On every level.
He glanced up at Grevegatan. He had been born just near there, at an impeccable address. He could hear the Hedvig Eleanora church bells from his nursery. He was born into an industrial family. His father and uncle had founded the firm. Adolf and Viktor. The Magnuson Brothers. They had built up a small but strong mining company, had an excellent nose for minerals and gone from small local quarries to international mining. Over the years, they had put the family company on the world map and provided Bertil with a springboard of a share portfolio out into the business world.
Bertil had his own ideas. He had bold visions. He helped to manage the family company but at the same time saw that there were completely different markets to exploit apart from the traditional ones. The ones the brothers upheld.
Exotic markets.
Difficult markets.
Which meant wheeling and dealing with all manner of autocratic potentates. People with whom the brothers would never have mixed. But times change and fathers and brothers die. As soon as Adolf and Viktor were buried, Bertil started a subsidiary.
With the help of Nils Wendt.
The extremely gifted Wendt. One of the musketeers. A genius when it came to prospecting and mineral analyses and market structures. All the things that Bertil was less good at. Together, they became industrial pioneers in numerous parts of the world. Asia. Australia. And above all: Africa. Until things went wrong and Wendt suddenly vanished, because of something extremely unpleasant that Bertil had repressed since then. Sublimated. Transformed into a non-event.
But Nils Wendt hadn’t done that.
Evidently.
Because it must have been Nils who had phoned and played that recorded conversation. There was no other possible explanation.
Bertil was convinced of that.
When he had walked as far at the bridge over to Djurgården, he had silently formulated his first question: what the hell was Wendt after? And his second question: more money? And just as he was about to formulate his third question: where is he?, his mobile rang again.
Bertil held it in front of him, or down by his thigh, people were coming and going all around him, many of them with dogs, it was that sort of pathway. He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.
Without saying anything.
Silence.
‘Hello?’
It was Erik Grandén. The busy tweeter who had hoped to find a barber in Brussels. Bertil immediately recognised his voice.
‘Hello, Erik.’
‘Congratulations on your award!’
‘Thank you.’
‘How was the king? On good form?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice, nice. Having an after-party now?’
‘No, I… we’ll do that this evening. Did you find a barber?’
‘Not yet, the one I wanted was busy. Strange. But I’ve been tipped off about a salon that I hope I can find time to call in at before the morning plane. I’ll be in touch over the weekend! Say hello to Linn!’
‘Thanks. Bye.’
Bertil hung up and thought about Erik. Grandén. The third musketeer. A big player too, in his own field. With a gigantic contact web in Sweden as well as abroad.
‘Put him on the board.’
It was actually Bertil’s mother who had said that, after his father had died, when Bertil described his friend Erik’s tentacles which reach out everywhere.
‘But he doesn’t know anything about mining,’ Bertil said.
‘You don’t either. What you can do is to surround yourself with people who do know. The right people. You are good at that. Put him on the board.’
The second time she said it, Bertil realised that it was an absolutely brilliant idea. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? You don’t see the wood for the trees. Erik had been too close, both as a friend and a musketeer. Of course Erik should sit on the board of MWM.
And so it became.
Erik found himself on the board. A bit of a case of helping a friend, on Erik’s part, to start with. But since, over the years, he had bought quite a hefty number of shares in the company, he could just as well take a little responsibility for it too. He could always pull a few strings that Bertil couldn’t get at. He was, after all, Erik Grandén.
And so it went on, for many years, until Erik had advanced to such a high level in the political world that a post on the board became rather sensitive. In a private company. One which, besides, was subject to rather a lot of criticism in the media.
So he resigned.
Now they dealt with what needed to be dealt with in private. It was less sensitive like that.
It looked from outside as if they were just good friends.
Up till now.
Erik had no idea about the recorded conversation and its origin. If he were to find out about that, then the bonds of the three musketeers would be put under extreme pressure.
On a political level too.
* * *
It was approaching seven in the evening. Jelle had managed to sell three magazines. In four hours. That wasn’t many. A hundred and twenty kronor, of which he would get sixty. An hourly rate of fifteen kronor. But he could buy a can of fishballs. He didn’t actually like fishballs that much, it was the lobster sauce he was after. He wasn’t especially interested in food in general, never had been, even during periods when he could have treated himself to this or that. For him, food was nourishment. If there was no food, then you had to acquire nourishment some other way. That was possible, too. It wasn’t food that was his foremost problem, it was a place to live.
He had his wooden shack by Jarla Lake, but that was beginning to get on his nerves. Something had got into the very walls of that place. Something that made its presence felt as soon as he entered. That made it harder and harder to sleep there. The walls have heard too many screams for far too long, he thought, it’s time to move.
If ‘move’ was the right word. You move from a flat or a house, you don’t move from a bare shed without any fittings. You leave it.
He was going to leave it.
