Sara walked all the way home. She passed through a late summer Stockholm that had long ago switched from early Friday evening drinks into loud drunkenness, from expectations and planning to the actual implementation. Now they were all mid-battle, which would end in a couple of hours in success or defeat, sex or drunk food.
Anna called and texted, but Sara didn’t answer.
On Tegelbacken, she sat down on one of the benches overlooking Riddarfjärden. She just sat there, staring out towards the white boats and the shoreline at Södermälarstrand on the other side. And while the inhabitants of the capital pursued happiness in every way they could, Sara did what she could to master the anger and frustration that she felt. The shocks and betrayals were almost impossible to handle. She wanted to smash something to pieces. Or someone.
What was she supposed to do now? Where was she meant to go? What would her life be like? She had no idea.
Everything was just empty. Black.
And it hurt.
After an hour, she had calmed down enough that she was able to pick up the phone when Bielke called.
But she soon wished she hadn’t.
She wished she’d never had to hear what he had called to tell her.
The good news was that they had found out the names of the people who had ordered the murders of Kallio and Åkerman from the mobile that Sara had taken. A motorbike gang that had lent money in the case of Kallio, and the neighbour involved in the planning dispute in the case of Åkerman. They couldn’t use the messages from the mobile, but they could now direct their efforts towards the guilty parties.
The bad news was that Martin had spoken to his bosses while waiting to be questioned.
And then he had denied everything that Sara had related.
Pale and grim-faced, he had confirmed Uncle Scam’s version of events, and denied that any of them had been to a peepshow or even in the vicinity of Frihamnen.
This meant they had no usable evidence whatsoever against Uncle Scam. Which meant that Bielke had decided they had to release him.
Less than an hour later, Uncle Scam’s plane had taken off, and it was about to leave Swedish airspace for good.
Martin had also called, but Sara hadn’t replied. Instead she texted.
Martin tried to explain in a reply.
A beautiful white ship with a party taking place on board glided past on its way to the Västerbron bridge and Lake Mälaren, accompanied by the sound of music and happy voices. With Haddaway’s ‘What is love’ in her ears, Sara decided not to let Uncle Scam get away with it.
She Googled ‘gossip magazine USA’ and found the National Enquirer, which was described as a publication eager to cause scandal. She found their email address and used one of the anonymous email accounts she used for work to send all the photos and videos she’d taken from Uncle Scam’s mobile. She just hoped they were interested.
Then she sat there and let the darkness envelop her. Out on Riddarfjärden there was music and shouting from a small motorboat with an illuminated cabin. Infatuated couples strolled past, some young people had settled down on the steps leading down to the water beneath City Hall and the lights of Södermalm were reflected in the dark waters of Riddarfjärden. Behind her, tourists passed by, engaged in unobtrusive conversation in foreign languages. There was the sound of electric scooters whooshing past, the waves lapping against the quayside, church bells striking one in the distance.
Sara realised that it would be easy to trace the email she had just sent if the publication were so inclined. And if they did, then she might regret her actions. But she wouldn’t have been able to live with herself if she hadn’t done something.
Finally, she got up and carried on homeward. She crossed the Vasabron bridge to Stora Nygatan. There were even more people in all the outdoor bars, tourists and Stockholm natives. The atmosphere here was calmer than in the city centre; here, there were people who had nothing better to do than sit and enjoy their beers, Sara thought, feeling almost angry at all the people who didn’t have to go through what she was suffering.
Standing in front of the door that led into her building was a Maserati parked with two wheels on the pavement. It was Eric’s – Sara recognised the registration. Her father-in-law had presumably parked with such nonchalance in protest against the city’s parking wardens. A parking ticket would have no material impact on his wallet. But what was he doing here? Had Martin asked him to mediate? Or perhaps he had driven Olle home again? In the case of the former, he had no chance, while in the case of the latter she would have to thank him profusely.
When she emerged from the lift and inserted the key into the front door, she noticed that it wasn’t locked. For a brief moment she thought of Rau. And Kremp.
She pulled her pistol from her holster and prepared to shoot.
But as soon as she opened it, she heard that it was Ebba.
She put away her weapon and relaxed.
Happy voices and laughter from the kitchen, where she found Ebba and two of her friends with their arms filled with wine bottles, Martin’s expensive wines. But it served him right, so Sara didn’t protest at a group of tipsy nineteen-year-olds drinking three thousand kronor bottles of wine when they would have been just as happy with the bargain basement alternative.
