Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

  Nothing like that.

  Stabbings of young men. Drunken brawls. Careless driving.

  No rapes or assaults of girls.

  Jesus.

  If it was just that Ebba was too pissed to hear her mobile, she would . . .

  Sara stopped herself. She shouldn’t start threatening Ebba in her inner monologue, not until she knew that everything was OK. But wearing those clothes . . . She should have stopped her.

  She tried calling again.

  This time her daughter rejected the call.

  Sara was furious and sent a text in all caps.

  PICK UP WHEN I CALL!

  Then it occurred to her that it might not even be Ebba who’d rejected her call. And then she felt really sick.

  The best-case scenario was that someone had stolen her mobile and that she was stuck somewhere, angry and unable to call home or for a cab precisely because her phone was missing. But the worst-case scenario was that the person who’d taken the phone had also done something to Ebba.

  Sara needed to go out. She had to find her daughter.

  Where had that party been? Hadn’t Ebba had an invitation on her desk?

  Sara tried calling her daughter yet again while she headed towards her bedroom and once again Ebba rejected her call. Or perhaps it was someone else doing it.

  At the very moment Sara opened the door to Ebba’s room, she saw her daughter put her mobile back on the bedside table, turn over in bed and start snoring. Ebba had rejected Sara’s call because she was sleeping. And she hadn’t even been woken by the first call.

  She was at home.

  The room reeked of smoke and booze, but right now that didn’t matter. Not one bit. Because Ebba was lying there in her pink nightgown, asleep. Home. Safe.

  Sara looked at the corset that had been dumped on the floor alongside the fishnets and the hot pants.

  Was it really her little Ebba who’d been wearing them? Even if it had only been for fun, it still felt very peculiar. Regardless of what you thought of the pimps and hoes theme.

  Her daughter was grown up.

  She was making her own choices.

  20

  ‘The parties.’

  He smiled to himself.

  ‘It’s the parties I remember. And all the attention you got when you were travelling around the country with Stellan. There would be thousands of them jostling to catch a glimpse of him – and maybe even speak to him or shake his hand.’

  After that final remark, he laughed – a croaking, hoarse laugh that triggered a new coughing fit. He put the tube to his mouth and inhaled.

  Lelle Rydell, a faithful old henchman, ideas guy and scriptwriter. Stellan Broman’s loyal companion through thick and thin for a couple of decades. He must have been significantly younger than Broman, and it was still possible to discern the novice’s admiration in the voice of the now-retired television man on his deathbed whenever his older mentor was mentioned.

  They were in a one-bed apartment in one of the functional design buildings between Ladugårdsgärdet and Tessinparken. Sara got the impression that he’d lived there more or less his whole working life. She’d been led to believe that the entire Gärdet and Östermalm neighbourhoods were crawling with old SVT personnel – everyone who’d been on Swedish telly in the 1960s and 1970s. Nowadays, everyone at SVT lived in Södermalm and in the southern suburbs. They would be bussed in to work on the number 76 in the same way school pupils had been bussed around the USA in the 1960s.

  ‘Did you know that Kissinger’s uncle lived in this building?’ Rydell said. He looked at her. ‘Right up until the 2000s. It said “Kissinger” down by the main door next to the buzzers. And once when he was visiting Sweden – the nephew, you know – when he was Secretary of State, there was a whole bloody motorcade of limos and police cars and motorbikes that came round here so that he could visit his uncle. The place was teeming with secret service operatives on the stairs and in the courtyard round at the back. I had to show them some ID just to get in the lift.’

  Yes, he’d clearly lived in the building for a long time.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Sara, who was unable to fully recollect what it was that had been so special about Kissinger. Something to do with Nixon or the Vietnam War. Or was it both? At any rate, she recognised the name.

  But it was Uncle Stellan she wanted to hear about.

