Shadow of Fog Island

by Mariette Lindstein

  Praise for Fog Island by Mariette Lindstein

  ‘Chillingly authentic’

  Guardian

  ‘An interesting exposition of the psychology and the insidious methods that govern cults’

  Daily Mail

  ‘I loved it – tense and atmospheric, slowly drawing the reader in to a reality that is utterly terrifying’

  Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Have You Seen Her and The Perfect Couple

  ‘An intense, terrifying, and utterly believable journey into the shadowy world of cult leaders and cult members. A just-one-more-page thriller that will have you reading late into the night and holding your breath until the very end. I loved it!’

  Karen Dionne, No. 1 international bestselling author of Home

  ‘This intense thriller completely grips you from the off’

  Heat

  ‘A vivid crime novel’

  Express

  MARIETTE LINDSTEIN was born and raised in Halmstad on the west coast of Sweden. At the age of 20, she joined the Church of Scientology and worked for the next 25 years at all levels of the organization, including at its international headquarters outside Los Angeles. Mariette left the Church in 2004 and is now married to Dan Koon, an author and artist. They live in a forest outside Halmstad with their three dogs. Fog Island, her debut novel, was first published in Sweden where it won the Best Crime Debut at the Specsavers CrimeTime Awards. Mariette now dedicates her life to writing and lecturing to warn others about the dangers of cults and cult mentality. Shadow of Fog Island is the second book in the Fog Island Trilogy.

  Also by Mariette Lindstein:

  Fog Island

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

  Dublin 4, Ireland

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Mariette Lindstein 2021

  English Translation © Rachel Willson-Broyles

  Mariette Lindstein asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Rachel Willson-Broyles asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the Translation.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008245405

  Version 2020-12-11

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

  Change of background and font colours

  Change of font

  Change justification

  Text to speech

  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008245382

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  About the characters and events

  Thanks!

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The nightmare is back again. Her heart races and her skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. Her body is heavy and sluggish and she has trouble emerging from the stifling haze of sleep. But at last she yanks herself out and wakes with a gasp.

  Immediately she is lost. Something is missing, that relief when the light hits your eye, the objects in her room. Total darkness. Not a single contour or shadow. It smells like earth and mould, and there’s a draught from an open window.

  There’s something wrong with her body. A heaviness in her head and eyelids. Dizziness and nausea. Her brain is on strike; it can’t seem to get into gear. Her breath carries a dull fear, but it doesn’t quite take hold. Her mouth is itchy and her eyes sting. Her memory seems empty. She battles the void for a moment before the images return. The bed in the apartment. The wine, the drowsiness. A hand on her forehead. Relax! One word before the room seemed to dilute and vanish. A flash of sharpness much later. The shuddering and the sound of screeching gulls. A quick glance upward, and she saw fog, fog everywhere. A sting in her thigh before darkness returned.

  Her stomach sinks. Now she knows. She doesn’t want to let any more images in. Doesn’t want to understand what happened. Yet she knows. Somewhere inside, she has always feared that this is what awaited her.

  The light that streams in when the door opens gives her a spark of hope – until she hears the familiar footsteps. The scent of his aftershave floats on the air. His proximity is like a maddening itch that spreads all over her body. Then comes the impulse to get up and run, so strong that it sucks the air out of her. But she is pressed back down, a burning force against her chest. She can’t breathe. The energy drains from her muscles. Her heart pounds unevenly. Tiny black dots dance before her eyes.

  His voice is calm and friendly.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  The door closes with a hard thud.

  A bestial whine comes from her mouth. Her scream begins as a tickle on her palate, rising from her lungs, pouring from her throat like a wave, and its crescendo is so loud it is deafening.

  Then: silence, and it’s just the two of
them in the dark.

  Notes

  Jail, the Prison Service, Gothenburg

  From ash you have risen; to ash you will return.

  The phoenix burns himself on a pyre from which a new bird, younger and stronger, rises. He lives for five hundred years and then destroys himself in a magnificent ritual. He resurrects to become an even more majestic form.

  Floating high in the sky.

  His sharp eyes searching the barren landscape of Earth.

  His dazzling beauty arousing intense desire and infinite inspiration.

