Ihad sworn black and blue that I would never come back to Stockholm, but here I was, standing outside the Westerlunds’ apartment on Skeppsbron, at 7:30 in the evening, with thick snow whirling down all around me.
The snow clung to my hair and the shoulders of my coat and it even clung to my eyebrows. I had booked myself a room at the Sheraton, but I had decided to walk here because it was only ten minutes away, across Kornhamnstorget, and after four hours’ flying and another hour in an overheated taxi, I was gasping for some fresh air, no matter how bitter it was.
I had kept the keys to the Westerlunds’ apartment that Kate had given me, but I had left them back in New York. In any case, I didn’t think it would exactly be polite to let myself in, uninvited and unexpected, even if the Westerlunds were still here.
I rang the doorbell and waited, while the snow fell faster and thicker. My shoes and socks were soaked and my toes were numb, and I wished that I had called a taxi to bring me here.
I rang again. No answer. Maybe I would have to come back later, or early tomorrow morning. I was looking around for a taxi to take me back to the Sheraton when I heard a complicated rattling of bolts and keys, and the front door opened.
A handsome middle-aged woman with silvery-blonde hair and rimless spectacles was peering out at me. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Herr Andersson?’ I could feel the warmth flowing out of the interior of the house behind her.
I scuffled the snow off my hair. ‘No, ma’am. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you speak English?’
‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry. I was expecting an acquaintance of my husband’s.’
‘My name is Gideon Lake and I’m a friend of Axel and Tilda Westerlund.’
‘The Westerlunds? Oh. They do not live here now, I’m afraid. They used to own our apartment – I don’t know, maybe three years ago. But they left Stockholm. I don’t know where they went. You are not the first friend who has come here looking for them.’
‘They left no forwarding address? Nothing like that?’
She shook her head. ‘We still receive mail for them, even now. Not so much as we used to. But we don’t know where to send it on, so we just have to return it.’
‘I’m sorry. This is kind of intrusive, I know – but do you own the apartment? Or rent it?’
‘It is rented on our behalf by the Royal Institute of Technology. My husband is a professor.’
‘I see. Thanks. You don’t happen to know who actually owns it? They might have some idea where the Westerlunds went to.’
‘Why don’t you come in, out of the snow?’ she asked me. ‘My husband will be home very soon and I’m sure he knows who the owners are. Our heating broke down last winter, and the agents had to contact the owners to pay for a new boiler. Come on – come inside.’
‘You’re sure?’ I asked her.
She opened the door wider, and smiled. ‘If you were a rapist I don’t think that you would be standing in the street with a little mountain of snow on top of your head, flapping your arms like a pingvin.’
I stepped into the hallway. The glass lantern that Tilda Westerlund had shattered with her screaming had been repaired, but the murky mirror was still hanging there.
The woman held out her hand. It was small and very warm. ‘My name is Anna-Carin Olofsson and my husband is Professor Berthil Olofsson. Berthil is quite famous for his research into global warming.’
I brushed the melting snow from my shoulders. ‘Global warming? I could sure use some of that right now!’
‘Come upstairs. I have a good fire going.’
Now that I was standing next to her, I realized how small she was. She hardly reached up to my shoulder. But she had a very trim figure, for her age, and a faded tan, and I guessed that she spent all summer swimming and all winter skiing and she probably ate two bowlfuls of muesli every morning. She made me feel seriously unhealthy.
Upstairs, the apartment had changed very little since the last time I had visited it. The same statuette of Freya in the corridor. The same gilded sofas in the living room. The same Malmsjö piano on which I had played The Pointing Tree for Elsa and Felicia.
Anna-Carin Olofsson took my overcoat and hung it up for me. ‘Sit down by the fire,’ she said. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’
‘That’s kind of you. Thanks. Just black, please.’
She went into the kitchen and I followed her. ‘We love this apartment,’ she said, as she spooned coffee into the percolator. ‘We lived in a brand-new apartment before, in Uppsala, and it had no character. But this place – sometimes my husband thinks that he can still hear the voices of the people who lived in it before us.’
