago. I don’t suppose I need deny that. But it was a long time ago.’
‘In what context?’
‘Through our mutual commitment to the Third World and global justice.’
‘When you were a member of the Red Army Faction?’
Leander snorted.
‘I’ve never been that.’
‘The Stasi even had a code name for you: Lorelei. And they helped you secure a new Swedish identity. Marita Werner to Marita Leander.’
‘Stasi? That wasn’t the Stasi. That was because I got married to Lennart Leander, the author. Don’t you have Wikipedia down at the station?’
‘But Stiller gave you a birth certificate with another identity.’
Leander smiled again. She seemed almost amused about explaining.
‘Yes, that was how it worked back in the day. Everything was so flipping secretive. Although I was a Swede, I needed a different Swedish identity, even though I was only on the fringes.’
‘On the fringes of what?’
‘Well, these political groups. In the struggle against American imperialism and the police state in West Germany and here. Neither country had dealt with the legacy of guilt that remained from Hitler’s Germany. In West Germany, much of the state apparatus remained under the control of former Nazis, and here in Sweden no one talked about the transits of German troops through the country or our export of iron ore to Hitler’s factories of war. We wanted to break that silence.’
Leander leaned forward slightly, as if she were a lecturer seeking to emphasise her message for the audience.
‘And replace democracy with a communist dictatorship?’ said Sara.
‘It was only a democracy in name,’ said Leander, raising a critical finger. ‘Brutal imperialism hidden behind a genial Santa mask. A Coca Cola Santa, spreading material gifts around with one hand and taking our freedom with the other. We wanted to tear the mask off the face of capitalism.’
‘And then what? What did you want to achieve?’
‘A better world. We wanted to draw attention to the abuses in Vietnam and Palestine which were being ignored by all the so-called democracies.’
‘And that justified armed resistance? Killing people?’
Leander looked almost hurt.
‘I’ve never killed anyone.’
‘Perhaps not you personally.’
‘No, quite. Now I’m afraid it’s time for you leave. I need to play with the cats.’ Leander stood up quickly from her armchair but stopped for a moment and looked at Sara. ‘It’s for the cats’ sake, you see. They get ill if they don’t move.’
She grabbed a cat toy in the form of a long stick with a string on the end and began to run the string along the floor in front of the cats on the sofa. Palle and Stina looked passably interested. And Sara pointedly remained in her armchair. Leander turned towards her, but she was still running the string along the floor.
‘You see, they don’t dare play when there’s someone here.’
‘You were happy to tell me about your commitment until I asked about the killing. Is that something you’re ashamed of?’
Leander stopped trying to tempt the cats to play and turned to Sara.
‘I’ve got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I can tell you everything.’
‘Do that.’
Leander took a seat, still clutching the trailing cat toy. She looked out of the open balcony door towards the waters of Lake Mälaren where a white steamer was passing by.
‘I still think what we were fighting for was important. What do you actually know about that time?’
‘A bit.’
‘Not enough, I fear. All we wanted was to end war and killing the brutal bombings of civilian populations, massacres of children. It all began peacefully, but was met with violence. Like in Italy during the demonstrations against Nixon’s visit. All we did was express our views, and for that we were beaten down – with terrible brutality. They set dogs on us and trampled peaceful demonstrators with their horses, at Hötorget here in Stockholm, and down in Båstad – at all the demonstrations. And we were so shocked, so angry. They really wanted to hurt us. And eventually some people had had enough, wanted to hit back. That’s not so strange. We started out as pacifists, but were beaten into realists – that’s what we used to say.’
‘The police have to maintain law and order.’
Leander took a sip of tea and put her cup down on the table. Then she smiled at Sara.
‘Exactly. The law and order of the powerful. And that includes napalming children in Vietnam and massacring refugees in Lebanon. And it wasn’t just then. Look at the riots in Gothenburg in 2001, when that police officer shot a demonstrator in the back but was cleared. The demonstrators, on the other hand, got stiff sentences. All because the President of the United States visited. Just think if the bootlickers in the Swedish government had been shown up in front of Bush.’
‘Did you ever attend a training camp in the Middle East?’
Leander was quiet for a while.
‘I’ve never hurt anyone.’