  Just like the phoenix, I, and everything I stand for, will rise again.

  Everything that Man seeks is here, within me.

  These thick concrete walls, the odour of detergents, the filth on the walls, and the flies in the light fixtures.

  None of this concerns me.

  It only allows me to see the possibilities I never would have imagined in my darkest dreams.

  I can move through space and time, outside this shithole, and see everything from above.

  This brief moment in captivity is only a heartbeat in the infinite pulse of eternity.

  A few months, and then I’ll be back. Stronger. More powerful.

  I already long for her.

  The faintest whiff of perfume from her skin. The strands of hair that slipped from her braid and curled down her white nape.

  Her soft jawline.

  The way the corners of her lips twitched when she was flustered. The thunderclouds that gathered in her eyes sometimes.

  The tiny yawns she couldn’t manage to suppress. And the amusing way she said ‘Yes, sir!’ without meaning it.

  All that sass I never had time to extinguish.

  I’ve always been a master at sussing out details, and the details that formed the entirety of her were irresistible. She was so delightfully artless.

  I feel my heart beating faster when I think about her.

  There is also a nagging rage, something I haven’t come to terms with. But when I do, I will project that pent-up energy onto her. I sink into that thought, and for a moment I find myself in a very dark place.

  As if I have fallen into the shadow of something ominous. But then I think of the future that spreads out before me like a dewy, shimmering spider’s web in the morning sun.

  Now I hear footsteps. High heels drumming against the concrete floor, coming closer.

  I know at once who it is.

  Another mortal being who will pass through my eternal life.

  Anna-Maria Callini.

  Oh, Anna-Maria, you haven’t the foggiest idea about my plans for you.

  Soon you will be standing there in the doorway. And I will put on my very best smile.

  Let the show begin!

  1

  Anna-Maria Callini laid out her clothes on the ottoman. Straight and neat. Blouse on top and skirt beneath. Bra on the blouse and panties on the skirt, stay-ups stretched out full-length. She set out her shoes and hung her jacket on the rack, then placed her handbag on the table. She inspected her creation for a moment, with a critical eye. A tight, steel-grey A-line skirt by Armani, a white blouse, a grey Prada jacket, and a red handbag from Louis Vuitton. Manolo Blahnik shoes with metal heels. All purchased on her most recent trip to New York, for a sum of around fifty thousand kronor. But now, in some strange way, the sight of the garments made her feel cheap. As if he would see right through this expensive façade. But at least she was prepared for the next day. She felt the stress evaporate from her body.

  She pulled down the bedspread and crawled under the covers, settling on her back with a sigh. If only she could sleep – she needed her beauty rest. As she set the alarm clock she double-checked to make sure it would go off at the right time, then turned out the light. She wanted to get the night over with and see him again. It took some battling against impatience before she managed to relax, and she let her mind wander to the first time they’d met. It lingered there. As usual. Her skin began to tingle restlessly as a throbbing rose between her legs. She slipped a finger into her panties and tried getting herself off, but not even that helped.

  She had made a fool of herself the first time they met, had gone weak in the knees and trembly, but she would see to it that this didn’t happen again. That was before she’d had the chance to ground herself ahead of the storm Franz Oswald blew into her life. Yet once again she had the aching sense that she was in the process of a change. It was a voice nagging in the back of her mind. The powerful woman who never backed down in a courtroom chiding the bimbo she transformed into in the presence of Oswald.

  It all started when she was reading the case file and caught sight of his picture among the documents. Those eyes. Sure, she had seen him in the newspapers; his image had been on almost every newsagent’s billboard. But now that she was supposed to represent him, it had become more personal.

  Even before their first meeting, she had been drawn to him like a magnet. It had continued in the car on the way to the jail: a tension headache that wouldn’t let up, a warning whisper that lingered somewhere on the periphery.

  The air was sucked from her lungs when she opened the door to the room at the jail. He was sitting there with his long legs stretched out before him. His dark hair was loose over his shoulders, lending him an Adonic look. The scent of his aftershave wafted by, overpowering the odour of cleaning agents that rose from the floor.