‘Really? What do they say?’
Anna-Carin Olofsson flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Of course it is just his imagination. For a scientist, he can be very superstitious. If he spills any salt on the table, he always throws a pinch of it over his left shoulder to protect himself from bad luck. Two pinches, in fact.’
‘Have you heard any voices?’
‘Me? No. Not voices as such. One evening, though, when Berthil was away at one of his conferences, I thought I heard a woman crying. I went from room to room, but there was nobody here. I think it must have come from the alley, at the back, or maybe another apartment.’
She paused, and then she took two cups down from the cupboard. ‘It sounded so sad. How can I say it? It sounded like a woman who is in complete despair.’
She poured us each a cup of coffee, and we took them through to the living room. As we sat down, the front door opened and Professor Olofsson arrived home, stamping his feet on the mat.
‘Berthil!’ called Anna-Carin. ‘We are in here, my darling!’
A stocky, gray-bearded man appeared, wearing a brown overcoat and a long brown-and-white scarf. He was balding, with shiny spectacles, and cold-reddened cheeks. He almost looked like a professor out of a child’s comic book.
‘My darling, this gentleman is a friend of the Westerlunds. He came here to look for them.’
‘Gideon Lake,’ I said. ‘Sorry for intruding, but your wife has made me very welcome.’
Professor Olofsson tugged off his woolen glove and shook my hand.
‘God afton,’ he said. ‘If you have come here looking for the Westerlunds, I regret that you have had a wasted journey. I hope you haven’t come too far.’
‘New York, originally. But it hasn’t been a total bust. I believe that I’m a whole lot nearer to finding out what happened to the Westerlunds than I ever was before.’
Professor Olofsson took off his overcoat, and Anna-Carin took it into the hallway to hang it up. He said, ‘Nobody seems to know where the Westerlunds went. After we moved in here, we had letters and phone calls for them for months, and people calling here to ask if we knew where they had gone. Even their relatives.
He sat down, and unlaced his shoes. ‘I think Dr Westerlund’s sister went to the police, and reported them as missing, but as far as I know nothing ever came out of that.’
Anna-Carin came in with a mug of frothy coffee, with chocolate sprinkles, and set it down on the table.
Professor Oloffson took two or three noisy sips, so that chocolate sprinkles clung to his beard. Then he said, ‘You think you might have found out where they moved to, Mr Lake?’
‘No. It would surprise me if anybody ever sees them again. Not alive, anyhow. But I’m beginning to understand what happened to them, and why.’
‘You believe that they are dead?’
‘I think that it’s a very strong possibility, yes.’
‘All of them? The whole family?’
I nodded. ‘I don’t have any proof yet. But it seems very likely. And I don’t think it was accidental, either.’
‘But Dr Westerlund was a surgeon, wasn’t he? Why would anybody want to kill him?’
‘I think I know what the motive was. I also think I know who did it. As I say, though, I don’t have any proof. None that makes any sense.’
‘Well, I wish you luck. If the Westerlunds really have been murdered, then they deserve justice.’
I put down my coffee cup. ‘Your wife tells me that you know who owns this apartment.’
‘How would this help?’
‘I’m not sure. But whoever bought it from the Westerlunds, maybe the Westerlunds gave them some clue about where they were going.’
Professor Oloffson dragged out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Of course our lease was all arranged by my university, and so I never saw the original contract. But when the heating went wrong I got in touch with the letting agents, and when I visited their office, the paperwork was all there, lying on the agent’s desk. Penumbra. Not a name you would forget.’
‘I’ve heard of Penumbra. They’re based in New York.’
‘In that case, it will not be so difficult for you to talk to them, yes?’
He blew his nose again. ‘Murdered. That would be terrible. What a world this is turning into!’
We sat in silence for a short while, punctuated only by the lurching of logs in the fireplace, and the clink of coffee cups. Then I said, ‘I understand you’ve been hearing voices, professor.’