  After some online searches and a few phone calls, she’d found this bloke Lelle, who’d been at Stellan’s side for so many years. Until now, he hadn’t said anything that might help her solve the murder. But he’d talked about ratings, letters from admirers and hypersensitive complaints to the TV ombudsman that never led to findings in favour of the complainant. She now knew a great deal about these subjects.

  And the partying.

  ‘Tell me more,’ said Sara.

  Rydell grinned.

  ‘Once, he rented the entire theme park at Gröna Lund for a wrap party. And the next year he rented the whole open-air museum at Skansen. And they once let him hire the Vasa Museum for a “sea battle”. Everyone was dressed up as pirates and beer was being served out of casks. I seem to recall that the king himself was there. I suppose that was before he had kids.’

  ‘Were there a lot of influential people at these parties? Politicians, executives?’

  ‘Anyone who was anyone. And there was us – the production team. He always took good care of his colleagues – he was truly amazing like that. Often, people who become celebrities quickly forget about their old friends and only hang out with other celebrities. But not Stellan. Jesus – he’d be standing there with some billionaire and if you walked by he’d call you over and introduce you as if you were some kind of genius.’

  Rydell looked almost teary-eyed.

  ‘It was pretty fantastic. I might be sitting there on the sofa with a government minister and some star athlete, and we’d be discussing sex positions.’

  He laughed, causing another attack of coughing before he breathed in again through the mouthpiece.

  ‘I think it was a draw,’ he added. ‘One vote for doggy style, one for missionary and one for 69. If I remember correctly.’

  Rydell was once again lost in his own memories.

  ‘Stellan basically offered you a safe place. It was awesome to see elected politicians, major artists and famous directors truly let loose. But he never lost control himself, did Stellan. Never. He was always in charge, he talked to everyone and he helped the ones who got too drunk into their taxis.’

  ‘Was his wife present?’

  ‘Agneta? Absolutely. She was an incredible host. She would introduce people to each other and made sure you always had something to drink. She would roam around smiling and making everyone feel welcome. Both Stellan and Agneta always remembered all sorts of minor details about everyone. They were able to ask after kids and grandkids, and inquire about sick wives and cabins that needed paint jobs.’

  ‘East Germany?’

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘Did Stellan ever talk about East Germany?’

  ‘No.’

  Rydell sounded surprised.

  ‘Never?’ said Sara. ‘He didn’t love or hate it? There’s nothing else that springs to mind when I say East Germany? Or the DDR?’

  ‘We had East German guests on the show sometimes. Singers. Maybe some songwriter. Oh, and there was an author that Stellan said ought to be awarded the Nobel Prize. I can’t remember his name, so I guess he didn’t get it.’

  ‘And at his parties?’

  ‘East Germans? Maybe. Don’t know. It was mostly Swedes. Celebrities and hot women.’

  ‘Was he political?’

  ‘Not one bit. I mean, he was engaged. He cared about the little person. He would get worked up about injustices. And . . . Oh, yes. Peace. He was committed to peace. If you’d call that political.’

  ‘Peace?’

  ‘Yes. Stopping nuclear war.’

  *

  ‘Yes, he was certa
inly a draw. He did a lot to get people on board.’

  Marks Olle Boo was well over eighty, but his bright blue eyes gleamed with energy even if they were rather teary. He was short and hunchbacked, but he looked as if he was fighting valiantly against the onslaught of the ageing process. His hair was bushy and white and had begun to thin, but must once have been akin to a lion’s mane; what still remained of it flowed in large waves down towards his shoulders. He was wearing khaki-coloured trousers with lots of pockets stitched down the legs – pockets that appeared to be filled with bits and bobs. And he was wearing a blue and white striped collarless shirt. His fingers were bony, but he often stretched them out in emphatic gestures. Sara had read around and discovered that Boo had been a prominent figure in the Swedish peace movement. A driving force and inspiration who’d led hundreds of protests and demonstrations, he’d been arrested by the police dozens of times and had been an invited speaker in countless television debates and current affairs shows. He showed no signs of needing to leave his tidy little flat close to Stockholm’s south station in order to move into an old people’s home any time soon. Hundreds of files and thousands of books lined the walls. There was an armchair with another stack of books beside it on the floor. Sara got the impression that Boo wasn’t just hanging on to the files as mementos – he seemed to be actively working with them. And that he would continue to do so for as long as he could.