  She took a few steps forward, but suddenly felt weak and had to grab a visitor’s chair. Then came the moment she would later replay again and again in her mind: how the fabric of his T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders as he stood. Her eyes fastened on his body and wouldn’t come loose. She felt awkward even as an unpleasant thought struck her like lightning. Something about maintaining a professional distance with clients.

  Once she sat down, he laid it all out: how they would take this journey together. The trial, prison time if he got any, and then they would meet on a more private level. He had promised. And then, of course, there was the mind-boggling fee he had mentioned in passing, so nonchalantly. An amount that had nearly stopped her heart. She hadn’t been able to focus as her ears buzzed, sweat broke out under her arms, and her mouth turned to cotton.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘Of course, it’s just… I think I’m coming down with a cold.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Something else just happened.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do. What you’re feeling now is something you’ll never experience with another person.’

  He gazed at the dusty jail wall. She could see the gears turning in his brain. She loved it when he looked like that. So intense. As if he was about to have a brilliant idea and solve all the world’s problems.

  ‘Right, well, if we put our heads together I’m sure we can win this case,’ she managed.

  ‘Or else we’ll short-circuit it.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Aw, I’m just kidding. We’ll do just fine, obviously.’

  It was a warm, dry hand. Long fingers. His thumb fluttered against her palm like a butterfly.

  With great effort, she pulled herself together. Babbled on about how they would present the case, run that Sofia Bauman through the wringer and prove that she was an extremely unreliable witness.

  But Oswald smiled indulgently.

  ‘We’re not going to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Have you ever seen how a spider uses its web, Anna-Maria?’

  She shook her head, puzzled.

  ‘Well, it has flies and other insects all wrapped up in its silk. At first you think they’re dead, but you see, they’re only stunned. Then one moves. Pulls on a thread. And the spider, sitting at the very top of the web, rushes over. You think it’s going to eat the fly, but no. He stuns the fly again. Paralyses it. Because it’s the spider who decides when and whom to eat. Everything in the web happens on his terms. Understand
?’

  She nodded, not wanting to seem dense in front of him.

  ‘Some female spiders let their offspring eat them up to improve the odds of their line’s survival. Talk about devotion. Not like the dimwits in ViaTerra,’ he added with a chuckle.

  What he suggested then made her legs shake uncontrollably under the ugly metal table.

  It had been several years since she’d devoted any energy to a relationship. Men in smart suits were usually losers, pathetic idiots who could hardly get it up. But Franz Oswald was different. He was a man with a plan.

  A diabolical plan.

  2

  Franz Oswald was already sitting in the courtroom with his attorney when Sofia walked in. This was the moment she had been dreading. It felt like the floor had vanished from beneath her feet. Her stomach was turning, but she managed to swallow down her queasiness.

  Take a deep breath.

  The fear came less frequently these days, but when it did come it felt like a punch to the gut. She lifted her head and met his gaze. The memories hit her so hard that she had trouble taking them in. She discovered that her hatred for him was still just as strong, as she’d expected, but that the absence of hate in his eyes was disarming. He was the one to look away first, giving her the space she needed to get her legs moving so she could sit down.

  Relief washed over her in waves as she sat there, and then came the rage. God damn him. I’ve got the upper hand now.

  Elvira and Sofia were the plaintiffs in this trial. They were an odd couple. Throughout their pre-trial preparations, Elvira had had a constant stream of tears running down her face. Sofia, repressing all her emotions, gritting her teeth with bitter stubbornness, only yearned for the moment when it would all be over.

  The gallery was full. The media ate up the proceedings, favouring this tale over all sorts of other news – politics, war, and disasters alike. Each article included images of Oswald’s sober face and intense gaze. There were blogs, forum discussions, and sites for and against him. Not a day went by that the case wasn’t mentioned in the news. In the beginning, a gang of reporters had encircled her parents’ house like hyenas, in the hope that she would reveal some salacious detail about Oswald. Although she had avoided the media, they had referred to her using terms like ‘cult fanatic’ and ‘Oswald’s woman’. But she’d also been called ‘brave’ – probably a hundred times; it was an adjective beloved by journalists. Even though she had refused to give any interviews. It was too early to speak out so frankly.