‘Olle’s staying at mine,’ Ebba said when she saw her mother. ‘He hates you for putting Scam away.’
‘Isn’t he any happier now that they’ve let the swine go?’
‘Don’t think so. Where’s Dad?’
‘In a hotel. Or with some friend. I don’t know. And I don’t care.’
‘What is it now? Surely he hasn’t done anything to you.’
‘You don’t know anything about that. And you’re not going to either.’
‘My God, why are you always so angry? You’ve got no right to be angry all the time.’
‘Shut your gob. You have no idea.’
Ebba stared at her mother.
‘God, you’re a mess. You’re going to be so lonely.’
‘I already am.’
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Ebba said to her friends.
‘Are you going back to yours?’ said Sara. ‘Olle won’t be able to sleep.’
‘No. Picnic out on Djurgården,’ Ebba said, dangling a car key in front of Sara’s eyes. Eric’s Maserati.
‘Is your grandfather here?’
‘No. I’ve borrowed the car.’
‘You don’t have a driver’s licence. And you’re intoxicated.’
‘One glass.’
‘That’s enough. And like I said, you haven’t got a licence.’
‘I will soon. And I can drive. Better than you.’
Sara grabbed the car key and yanked it from Ebba’s hand.
‘Forget about it.’
‘Stop it! Give me the key. It was me who borrowed the car from Granddad. I’m responsible for it.’
‘Yes, I saw that. Parked on the pavement. Nice job,’ Sara said brusquely.
‘We’re leaving right away.’
‘Not in that car.’
Ebba stared at her mother with fire in her eyes. She was breathing heavily but she said nothing. After a few seconds, she turned on her heel and left, carrying her four bottles in a firm grip.
‘Come on,’ she said to her friends. ‘We’ll take a limo instead.’
‘Bye,’ said one of them to Sara, dropping a curtsy. ‘Thanks for the wine.’
‘Have a nice weekend,’ said the other to her, smiling politely.
At least they had manners.
Sara tossed the car key onto the kitchen table. She didn’t feel up to re-parking the car right now. Eric could afford the parking tickets.
She went and threw herself onto the sofa in the living room.
And then she just lay there. All alone in the huge apartment.
Ebba was on a binge, angry with her mother. Olle was at Ebba’s, angry with his mother. Martin had been banished to some hotel or anywhere but home because she was raging at him. She refused to speak to her best friend.
She was alone.
She had pushed away everyone around her.
Why did she do that?
But Martin had actually pushed himself away. He had killed their marriage in the most awful way Sara could imagine. He hadn’t done a thing to save Jenna, and then he had lied under questioning. For financial gain. Because his bosses had told him to.
If she had known that Martin would do this, was even capable of doing something like that, she would never have married him, would never have got together with him, would never even have spoken to him.
Right?
He had been the most popular boy in school. And perhaps he would have been even more popular if everyone had known how successful he would be. There were probably a lot of people who straight up didn’t care about a single girl from Romania, people who would have thought her life was worth very little compared with the well-being of Uncle Scam, one of the most famous artists in the world. And Sara had long ago realised that much of the love she felt for Martin had probably emerged from the fact that he had been the most desirable, fêted guy in school. And then in sixth form too – the sixth form that Sara had never got to go to, because Jane had fled Bromma with Sara to get away from Stellan and his glances at his own daughter.
No, she had to convince herself that she would never have picked him if she had known. She didn’t want to be an accessory. Couldn’t doubt herself.
But she wondered what it said about her that she was married to a man who could do something like that.
The distant hum of the busy capital city disrupted the peaceful silence. She didn’t want to turn on the TV, didn’t want to listen to music. Music always amplified the emotional state she was in, and the feelings she was grappling with right now were most definitely not ones she wished to intensify. So she didn’t drink wine either. And she had never liked computer games.
So what was she supposed to do?
Of course. Hedin had wanted something. And she was hardly likely to be out on a Friday night binge, so Sara could call her. But the academic didn’t pick up.
Well, it would have to be in the morning.
Instead, Sara sat quite still while the events of the last few days replayed in her mind’s eye without her making any effort whatsoever to analyse or understand them. All she did was watch the inner images without reflecting on them. The bodies at Ekerö, Ebba’s move, Martin’s party, Nadia’s beaten face, poor murdered Jenna, Uncle Scam, Tore Thörnell, the peepshow. But of all the dramatic things that had happened, it was something decidedly low-key that lingered in her mind – the image of a young, humiliated Eva Hedin in the TV studio. Sara would have liked to ask Hedin how it had felt, and whether she still carried it with her today, but she was afraid that it was far too private a question for the reserved former professor.