That’s what he was thinking about now. To where? He had kipped down at various places round about town, sometimes at a hostel, but that wasn’t his cup of tea. Arguments and drunkenness and people high on drugs and staff who wanted you out of the place by eight in the morning latest. He had given up on that. He must find something else.
‘Hi, Jelle! You look like you styled your hair with a hand grenade.’
One-eyed Vera was walking towards him with a big smile, pointing as his tousled hair. She had sold all her thirty magazines at Ringen and now she was here. At the Söder market hall by Medborgarplatsen. A pitch that Jelle had taken over the other day. Benseman wasn’t here, after all. A good pitch, he thought. Three magazines today rather contradicted that.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘How are you doing?’
‘So-so… three magazines.’
‘I sold thirty.’
‘That’s good.’
‘How long do you plan on standing here?’
‘Don’t know, I’ve still got some left.’
‘I can buy them.’
Sellers sometimes bought copies off each other, to help a colleague. For the same price as they had bought them. Hoping for better luck themselves. So Vera’s offer was perfectly reasonable.
‘Thanks, but I…’
‘A bit too proud for that, aren’t you?’
‘Possibly.’
Vera gave a little laugh, and put her arm under Jelle’s.
‘Pride won’t fill your belly.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You’re cold.’
Vera had felt Jelle’s hand. And it was actually rather cold, which was a bit strange, it must have been more than 20 C outside. His hand oughtn’t to be cold.
‘Did you sleep in that shack last night again?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long can you cope with that?’
‘Don�
�t know.’
There was silence. Vera looked at Jelle’s face and Jelle looked at the Söder market hall, and the seconds turned into a minute or two. Then Jelle looked at Vera.
‘Is it okay if I…’
‘Yes.’
They didn’t say any more. They didn’t have to say any more. Jelle picked up his worn little rucksack, put his bundle inside, and off they went. Side by side, each of them in a world of their own, already moving on in their thoughts. Towards the caravan, and what it would be like there.
And if you walk along absorbed in your own thoughts, you hardly register the fact that a couple of young men in dark hooded jackets are standing over by Björns Trädgård staring at you. You don’t even notice if they start to walk in the same direction as you.
* * *
The red terraced house in Rotebro was built in the mid-Sixties. The Rönning family were the second owners, so far. It was a nice compact house, well cared for, situated in a quiet cul-de-sac in an area with the same type of houses everywhere. Olivia had grown up here, as an only child, but the whole place had been crawling with playmates. Now most of them were on their way into adult life and on their way into other residences. In other places. Now it was mostly parents who lived here, on their own.
Like Maria.
Olivia saw her through the kitchen window when she came up the drive. Her mama, the defence lawyer, with her Spanish ancestry, the woman with the quick tongue who was always correct, and whom her papa had loved most of all in the world.
And she had loved him, as Olivia understood. Their home had always had a calm and sensible atmosphere, very rarely any rows. Arguments, disagreements, endless discussions, but never anything nasty. Never anything that could make itself felt inside a child’s tummy.
She had always felt safe at home.
And felt seen. At least by Arne, or perhaps most by him. Maria was as she was. Perhaps not a touchy-feely mum, but always there when needed. When you were ill, for example. Like now. Then mama was there, ready to care for her, and with prescriptions and instructions.
It had its advantages.
‘What are we going to eat?’
‘Garlic chicken special.’
‘And what is the special bit?’
‘What isn’t in the recipe. Drink this,’ said Maria.
‘What is it?’
‘Hot water, ginger, a little honey, and a couple of drops of something secret.’
Olivia smiled a little, and drank it. What was the secret? Did she notice a trace of mint through her runny nose? Perhaps. She felt how the warm soothing drink was gladly welcomed by her mangled throat, and thought: mama Maria.
They had sat down at the white dining table in the well-polished kitchen. Olivia could still be surprised by how her mother had embraced the Scandinavian way of decorating a home. There wasn’t the slightest sign of fiery colours. Everything was white and sober. As a teenager, she had revolted for a while and made them let her have a strong red colour on the walls in her room. Now it had been changed back to a considerably more low-key beige shade.
‘So, what was it like on Nordkoster?’ Maria asked.
Olivia told her a censored version of her visit to the island, a very censored version. One that excluded everything important, in fact. And then she ate, and drank some good wine. Fever and red wine? Olivia had wondered when Maria poured. But Maria didn’t think like that. A bit of red wine was always right.
‘Did you and dad ever talk about the Nordkoster case?’ said Olivia.
‘Not that I recall, but you had only just been born so there wasn’t much discussing.’
Did she sound a bit disappointed? No, shame on you Olivia, pull yourself together!
‘Are you going to be busy with that all summer?’ asked Maria.
Is she worried about the holiday house now? Masking tape and paint scraper?
‘I don’t think so, I’m just going to check a few things and then write something.’
‘What are you going to check?’
Since Arne died, Maria had rarely had a chance to sit at the kitchen table with a good wine and discuss legal cases. In effect, never. So now she took the chance.