Professor Olofsson looked across at Anna-Carin and wagged his finger at her. ‘My wife shouldn’t tell you such stories! I don’t want it getting out that I’m going a bit funny in the head.’
‘You have, though?’
‘Well – I don’t think they can really be voices. More likely, it’s just a draft, blowing under the door. You know how the wind can sound as if it is talking to you, especially at night, when you’re very tired.’
‘Can you make out anything of what they’re saying?’
Professor Olofsson looked at me sharply. ‘It’s the wind, Mr Lake. I’m almost sure of it. I just like to think that in an old apartment like this, the spirits of the people who used to live here are still keeping us company.’
‘Did you ever hear them saying the word drunkna?’
‘Drowning? Who told you that?’
‘So you did hear them say it?’
Professor Olofsson shook his head. ‘No, of course not. I heard nothing except whispering.’
‘Have you ever heard any unusual noises – like children, running along the corridor, in the middle of the night?’
‘Sometimes the plumbing makes a banging sound. But that is simple physics. Expansion and contraction. Not children.’
‘And you’ve never seen anybody? Or felt anybody touching you?’
‘You sound like one of those mediums, Mr Lake. I don’t believe this apartment is haunted. I hear whispering sometimes and it sounds like voices, but that is all.’
He looked at his watch and I could tell that he didn’t want to discuss this any more. Anna-Carin gave me a sympathetic shrug.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve probably taken up too much of your time already. Thank you for your hospitality, sir, and thank you for your coffee, Mrs Olofsson. Is it OK if I use your bathroom before I go?’
‘By all means,’ said Anna-Carin. ‘I will show you where it is.’
I knew, of course, but she led me along the corridor anyhow. Outside the bathroom door, she stopped and said, ‘Berthil does not want you to think that he believes in such things. But he has told me that he can sometimes catch what the voices are saying. One of them said, vilja de drunkna oss? Will they drown us?’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you. You don’t know how helpful you’ve been.’
Professor Olofsson called, ‘Anna! Anna! Kanna Jag har något mer kaffe?’ and she called back, ‘Coming, my darling!’ and left me alone in the corridor.
I was pushing open the bathroom door when I thought I heard singing, coming from one of the bedrooms. I stopped, with my hand still holding the doorknob, straining my ears. It was very high, and very faint, but it was definitely singing.
I walked further along the corridor until I came to what had once been Elsa and Felicia’s bedroom. I pressed my ear against the door panel, and I could still hear it. Two girls’ voices, clear and infinitely sad, and singing in English.
‘The forest may be tangled … but every time you stray … you can always find a Pointing Tree … to help you find your way …’
I opened the bedroom door, and as soon as I did so I had that skin-shrinking feeling. Elsa and Felicia were sitting together on the end of the bed, facing each other and holding hands. But they were transparent, as if they were nothing more than holograms. I could see the closet and the dressing table right through them.
‘Elsa?’ I said. ‘Felicia?’
I stepped into the room and they both turned their heads and smiled at me, although their eyes were so dark and shadowy that it was impossible for me to tell if they could see me or not.
‘Elsa, Felicia, it’s me – Gideon. The guy who wrote you that song.’
Neither of them spoke, although they both kept smiling. As I came nearer, I could see that they were both wearing white nightdresses, but that both of their nightdresses were soaked, and clinging to their skin.
‘The men who did this to you – I’m going to find them, and I’m going to make sure they get punished for it. Do you understand me?’
Elsa reached out for me. I tried to hold her hand, but there was nothing there, only the faintest of chills, as if she had breathed on me.
‘We knew that you could save us,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Felicia. ‘We told each other that Gideon would never forget us.’
They faded away right in front of my eyes. Within seconds, I was standing in the bedroom on my own – panting, as if I had run all the way along Skeppsbron and up the stairs and along the corridor, to catch them before they disappeared.