After a period of silent thought processing, Sara switched on the TV and went to the SVT Play app to search for one of Stellan Broman’s old shows in the archives – Tivoli from the sixties. She slowly slumped deeper into the sofa while she watched Stellan via the medium of grainy black-and-white television, prancing about in his suit with his pomaded hair as he perpetuated daft pranks and talked to famous and non-famous guests. All before an audience that laughed at everything the presenter said.
The sight of Stellan reminded Sara that there was actually someone she hadn’t pushed away. Or rather, she had tried to push her away for many years, but she had still always been there for her. Sara rang her mother without paying any heed to the fact that it was the middle of the night.
‘Yes?’ If Jane had been asleep then she hid it well.
‘Eva Hedin wanted revenge on Stellan. Just like us. That was why she unmasked him as a spy. She was humiliated on his show.’
Hedin would have to forgive her – Sara had to share it all with someone. Her mother, of all people, would understand Hedin. And a quiet late summer’s night like this felt like a free zone, an exception from reality in which no ordinary rules applied. In the still of the night, it was as if everything were said in confidence and nothing would be remembered.
‘I know,’ said Jane. Then she took a couple of heavy, audible breaths, as if she were apologising in advance for something she felt obliged to do. ‘That was why they used her. Because it was personal.’
Sara sat up on the sofa.
‘What do you mean “used”? Which “they”?’
‘Lotta. And someone else. They got me to pass the information to Säpo, the stuff Hedin later found in their archives – loads of papers that reinforced suspicions against Stellan.’
‘You framed him?’
‘I told Säpo about him. As his former housekeeper, I was credible. Just like that spy Wennerström. It was easy to believe I had seen things. Sometimes servants are useful.’
‘But hang on? What are you saying? And why would Lotta frame her father?’
‘When the Berlin Wall fell, lots of archives were opened up, and there was information to suggest there was a spy at their address. I assume it was Lotta and that she wanted to protect herself.’
‘And you helped her to do that?’ Sara could scarcely credit what her mother was telling her.
‘Not willingly. I was eager to get my own back on Stellan, but not like that.’
‘Then why did you do it?’
‘My goodness, you ask a lot of questions. Why do you have to know everything? This was a long time ago. More than thirty years ago.’
‘Mum, come on. Surely you understand that I need to know! Why did you do it?’
‘Well, why do you think? Because they forced me,’ Jane replied.
‘Which they?’
‘Lotta and someone else. I don’t know who. Someone with a gun.’
‘Someone you couldn’t see? How do you know he had a gun?’
‘Lotta came round once when you weren’t at home, just after the Wall fell.’
‘In Vällingby?’ Sara had had no idea that Lotta had ever visited.
‘Yes. She told me to hand over papers to the Security Service and tell them I had seen Stellan talking lots to his gardener and other people. She showed me pictures of the people I was supposed to say I recognised if Säpo asked.’
‘And you did that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how did she force you?’ Thoughts were spinning around Sara’s head. ‘Did she just claim they had a gun?’
Jane strung out her answer – she seemed to be thinking about how to respond.
‘She didn’t threaten me,’ she said at last. ‘It was you. Lotta asked where you usually sat at the kitchen table, and when I pointed to your chair, a bullet came through the window and hit the chair. Someone was sitting up on a roof with a rifle.’
Sara was silent. She could picture the whole scenario, and no matter how unrealistic it sounded, she realised it was completely true. She knew enough about Lotta to know that.
‘There was only one thing to be done,’ her mother said. ‘Obey her.’
A gunshot into her home. Jane’s account opened up very fresh wounds inside Sara.
Yet another old memory cropped up and shook her.
‘The bird,’ she said, already knowing the answer. ‘Was that the time you said a bird flew into the window?’
Jane sighed.
‘It wasn’t a bird.’
Of course it wasn’t. But Jane had kept quiet about it, as always. She had protected Sara.
‘And you don’t know who took the shot?’
‘No. I just did as Lotta told me and then I had her off my back. It didn’t matter to me that Stellan fell under suspicion.’
Sara couldn’t tell Jane that the same thing had happened to her. She simply couldn’t. She had brought that danger on herself. But it had happened to her mother and she was completely blameless. There was a huge difference. But a well-taken shot through the windows of both their homes was surely no coincidence? Surely? Was it the same shooter?
