No, Mother,
she thought,
you were wrong, that wasn’t true. I intended to finish things, but I always got ahead of myself and figured out so many different approaches, and that made you angry, you thought I was being careless. Birgitta was never careless.
She hadn’t thought of her childhood for years, so why now?
When you told us to draw a bird, Birgitta would draw a bird while I drew a forest with lots of birds and animals, making you angry; I did the wrong thing, I didn’t obey you.
More memories came back to her: her mother’s anger when they went skiing or swimming, or when they did the weekly cleaning on Saturdays. Her mother always found some reason to yell at her: if she was quick, she had done a sloppy job cleaning; if she was thorough, she had been dawdling; if her skis slipped during a cross-country run with the family, she was intentionally trying to spoil the day for everyone else; if she got up some speed, she was going too fast; if she tried to adapt her pace to the others, she was in the way.
I could never get it right
, Annika thought, amazed by the conclusion, not knowing where it came from.
It wasn’t my fault.
The words had a physical impact on her, making her fingertips tingle.
Those outbursts had nothing to do with her, her mother was the one who had a problem. Her mother couldn’t stand her own life and she had made Annika pay for her problems.
Her mouth half-open, Annika stared into space. A curtain had gone up, revealing a virgin landscape; she could see the causes and effects, the consequences and the context.
Her mother didn’t have the strength to love her. It was sad and painful, but it wasn’t anything she could change. Her mother had done her best, but she hadn’t done a very good job. The real issue was how long Annika was going to punish herself. The real issue was when she would take charge of her own life, break the vicious cycle and become an adult.
She could let Barbro boss her around and Annika could accept her role as the hopeless one, the one who spoiled things for everyone else, the one who was in the way, who never succeeded.
Her life was her own, she was entitled to have everything. Who, apart from herself, was stopping her?
Once more she began to cry. It was not a violent fit of weeping; the tears were warm and full of sorrow.
Security was a thing of the past. No one could tell that this society had been efficient a mere decade ago.
Ratko walked purposefully and quickly, his hands in his pockets. In those days this city had been known as Leningrad, and there certainly hadn’t been any of these hoodlums hanging around; whores could move freely through the streets in the middle of the night without having to worry. These days everyone, himself included, had to have eyes in the backs of their heads. The gangs were unchecked: any fucking redneck could make a career out of murder and mayhem.
Capitalism
, he thought with disgust.
This just proves it doesn’t work.
He tried to relax. Nevsky Prospekt was fairly safe. Main streets usually were. Two more blocks to go after he turned the corner at Mayakovskaya, and he would be there.
The side street was darker. He saw shapes lurking in the shadows and jogged to the other side of the street to avoid them, felt ashamed and realized that he was starting to get paranoid.
The door to the building was locked, so he gave the intercom a buzz. The lock clicked without anyone saying a word – all he did was glance up at the security camera mounted over the doorway.
The stairwell stank. On every landing there were trash cans full of garbage and junk. Strips of paint were peeling off the walls and there were heaps of plaster in the corners.
Some things never change
, he thought.
Why can’t these people keep things clean and tidy?
The top floor, no elevator. The doorbell didn’t work, so he knocked on the wooden door: it was bare, most of the paint had been worn off. It slipped open soundlessly. The inside of the door was reinforced with steel.
‘Ratko, you old bastard! I heard they were looking for you!’
His old friend from the east was fatter than ever. They embraced and kissed each other on the cheeks.
‘This calls for a celebration – break out the booze.’
Some young men scurried like rats, bringing liquor, glasses and cigarettes. Ratko accompanied his friend down the hallway with its worn velvet wallpaper, the wooden flooring under the linoleum creaking, and they went into the room at the far end and took a seat. Once the liquor had materialized, his friend told the rats to leave them.
The door closed, his friend filled the glasses, they drank and then they got down to business.
‘I need money,’ Ratko said. ‘I’ve got a big investment in the works.’
He told his friend about his plans, about how the new operation was set up, describing his customers, his contacts and his associates.
His friend listened without interrupting him, sitting on his chair with his legs wide apart and his head bowed, holding a glass in his hand.
‘I’ve got seven million Swedish kronor in cash,’ Ratko said. ‘But, as you know, I’ll need more than that to get this show on the road. I need to find the right people.’
His friend drained his glass and nodded.
‘What’s in it for us?’
Ratko smiled.
‘This industry is in its infancy. It’s going to grow like crazy. Just be in on it from the get-go.’
‘The usual terms?’
‘Of course,’ Ratko replied.
His friend wheezed asthmatically.
‘How will you get there?’
‘A direct flight to Cape Town. My Norwegian passport is red-hot; it was expensive as hell to get into the country and it will be even more expensive to get out. I have to leave tonight.’
His friend didn’t reply, didn’t move a muscle. They drank some more.
‘How much do you need?’
Once again, Ratko smiled.
THURSDAY 6 DECEMBER
T
he offices of the Swedish Association of Local Authorities had an unostentatious location a few blocks from Slussen. Thomas stared at the clean lines of the golden stucco building; this was the stronghold of power, this was where decisions were made. Making it here was his goal in life, or rather, one of his goals. He took a deep breath; his palms were damp.
Christ –
he really wanted this assignment.
The lobby was airy and light, a woman wearing a headset sat behind a window at the counter, looking busy. Thomas left his name and sat down on a sofa near the entrance, holding his briefcase. Tried to read
Metro
, but it was impossible to concentrate.
‘Thomas Samuelsson, it’s good to see you!’
He got up and tried to smile. Coming from the direction of the elevators, the director walked over to him, shook his hand and patted him firmly on the shoulder with his left hand.
‘So glad you could make it on such short notice. Ever been here before?’