Self-consciously, I laid my hand on the cream woven bedspread, to feel if it was damp – but it was completely dry. Wherever Elsa and Felicia had been soaked in water, it hadn’t been here.
I left the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind me. Then I went back to the bathroom.
It was dark inside, so I reached for the light cord, and tugged it. The ceiling light clicked on, and I almost shouted out loud.
Standing on the tiled floor right in front of me, her dress plastered in blood, was Tilda. Her hair was as wild as a cockatoo. Her eyes were bulging and her mouth was stretched wide open in a silent scream.
She took one lurching step toward me, almost falling over – and then another. Her face had been cut all over – her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips. There were gaping cuts on her shoulders and blood was running in thin streams from her elbows. ‘Behaga döda jag,’ she mumbled, and bubbles of blood burst out of her nostrils. ‘Please kill me.’
I could have called out for Anna-Carin. I could have taken Tilda in my arms, and tried to give her first aid. But I knew that Anna-Carin wouldn’t be able to see Tilda, and I knew that Tilda was just as insubstantial as Elsa and Felicia. None of them were really here, not any more. They were nothing more than a terrible echo.
I did the only thing that I could think of. I switched off the light and slammed the bathroom door behind me. I stood in the corridor for a moment, breathing hard. I thought of taking another look in the bathroom, just to make sure that Tilda wasn’t really there, but I decided against it, in case she was. Stiff-legged, I walked back to the living room. Anna-Carin smiled at me and I tried to smile back.
‘Are you all right, Mr Lake?’ she asked me. ‘You look a little – I don’t know. Off balance.’
‘I’m just pooped, I guess. Venice, Zurich, Stockholm, all in one day. I think my bed’s calling me, back at the Sheraton.’
Professor Olofsson shook my hand, very firmly. ‘I wish you well. I hope that you find the answers that you are looking for, and that the conclusion of your quest is not too tragic.’
‘Well, me too, professor. But between you and me, I’m not holding out too much hope of a happy ending.’
*
Margot called me at 2:35 in the morning.
‘This is my revenge for you waking me up,’ she said.
I rolled over in bed and pulled down the toggle of the bedside lamp. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I wasn’t asleep yet.’
‘What’s the matter? Insomnia?’
‘If you’d seen what I saw, you’d have insomnia, too. For weeks.’
‘Not more weirdness?’
‘You’d better believe it. The same weirdness, only worse. I’ll tell you all about when I get back to New York.’
‘You’re OK, though?’
‘Sure, I’m OK. Did you find out anything about Penumbra?’
‘Not a whole lot. They have a website but all it gives you is a few photographs of ritzy apartments, and a blurb about ‘prestige apartments worldwide … rare and distinguished rental properties in some of the most historic cities of Europe and Scandinavia … homes for international players of taste and influence.’
‘Underneath that it says “Rome – London – Stockholm – Venice – Prague.”’
‘Any contact information?’
‘There’s an email address, and a line which says ‘a wholly-owned division of Sunpath Holdings.’ But that’s all. I called my friend Gavin who works for Manhattan Realty Group. He knows everybody in property but he’s never heard of Penumbra, or Sunpath.’
‘Have you tried Googling Sunpath?’
‘Yes … but there’s nothing listed … except for some elementary school in Minnesota and a housing development in Arizona. It’s a word used by realtors to describe the position of a house in relation to the sun, but that’s about it.’
‘OK, Margot. Thanks.’
‘Listen – you’re stopping off in London, right?’
‘I’m catching the eleven o’clock flight tomorrow morning. Well – in eight and a half hours’ time.’
Will you have time to buy me some British rock candy? You know, that pink stuff with LONDON written all the way through it?’
‘You’re a kid, Margot. Did you know that?’
I put down the phone. Sunpath Holdings. I wrote it down on the Sheraton notepad beside the bed.
*
I ordered breakfast on room service the next morning, hard-cooked eggs and cheese and thin slices of salami. It was 8:00 a.m., but outside it was still dark and snow was falling into Lake Mälaren.