‘Sara,’ said Jane, and something in her voice made Sara pay attention.
‘Yes?’
‘The thing that happened before. In June. Was that my fault? Was it because I never told you about this?’
‘What? No.’
‘But if you had known that it wasn’t Stellan who was the spy . . .’
The alternative made Sara’s head spin. What if none of what had happened had needed to happen? But that would have led to far worse outcomes, she realised.
‘It was lucky,’ she said to Jane. ‘If I had known that Stellan wasn’t a spy, I might not have got involved. And then something terrible would have happened.’
‘But it did. Look what your face looks like.’
‘Something much worse, Mum. Believe me. The fact that you hadn’t told me actually saved a lot of lives.’ That was how Sara understood it, but it was a lot for her to digest on top of everything else. ‘Get yourself to bed – we’ll talk more about this another time. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘And Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I love you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
And with those words, Jane hung up.
Sara lay for a long time staring at the stucco on the ceiling, avoiding thinking. Memories forced their way through, seeking attention, but she pushed them aside. She also kept the mental images of everything her mother had told her in check. She focused on the ceiling instead and realised that she had never before spared a single glance for the room’s upper limits. She saw that the ornamentation on the ceiling extended beyond ribbons and flowers – there were lions and dragons too. It was very ambitious stucco. It wasn’t the done thing any longer.
The doorbell rang. Sara sat up but hesitated.
Was it Martin trying to come home? Olle and Ebba had keys and would just have walked in, but Martin would almost certainly have rung the bell at this stage. Might it be Jane who had decided to come over and see her daughter? No, Sara thought. She wouldn’t have made it here that quickly.
Was it Rau? Who else would be ringing the doorbell after two o’clock in the small hours of Saturday?
But would a murderer really ring the bell?
Well, perhaps they might, simply because it was unexpected.
If he had been watching the apartment then he knew that Sara was at home on her own.
She got up, and fetched her service weapon. Then she opened the door, concealing the pistol behind her back.
It was Bielke.
Sara noted that he had his hand behind his back too.
‘Sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night. But I saw that the light was on. Are you alone?’
Sara’s grasp on the butt of the pistol tightened.
‘Yes.’
‘I wanted to apologise,’ Bielke said, bringing out the hand that he had been keeping behind his back.
He handed over a bunch of roses. Red roses.
‘For spying on you,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t my intention to distrust you. But I asked Anna to keep an eye on you and report back to me. That was my condition when I granted your request for a transfer to us.’
‘Why?’
‘I was worried about you. After that spy saga and everything that happened, there weren’t many people who were willing to take you on. They thought you should be signed off sick for a while or even that you should go completely. But I know that it’s sometimes best to get back to work again. And I thought that might be the case for you.’
‘Come in,’ Sara said, carefully putting down the pistol on the hall table. Then she quickly put a hat over it.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she said, accepting the flowers.
When had she last received flowers? And from her boss?
And she had thought someone wanted to murder her . . .
Sara showed Bielke into the living room. He stopped on the threshold and looked around, then he turned to her.
‘I’m going to be completely honest. I had other motives for allowing your transfer to Solna.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to be close to you. I shouldn’t say this. I’m well aware of the age difference and that you’re married, but I promise that it won’t have an effect on our working situation, and if you prefer you can request a transfer. Or I can. But I finally realised that I couldn’t keep working alongside you without saying anything. I’m in love with you, Sara. I think about you all the time, and I long for you. But that doesn’t mean you have to do anything. It’s my problem. Right, well, that’s out in the open. If I’ve seemed a bit strange lately, well, you know why now. And I knew you were on your own, because your husband said he was going to stay at a hotel. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be off now.’
Sara dropped the roses on the floor and went and wrapped her arms around Bielke.
And kissed him.
She had never thought about her boss in that way, and perhaps she never would again. But right now she did. And now was all she had.
She thought about her husband Martin while she kissed Bielke and she thought about the gangster George Taylor Jr. She thought about Tom Burén at Ebba’s new job and she thought about her boss Axel Bielke. Different men, different lives, different Saras. In her eyes, Bielke was a mentor, a teacher, a father. Someone who could make things right. What she was doing now was no worse than what Martin had done.
She pulled him down onto the sofa and carried on kissing him. Then she let him kiss her.
She had a right to what was happening with Bielke now. She had earned it. She needed it.
Martin was no longer her husband.
He had betrayed her. He had ruined what they had.
She had to free herself, and that was what she was doing now.
She was making herself completely free.
And alone.