The man didn’t wait for an answer. He propelled Thomas up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, out into a courtyard, and into an elevator taking them up several floors.
I’ll never find my way out of this labyrinth
, Thomas thought.
Doors slipped past, closed, open, people everywhere, talking, discussing and reading.
Bewildered, he wondered:
What do all these people do?
The two men reached the director’s office, a beautiful room on the seventh floor boasting a view of the rooftops of Hornsgatan. They sat down, facing each other, on comfortable chairs arranged around a table. A woman appeared with coffee, Danish pastries and macaroons and discreetly left the room.
Thomas swallowed and concentrated on appearing relaxed.
‘The local authorities spend more than twelve billion kronor a year on welfare payments,’ the director said as he poured coffee into two cups bearing the emblem of the association. ‘These costs increase every year, while the politicians are intent on cutting back.’
The man leaned back and blew on his coffee. Thomas met his gaze: it was intelligent and astute.
‘People who are on welfare comprise a group in society that has rock-bottom priority in the minds of local government representatives. To be totally crass, people on welfare are regarded as being tedious parasites. More than two-thirds of all politicians believe that it’s too easy to get welfare. The consequences of this have been devastating. Please help yourself, they’re nice and fresh.’
Dutifully, Thomas took a bite of a Danish. It was unbearably sweet.
‘Last year, county councils throughout the country monitored the performance of Social Services on a local basis,’ the director continued. ‘The results were depressing, and I believe we need to deal with the criticism in a constructive manner.’
The director handed Thomas a report. He opened it and began to skim through its contents.
‘To a great extent you could say that the general public perceives Social Services in a negative way: the employees are cold-hearted and lack empathy,’ the director said. ‘It’s difficult even to make an appointment. Many applicants are shut out on the doorstep or, when they call in, they’re told they don’t qualify for welfare. Since there hasn’t been a formal decree, there’s no way that they can appeal. This leads to justice being compromised in an unacceptable fashion.’
Thomas leafed through the report.
‘More and more people are humiliated by the attitude of Social Services,’ the director went on, ‘but it’s not the staff’s fault. I’m sure that most of the social workers do what they can but their workload has increased, which makes them susceptible to overextending thmselves and making mistakes. This is unacceptable.’
Thomas closed the report.
‘To be honest,’ the director said, ‘I’m pretty damn worried. We can’t seem to control stratification and segregation. On a local level we really ought to have the opportunity to turn around negative and adverse trends, but we don’t have the appropriate tools, the facts and the resources. This morning a desperate woman from Motala called me. She has taken care of her mentally retarded son full-time for ten years now, living on welfare. In October, the local authorities decided to withdraw the services of the personal assistant who helped her son, and since then she’s taken care of the boy on her own, around the clock. She couldn’t stop crying. I feel so goddamn inadequate in situations like this.’
The director passed a hand over his eyes. Thomas noted that the man’s reaction was heartfelt and genuine, and felt slightly surprised.
‘That’s got to be against the law,’ Thomas said. ‘A decision like that is subject to appeal.’
‘I tried to tell her that,’ the director said, ‘but the poor woman didn’t even have the strength to put on her clothes in the morning. Spouting the law and explaining the appeals procedure would have been like a slap in the face for her. I called the Social Emergency Service in Motala and told them about her situation. They are going to do something.’
Thomas stared at the report in his lap. Some people went through hell.
‘We’ll have to coordinate our facts and our resources,’ the director said. ‘That’s where your assignment comes in. The people who apply for welfare are treated very differently depending on where they live, the procedures a particular agency may have, and the social worker they encounter. What we need are clear-cut guidelines, a common strategy. We need to review cases on a regular basis and explore the possibilities of personal visits. In addition to all this, we need the development of team-working skills within each agency and between agencies, and we certainly need to maintain thorough documentation.’
The director sighed and smiled a little.
‘Are you our man?’
Thomas smiled back at him.
‘Absolutely.’
Annika got out of the shower, her body sore from jogging. She had forgotten how much she enjoyed running, what a kick it was to cover ground and fly. She padded across the courtyard in her robe and rubber boots and headed upstairs, her pulse surging pleasantly.
She had a hearty breakfast, made some coffee and sat down in the living room with the papers.
When she saw the front page of
Kvällspressen
, her head began to buzz.
Christ, Rebecka’s been arrested, they’ve busted her!
The Paradise story wasn’t featured on the front page today, but there was a teaser in a skybox above the header. With shaky hands Annika turned to the spread on pages six and seven. There she was: Rebecka, her face still blocked out, being taken away by three police officers.
Yes!
Annika scrutinized the picture, focusing on the details, Rebecka’s pale outfit, her dainty boots, the unkempt trees in the background, it must have been taken at the house in Olovslund. She went and got more coffee and sat down with the phone in her lap, hesitating momentarily, then dialling a direct number at police headquarters.
‘Well, what do you know?’ Q said. ‘Long time, no see.’
On her end, Annika smiled.
‘Have you had the opportunity to meet my friend Rebecka Björkstig?’
‘She loves you,’ the policeman said. ‘You really have a flair for making friends.’
Annika stopped smiling.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If what you wrote in the paper is true, maybe you’d better watch your step,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one who actually ratted on Rebecka, you know.’
‘I figured she was busy right now,’ Annika said. ‘Busy talking to you, for example.’
‘Could be,’ Q said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Is she guilty?’
‘Of what? Bad debts, changing her name, being careless with the facts when dealing with the local councils? Definitely, though it’s hard to say if any of it constitutes a crime so far. Murder conspiracy? I’m not as sure as you are.’
‘Do you know if her set-up worked at all?’
‘It did in one case: her own. She managed to get herself off the record. She’s no fool. The issue is whether she did it in good faith or if she had criminal intent.’
‘But all those different identities – doesn’t that seem fishy?’