‘Go ahead.’
‘Sihtunum i Diasporan,’ Jeanette says. ‘You husband is listed as a donor. What do you know about the foundation?’
Charlotte squirms. ‘All I know is that it’s a group of men who meet once or twice a year to discuss charitable projects. I think it’s mainly an excuse to drink expensive wine and exchange old memories of national service. They had a tradition of going out on the Gilah a couple of times each year. That’s their boat.’
‘You never went along?’
‘No. We were never asked if we wanted to go. It was a bit of a boys’ thing.’
‘You know that Viggo and his wife died in an accident a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Yes, I read about it. A fire on board the Gilah.’
Jeanette thinks about Bengt and Birgitta Bergman. Also killed in a fire. In what was assumed to be an accident.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill the Dürers? Or Viggo, in particular?’
‘No idea. I hardly knew him.’
Jeanette accepts that the woman is as ignorant as she claims to be. ‘So … what did you want to talk to me about?’ she goes on.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ Charlotte pauses, swallows hard and folds her arms. ‘Thirteen years ago, the year before we moved here, P-O was accused of something. He was cleared and everything got sorted out, but …’
Accused of something, Jeanette thinks, and remembers the article she had read. So it was something compromising?
Charlotte leans back against the windowsill. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m being stalked,’ she eventually says. ‘There’ve been a couple of letters.’
‘Letters?’ Jeanette can’t hold back any longer. ‘What sort of letters?’
‘Well, I don’t really know. It was odd. The first one came just after the case against P-O was dropped. We assumed it was from some feminist who was annoyed that he wasn’t charged.’
‘What did the letter say? Have you still got it?’
‘No, it was just a lot of incoherent nonsense, so we threw it away. In hindsight that was probably a silly thing to do.’
Shit, Jeanette thinks. ‘What makes you think it would have come from a feminist? What was he accused of?’
Charlotte Silfverberg sounds hostile all of a sudden. ‘You can look that up pretty easily, can’t you? I don’t want to talk about it. It’s all in the past, as far as I’m concerned.’
Jeanette realises it’s best not to upset the woman. ‘You’ve got no idea who the letter was from?’ Jeanette smiles ingratiatingly.
‘No, like I said, it could have been someone who didn’t like the fact that P-O was completely exonerated.’ She stops, takes a deep breath, then continues. ‘Last week another letter arrived. I’ve got it with me.’
Charlotte Silfverberg pulls a white envelope from her handbag and puts it on the desk.
Jeanette quickly finds and puts on a pair of latex gloves. She realises that the envelope has already been contaminated by Charlotte Silfverberg’s own fingers, as well as many more in the sorting office, but she does it out of reflex.
A perfectly ordinary white envelope. The sort you can buy in packs of ten from the supermarket.
Postmarked in Stockholm, addressed to Per-Ola Silfverberg, childish writing in black ink. Jeanette frowns.
The letter is written on a white sheet of folded A4 paper. Sold everywhere in packs of five hundred sheets.
Jeanette unfolds the letter and reads. The same printed letters in black ink: YOU ALWAYS GET CAUGHT BY THE PAST.
How original, Jeanette thinks with a sigh. She looks at Charlotte Silfverberg. ‘The phrasing seems odd. Most people would say, “The past always catches up with you,”’ she says. ‘Does that suggest anything to you?’
‘It’s not necessarily odd,’ Charlotte replies. ‘It sounds like the Danish way of saying it.’
‘You appreciate that this is evidence. Why did you wait a week before bringing it in?’
‘Well, I haven’t exactly been myself. I’ve only just summoned up the strength to go back into the apartment.’
Shame, Jeanette thinks. Shame is what always gets in the way.
Whatever Per-Ola Silfverberg was accused of, it’s something shameful.
Charlotte nods towards the letter. ‘Last week I got two phone calls. When I answered there was just silence on the line, then whoever it was hung up.’
Jeanette shakes her head. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, turning towards Charlotte Silfverberg, then picks up the internal phone and dials Hurtig using the speed dial.
‘Per-Ola Silfverberg,’ she says when Hurtig answers. ‘This morning I contacted the police in Copenhagen regarding that case against him that was dropped. Can you check if we’ve received a fax?’
Jeanette hangs up and leans back in her chair.
Charlotte Silfverberg’s cheeks are bright red. ‘I was wondering,’ she begins in an unsteady voice, then clears her throat and goes on. ‘Is it possible to get some sort of protection?’
Jeanette can see that this might be necessary. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte Silfverberg looks relieved, quickly gathers her things together and walks towards the door, as Jeanette adds, ‘I might need to talk to you again.’
Charlotte stops in the doorway. ‘OK,’ she says with her back to Jeanette, as Hurtig comes in with a brown folder. He drops it on Jeanette’s desk and goes back to his office.
The preliminary investigation into Per-Ola Silfverberg runs to seventeen pages in total.
The first thing that strikes Jeanette is that Charlotte, besides not mentioning any details about the actual case, also neglected to mention a not entirely irrelevant fact.
Charlotte and Per-Ola Silfverberg have a daughter.
Mariatorget – Sofia Zetterlund’s Office
AT NINE O’CLOCK one client who was having trouble sleeping, followed at eleven by one who was dealing with anorexia.
Sofia can hardly remember their names as she sits at her desk and glances through her notes of the sessions.
Her body feels off-kilter after the previous night’s lacuna. Her hands are cold and clammy and her mouth dry. Her condition isn’t made any better by the fact that she knows she’s about to meet Linnea Lundstr?m. In a few minutes Sofia is going to meet herself as a fourteen-year-old. The fourteen-year-old she’s turned her back on.
She arrives at the practice at one o’clock in the company of a nurse from Danderyd Hospital.
Linnea Lundstr?m is a young woman with a body and face that look considerably older than her fourteen years. She has been forced to grow up far too early, and already carries within her body a whole lifetime’s accumulated hell, which she’ll have to devote the rest of her life to learning to cope with.
After quarter of an hour Sofia is starting to realise that it’s not going to be easy.