I watched CNN News while I dressed and drank my coffee, black with three brown sugar cubes in it. I didn’t usually take sugar but this morning I felt like I needed the energy.
Every now and then the television picture crackled and jumped. At the end of his 8:15 a.m. bulletin, weatherman Carl Parker said, ‘… apologies for all of the interference, folks … this is being caused by unusual solar flare activity … so blame the sun, not your set …’
I was standing in the bathroom, washing my teeth, before the words came together in my head. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I felt as if I was in one of those reverse zooms they do in the movies, when the background dwindles rapidly away but the character seems to be coming toward you.
Blame the sun. Solar flare activity. Sun equals sol. Path equals way.
Solway. Penumbra was owned by Victor Solway. In his arrogance, in his supreme self-confidence, he had hardly even tried to disguise it.
*
The sun was shining sharply when I arrived at 37 Wetherby Gardens. When you see London in the sunshine, you realize how grimy it is, and how gray, and how decrepit. I think it was Samuel Johnson who said that when you’re tired of London you’re tired of life, but London itself looks tired these days, a city of exhausted dreams.
I paid off the taxi and managed to work out a reasonable tip – or maybe it was too much, because the cabbie called out, ‘Cheers, mate! Cheers! Thanks a lot!’ before he drove away.
The first thing I noticed as I climbed the front steps was that there were no drapes hanging in the living room windows of the Philips’ apartment. When I reached the porch I shaded my eyes so that I could look inside. There was no furniture in the living room, either – and no paintings hanging on the walls. All I could see were bare floorboards and a half-open door leading to the hallway.
I rang the doorbell but there obviously wasn’t much point. The Philips were gone. All I could do was find myself another taxi and fly back to New York.
Halfway down the steps, however, I stopped and turned around, just to take a last look. And there she was – sitting on the right-hand window sill, watching me. The white Persian cat who may or may not have been Malkin.
Slowly, I climbed up the steps again, and confronted her.
‘What are you?’ I mouthed, even though I knew that she couldn’t hear me through the glass – and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to answer me. ‘What are you doing here? What are you trying to tell me, for Christ’s sake?’
She stared at me for a few seconds longer. Then she jumped down from the window and ran out of the living room, into the hallway, toward the kitchen.
I glanced around. There were three or four passers-by on the opposite side of the street, but none of them was taking any notice of me. Why should they – a scruffy-looking guy in a raincoat? I went back down the steps, and around to the side of the house. There was a white-painted wooden gate, but it was unlocked, and I was able to make my way along the narrow alley where the garbage bins were stored.
At the end of the alley, on the right-hand side, I came across a second gate, but this was unlocked, too. I climbed three shallow concrete steps and found myself on the Philips’ patio. I could see into their kitchen, and into the master bedroom, too. There was a double bed in the bedroom, although it had been stripped down to the mattress, and the kitchen was empty. But the white cat was sitting at the window, as if she had been expecting me.
I approached the window and hunkered down in front of her. She touched the glass with her nose, and licked her lips.
‘What are you trying to tell me, puss?’ I demanded, much louder this time. ‘Come on, Malkin – show me!’
She looked up, and so I looked up, too. In the window, I saw the reflection of a young boy, standing right behind me. I twisted around, losing my balance, so that I had to grab hold of the window frame to steady myself.
I stood up. The boy was about twelve or thirteen years old, with a short brown haircut. He was wearing a gray sweater with a school badge on it, and baggy gray pants. His face had been badly beaten. His lips were split and his cheeks were swollen, and it looked as if his jaw might have been dislocated.
But it was his eyes that shocked me the most. They were wide open, as if he were staring at me, but the irises and the pupils were milky-white, while the eyeballs around them were deeply bloodshot. His eyelids were encrusted with a transparent crystalline substance, some of which had dripped halfway down his cheeks like tears, but then solidified.
‘Daddy?’ he said, reaching out in front of him. ‘Is that you, Daddy?’