  ‘We had a lot of so-called “celebrities” join us,’ he carried on. ‘Hasse and Tage. Sara Lidman. All sorts. And the warmongers tried to play down the peace movement precisely through dismissing us as a bunch of celebrities. As if the matter at hand was affected by the fact that you were known to the public.’

  Boo tapped his gnarled index finger on his temple to show how stupid the idea was.

  Sara was reminded of occasions when she’d seen celebrities like the ones that Boo had just mentioned at the Bromans’ home, even though there hadn’t been parties going on. They’d been serious, but exhilarated. The peace activists had almost certainly met at Stellan’s every now and then, and it was as if a piece of a jigsaw had fallen into place. As a child, she’d never understood what they were doing. They’d behaved differently compared with when they were on show.

  In fact, she was sure she recollected that even Olof Palme had been there at some time for one of those unfestive meetings . . . If so, was it a declaration of sympathy, or an informal gathering to placate the almost uncontrollable peace movement?

  ‘Do you know Eva Hedin?’ said Sara. ‘The researcher?’

  ‘I’ve got her books just over there.’

  Boo pointed towards the bookcase.

  ‘All a bit of a witch hunt, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘She seems to have some fixed idea that it’s up to her to hold criminals accountable even though no crime has been committed. A Swedish Simon Wiesenthal, but without a Holocaust.’

  ‘She’s identified Stellan Broman as a Stasi informer.’

  ‘Yes, she even goes so far as to say he’s a spy. Or at least, that’s the impression one gets.’

  ‘Did the rest of you know about that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he was helping East Germany?’

  ‘His engagement with German culture was hardly something he kept quiet. He often went there to participate in festivals and ceremonies and all sorts of official things. He was awarded medals and the like, and I think he appreciated it. But even if you have views on his somewhat vain nature, I have to emphasise that it was all German culture that he loved. He didn’t distinguish between East and West – to him they were the same people. And it was this particular issue – that he didn’t make a stand against the DDR – that some people got hung up about. The sixties and seventies – not to mention the eighties – were a very single-minded time. The Eastern Bloc was evil, and any dealings with it were evil in themselves. But nowadays, the same capitalists have a completely different perspective on China. They’re just as communist as the Soviets or the DDR, but now you can make money off the dictatorship. Big money. So suddenly it’s a good thing for democracy and transparency to trade with regimes like that. And just look at the USA – soldiers from private corporations, vice presidents who are shareholders in weapons manufacturers, presidents who are oil tycoons. We were praised by Chelsea Manning – the whistleblower – because here in Sweden we showed the world that it’s actually possible to cut military spending significantly without anything happening. But that’s not a popular view with everyone. Do you think it’s a coincidence that there are suddenly so many books coming out about the threat currently posed to us by Russia? They can’t afford to pay state pensions, but they’re planning to occupy Gotland. At the same time, we’re doing business with both China and Saudi Arabia. Not to earn money – oh, no – but to spread democracy and openness. Well, you can certainly see how well that’s gone. China hasn’t been this totalitarian since back in the days of Chairman Mao, and in Saudi they’ve got a conveyor belt of women running straight into their jails. They flog the homosexuals. More tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Herbal tea wasn’t Sara’s thing. She had only finished her cup out of politeness.

  ‘To go back to Stellan,’ she continued. It wasn’t easy to get Boo to stay on topic. ‘You don’t think, then, that he passed information to East Germany?’