‘What did you do more specifically then?’
‘Well, at first it was very innocent. Demonstrations. Selling the Vietnam Bulletin. Stencilling flyers. Collections. That was how most people got into the movement.’
‘Then you became a militant? How? Something happened?’ Sara said.
‘I was working as a journalist and a German lawyer invited me to a meeting at the school in Åsö, where he told me about the awful conditions they were subjecting members of the Red Army Faction to in prison. I wanted to know more and he put me in touch with a German living in Stockholm, Dieter. Or Joachim, that was his real name. A gardener. We shared an interest in plants.’
‘And he radicalised you?’
‘You make it sound so dramatic,’ Leander said. ‘You think we were out and about all day shooting at people and running around, but it was mostly the daily grind and just waiting. Watching people. Getting hold of cars and flats.’
‘Were you at the embassy for the stand-off? When they executed the two diplomats and shot at the police?’
‘I wasn’t inside the embassy.’
‘But during the preparations?’ Sara said, probing.
Leander shrugged.
‘I showed Stefan – the seventh member – around town so that he knew where all the news agencies had their offices. So that he could drop off their communiqué about the operation.’
‘You tell it like any other memory. It sounds as though you have no regrets.’
Sara thought about Stellan Broman and felt a sudden disgust towards the woman she was talking to. Stellan had also never regretted his actions, never confessed, never apologised. Sara wondered whether she was like that herself – or could end up like that. Was it possible to inherit such negative personality traits? Was it nature or nurture? Stellan had concealed his dark side from the world. Well, from everyone except the young girls whom he’d raped. And then there was Lotta, who had exploited her father’s perversions for political ends. Sara didn’t know which one of them was worse.
‘It wasn’t meant to go wrong like that,’ said Leander, bringing Sara back to the present. ‘The interesting thing is that when the Croatian fascists hijacked SAS flight 130 and took hostages, their demands were met and the prisoners were released, but when the communists took hostages, no one was let go. Palme and Geijer preferred to let two hostages die.’
Although it was possible Leander had a point, Sara realised she was in no mood to try and understand. She could tell she wasn’t going to get much more out of this conversation. Time to get to the point.
‘Why did you transfer the money to Jürgen Stiller?’
‘It was a loan.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’
‘When were you last in touch? Before he needed the money, I mean.’
Marita Leander was silent. She stared out towards the verdant balcony and after a while she leaned back and sighed deeply. Then she sat up again.
‘OK. He wanted money from me to keep his mouth shut.’
Sara nodded, as if to show that this was no surprise.
‘And I paid,’ Leander said. ‘But you still found me. So it was a waste of money. Do you think I can get my money back?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘It was every penny I had, and I’d like to get an allotment.’
Sara looked at Leander and wondered whether the woman was messing with her, but she appeared to be deadly serious. She was even smiling slightly, as if thinking about how wonderful it would be to have her own allotment.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Of what?’
‘That something might happen to you. That the person who killed Stiller will come for you.’
‘Why would he do that? I haven’t done anything.’
‘Do you want police protection?’
‘Most certainly not.’
Without standing up from the armchair, Leander made an attempt to engage the cats, but without any success.
‘What do you know about the other people that Stiller was blackmailing?’ said Sara.
‘Nothing. I didn’t know there were others. Who were they?’
‘Hans Gerlach, Stefan Kremp and Otto Rau. Two of them are now called Bo Enberg and Günther Dorch.’
‘I remember Stefan well. We actually had an affair. Incredibly charismatic. He was from some godforsaken place in Germany . . . Osnabrück. But he had real vision. The struggle was everything. I’ve no idea where he is these days.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Otto was an old fighter. Always wanted to pull off spectacular operations, shake up the bourgeoisie. I admired his fighting spirit, but he was a little frightening. Completely focused. Almost obsessed. I barely remember what Hans looked like. He was mostly one of those people along for the ride. A bit timid. You usually ended up ganging up with the people you worked best with – forming into rock-solid units where everyone was ready to die for the others.’
‘Like all terrorist groups.’
‘We weren’t terrorists. That was the name the police and the authorities gave us.’
‘What were you then?’
‘Freedom fighters.’
‘That was your name for yourselves.’