‘It’s Gideon,’ I told him. ‘Listen – I can get you some help.’
‘Is that you, Daddy?’ he repeated. ‘It hurts so much. Please tell them to stop. Please tell them not to hurt me any more.’
I gently took hold of his hands. He flinched, and tried to tug them free, but I wouldn’t let him go.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘my name’s Gideon. I’m not going to hurt you. Can you tell me your name?’
‘My eyes,’ he said, twisting his head around and around as if that might help to clear his vision. ‘They hurt my eyes. They’re burning and they won’t stop burning and I can’t see any more.’
‘Tell me your name,’ I repeated. ‘I can help you, I promise. But I need to know your name.’
He suddenly stopped twisting his head and stared in my direction, although he was blinded.
‘Giles Nicholas Philips,’ he said. ‘Thirty-seven Wetherby Gardens, London SW5. Please give them what they want. Please, Daddy. Please. Don’t let them hurt me any more. Please!’
I knew that it was far too late for me to help him, and that nobody else could help him, either. I could call for an ambulance, but they wouldn’t find anybody here.
I squeezed his fingers tight, and then I gripped his shoulder, to try and show him that I understood what he was going through, although he was plainly going through hell and how the hell could I understand that?
I left him there, on the patio, still calling for his father, and I went down the steps and closed the gate behind me. Sometimes other people’s agony is too much for us to listen to. Shit, listen to me, philosophizing. I left him because I simply couldn’t bear it any more.
As I crossed the paved front yard, the door opened and a young man in a dark business suit came out, carrying a briefcase.
‘Excuse me!’ he called out. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I – ah – not really.’
He came briskly down the steps, on very shiny black shoes. He had one of those smooth fresh faces that you see in high school photographs, still unmarked by life’s disappointments.
‘Were you looking for somebody?’ he asked me. ‘Perhaps I can help.’
‘Well, uh – I was wondering if this apartment was for rent. I’ve been looking for a base in London for quite a while, and I just happened to be walking past.’
‘It is available, as a matter of fact.’ The young man opened his briefcase and took out a business card. Keller & Watson, Letting Agents, 161 Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. ‘If you’d like to take a quick look around, I have the keys with me.’
I glanced up and I could see Malkin back on the window, watching me. ‘No, thanks. Maybe I can make an appointment. You know – bring my wife along with me. She doesn’t come over from New York until next week, but I daren’t make any kind of major decision without consulting her – if you get my drift.’
The young man smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course, Mr—’
‘Schifrin. Lalo Schifrin.’
‘Very well, Mr Schifrin. Any time you like. Just for your information, the rent is three thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds a week. Council tax on top of that, of course.’
I wasn’t very good at working out the exchange rates of small amounts of British currency, but I knew that the pound was worth about twice what the dollar was – which meant that the Philips’ apartment would have cost me nearly twenty-five and a half thousand bucks a month.
‘Sounds very reasonable,’ I nodded. ‘By the way, who owns it?’
‘Funny thing, they’re a New York company. Perhaps you know them. Penumbra.’
‘Oh, Penumbra! Sure, I’ve heard of them. Very upscale. Run by that – what’s-his-name feller.’ I paused, and waited for the young man to give me the answer. When he didn’t, I said, ‘You know. What’s-his-name? Always escapes me. Galway? Solway?’
The young man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. Mr Watson usually deals with Penumbra.’
‘Oh, well, not to worry. But thanks for your time. I’ll call you just as soon as the wife arrives in town.’
The young man shook hands, and walked off. I waited outside the house for a while, but the white cat had disappeared and I had no intention of going back to the patio to see if Giles Philips was still there, blinded or not.
I hailed a taxi. On the way back to my hotel, I sat watching London go past, sunlit and shabby, a city well past its prime. I felt exhausted. I also felt guilty – more guilty than I had ever felt before – because I had turned my back on Tilda, and Giles Philips, too. But now I had a pretty good idea of what Kate had asked me to do, and I was more determined than ever not to let her down.