‘There was a girl on the island when the murder took place, Jackie Berglund, and I’m rather curious about her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she and some Norwegian men disappeared from the island straight after the murder, on a boat, and I thought their interrogations lacked in substance.’
‘You think they might have known the victim?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You mean she might have been on the boat from the beginning?’
‘Yes, perhaps. This Jackie was a call girl.’
‘Ah…’
‘Ah what?’ Olivia wondered. What did she mean by that?
‘The victim might have been a call girl too,’ Maria went on.
‘I was thinking along those lines.’
‘Then you ought to talk to Eva Carlsén.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘I saw her on a current affairs programme on TV yesterday, she has written a report about escort activities, looking back but also at current times. She seemed to be a very competent woman.’
‘Like you,’ Olivia thought, and memorised the name Eva Carlsén.
Her stomach was filled to the brim, and she was a little unsteady on her feet, which forced her to take a taxi which Maria would pay for. Now she was feeling much better. In fact so much better that she almost forgot to ask what she had intended from the very first.
‘That investigation on Nordkoster was led by a detective called Tom Stilton, do you remember him?’
‘Tom, oh yes!’
Maria smiled a little, standing there inside the gate.
‘He was very good at squash. We played a few times. He was handsome too, a bit of George Clooney about him. Why do you ask that?’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him, it seems that he has left the force.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I remember that, it was a couple of years before dad died.’
‘Do you know why?’ asked Olivia.
‘Why he left?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. But I remember that he got divorced at around the same time, Arne told me about it.’
‘From Marianne Boglund?’
‘Yes, how did you know that?’
‘I’ve met her.’
The taxi driver suddenly got out of his car, presumably as a sign to her to hurry up. Olivia took a quick step towards Maria.
‘Bye, mum, and thanks a ton for dinner and medicine and wine and everything!’
Mother and daughter hugged each other.
* * *
It was an ordinary hotel in Stockholm. The Oden, on Karlbergsvägen, mid-range, with ordinary rooms. This particular one consisted of a double bed, some generic graphic works, a TV against a light grey wall. The news programme was just broadcasting a special report in connection with the announcement of the mining company MWM having been named the Company of the Year. Behind the studio reporter there was a picture of the managing director Bertil Magnuson.
The man who sat on the edge of the double bed had just showered. He was half-naked, a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair still wet. He turned up the sound.
‘The mining company MWM has been named Swedish Company of the Year Abroad, which has led to strong reactions among environmental and human rights activists in Sweden as well as other countries. Over the years, the mining company has been criticised for its connections to countries with corrupt regimes and dictators. As early as the 1980s, when the company started activities in the then Zaire, criticism was harsh. The company was accused of having bribed its way to good relations with President Mobutu, which the prize-winning journalist Jan Nyström – among others – was investigating when he was tragically killed in an accident in 1984. But today too MWM’s methods are questioned. Our reporter Karin Lindell is now in Eastern Congo.’
The man
on the bed leant forward a little. The towel around his hips slipped down to the floor. All his attention was directed at the TV report. A woman reporter appeared on a screen behind the studio reporter. She was standing in front of a fenced-in area.
‘Here in the Northern Kivu province in Eastern Congo is one of MWM’s complexes for mining coltan, also known as the grey gold. We aren’t allowed inside the area, soldiers guard the entrance, but the population in Walikale has told of the horrific working conditions found here.’
‘There are rumours of child labour in the actual mining area, is that true?’
‘Yes. That, and also physical attacks on the local population. Unfortunately nobody dares be interviewed in front of a camera, they are afraid of reprisals. One woman put it like this: “If you’ve been raped once, then you’re not going to protest again.”’
The naked man on the bed reacted. With one hand he gripped the bedspread tightly.
‘You called coltan the grey gold, what did you mean by that?’
Karin Lindell held up a bit of grey rock to the camera.
‘This looks like a worthless bit of rock, but it is coltan. The element tantalum can be refined from this, and tantalum is one of the most important components in modern electronics. For example, tantalum is used in circuit cards in computers and mobile telephones the world over. It is thus an extremely valuable mineral, which has been illegally mined and smuggled for many years.’
‘But MWM’s coltan mining in the Congo is hardly illegal surely?’
‘No. MWM is one of the few companies that still has its old concession to mine, they got that from the earlier dictatorship.’
‘So what are the critics saying?’
‘They are against child labour and physical abuse plus the fact that nothing of what they mine actually benefits the Congo. It is all taken out of the country.’
The studio reporter turned towards the picture of Bertil Magnuson showing in the background.
‘We have the managing director of MWM, Bertil Magnuson, with us via telephone. What are your comments on these reports?’
‘First, I think there is an unnecessarily hard tone in the report, and it is extremely tendentiously biased. I can’t sit here and comment on the facts. I would just like to emphasize that our company is a long-term and responsible player in the raw materials sector, and I am convinced that the economic benefit of responsibly developed natural resources is of great importance for lessening poverty in this region.’
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