  ‘What information? If an East German had asked him what the time was and he’d given them an answer, there would have been a bunch of right-wing warmongers who would have cried out “traitor”. He probably said all sorts of things, given what a good host he was. He knew everyone and was interested in everything, so of course he may have shared information that might have been purely, technically, considered classified. He would never have said anything that would cause harm to the country. He wasn’t naive. But he wanted to treat everyone equally. Anything that he might have told people from the East he would just as happily have told to people from the West. And I’m sure he did, but back then there was no one who cared about it. Such was our precious neutrality. We were sitting on America’s lap and were terrified of contact with all other countries. Africa, Asia, the Eastern Bloc. Everyone was evil except for Uncle Sam. All we wanted was to treat everyone equally. That’s why we gave our wholehearted support to peace activists in all countries – even behind the Iron Curtain.’

  ‘So he wasn’t a spy?’

  Boo shook his head. Then he took a gulp of tea.

  ‘It was all about peace for him. I don’t think he was in favour of the system in East Germany. Not at all. I imagine he said whatever it took to win the ear of the powerful. So that he could then exert influence. He considered nuclear weapons to be a terrible threat towards all of humanity, and he thought he could do something to help. By giving East Germany more attention, getting them to be accepted as an equal partner in dialogue, we could avoid war. Stellan was the least pugnacious of the lot of us. All he wanted was for everyone to be happy.’

  Sara processed her thoughts. This happy Stellan was someone she remembered. It was the official Uncle Stellan, the one seen by the Swedish people. And at home he had been an absorbed, often absent-minded father. But political Stellan had passed her by.

  ‘Did you receive any funding from East Germany?’

  Boo screwed up his eyes and almost squinted at her.

  ‘No, we never received any funding,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We might have been invited on the odd trip, but it was always to events we would have gone to anyway. Festivals, demonstrations, seminars. We barely had any money at all in the peace movement, and every penny we saved was a blessing. If we’d gone to the USA for a demonstration, we would happily have let the Yanks pay. But our beliefs weren’t for sale. We never let ourselves be bought.’

  ‘Just travel?’

  ‘And maybe a grant for the odd demonstration here or there. If we needed to rent the park at Kungsträdgården or anything like that. Lighting and sound costs. Paying the travel costs for some big name f
rom overseas. Anything that brought us attention was a good thing. Well, positive attention. We didn’t seek out scandal.’

  ‘Grants for the odd demonstration?’

  ‘Yes. We wanted to reach the people. It was five to twelve on the Doomsday Clock and we wanted to save as many as we could.’

  ‘And those grants weren’t in cash?’

  ‘No.’ Boo now looked irritated. ‘Not cash we could pocket. Not cash we could do whatever we liked with. It was to cover specific expenses, and we made it clear that they could expect nothing in return, because otherwise we wouldn’t have accepted so much as a penny.’

  ‘But you accepted quite a lot of pennies.’

  ‘I don’t know how old you are or what age you were when the Wall fell. But it wasn’t Reagan and his Star Wars programme that brought the Wall down. It was our friends. The dissidents. The people protesting against nuclear weapons on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Normal, peace-loving Germans.’

  ‘And you happened to accept funding from just those particular oppressors?’

  *

  Fred Dörner was almost six foot six, had curly white hair and wore small spectacles. He had big bags under his eyes. He lived in a one-bed ground floor flat in Farsta. He had a chunky old-style TV and an old IKEA sofa and his bookcase was stuffed with biographies. When he spoke about Stellan Broman, there was something that came alive in his gaze.

  ‘He invited me to one of his parties. At first I wondered why, but there were other people there from the public sector – senior civil servants and political types – so I assumed I was there as a representative of the more . . . academic species of civil servant. He liked to have a real mix.’

  ‘What did you work on?’

  ‘FMV. The Defence Materiel Administration. I worked on major weapons systems.’

  ‘Wasn’t that classified?’

  ‘Yes, but since I was a refugee from the DDR and a committed anti-communist, I was probably considered reliable. During the Cold War, it was often all about mutual enemies.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was a . . . honeytrap. I gather that’s what it’s called. You’re tempted with sex and then you’re blackmailed.’