The Final Word

by Liza Marklund

  Annika clicked to the personal information section. Birgitta hadn’t mentioned that she’d moved to Malmö.

  The sign at the end of the carriage lit up: next station Kastrup.

  People around her gathered their belongings, closed cases, checked their passports and tickets. The train slowed and stopped. The man beside her groaned and got to his feet.

  She stayed where she was.

  The carriage was quiet once most of the passengers had got off, and the train stood at the platform for another minute or so, as a breeze that smelt of warm rubber swept through the open doors. The floor of the carriage rumbled and vibrated.

  The doors closed.

  She knew nothing about Birgitta and Steven’s relationship, not even how they had met. She had already moved away, leaving Hälleforsnäs behind her, and Sven was dead. She had met Steven just once, on that night when he and Birgitta had missed the last train after a Rammstein concert. They had both been seriously drunk, and Steven had dozed off on Annika’s sofa. Birgitta had pleaded with her to leave him alone, or he’d get angry. Halenius had got them out of the flat by saying he was a police officer, which had had a sobering effect on Steven. The situation had told Annika that her sister was frightened and her brother-in-law some sort of criminal, but that was hardly an objective interpretation.

  Was she confusing herself with Birgitta? Did she see an abuser in every man who couldn’t hold his drink?

  The sky broadened and the waters of Öresund surrounded her, sky and sea a vast expanse of blue, with just a narrow strip of mainland on the horizon. She could make out blocks of flats, roads and a power station, presumably Barsebäck – but that had closed down, hadn’t it?

  The boundary between Denmark and Sweden was around here – maybe she was crossing it at that very moment. She looked out over the water and let her thoughts run free.

  Birgitta had visited her flat on Södermalm twice, when she’d dropped off and picked up Destiny, her daughter, at either end of her trip to Oslo to look for work. She had seemed tired, and there was an edginess that Annika recognized from herself but had never seen in her sister before. Birgitta, who had always loved nice things, had looked at the crystal chandelier, the paintings and the hand-woven rug on the living-room floor and said, ‘Clever Annika and her lovely job. Now she’s got the perfect home too.’

  The only thing she knew about Steven was that he had never had a proper job and was on sickness benefit, but did undeclared building work, which wasn’t unusual in dying industrial communities.

  Her eyes fell on a sloppily folded newspaper on the seat opposite, a copy of the early edition of the Evening Post. She reached for it and turned to pages six and seven. The spread was dominated by her interview with Kjell Lindström. They had chosen to focus on his comment that Gustaf Holmerud’s convictions were a miscarriage of justice. The police thought they knew who had killed Josefin but the night editors had played that down: it was in the article, but not the headline. From a news perspective, she could hardly object – a fresh mass murderer was more interesting than a girl who had been dead for fifteen years – but it still rankled.

  A wrecked boat appeared in the water just to the right of the bridge. Annika gasped and dropped the paper. It was a fishing-boat, which had run aground and toppled over. She sat up higher to get a better view. The hull, navy blue and white, had split open, and the mast was gone. She glanced around, but the remaining passengers were staring down at their phones or blankly at the sky. That boat must have been there for a long time, she thought. A familiar tragedy aroused neither alarm nor fear.

  Embarrassed, she picked up her phone again and went back to Facebook. Birgitta Bengtzon hadn’t posted any updates all year. When she lived in Hälleforsnäs she had been fairly active on Facebook. Why had she stopped?

  The train halted at the first station on the Swedish side – or the last, depending on where you were going.

  Her mobile buzzed: Kalle, wondering if he really had to go to Dad’s that evening. Guilt flared inside her, sharp and irrational: no matter what she did, someone was always disappointed. As the train pulled away she sent a reply to Kalle, explaining that these were his dad’s days, that was what had been arranged. ‘But I’ll see you at Sophia’s later,’ she wrote, adding a cheerful smiley at the end.

  She sat back and let herself be jolted along as the train entered a tunnel.

  It stopped at Triangeln Station, blasted into a huge cavern in the rock, all stone and concrete, a world of varying shades of grey.

  A mother with a little girl got on and settled down next to Annika, the woman glancing at Annika’s coffee-stained top. The child was blonde and blue-eyed, and looked a bit like Destiny.

  ‘Hello,’ the little girl said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Annika. What’s yours?’

  The little girl hid her face against her mother’s arm, as the woman tapped at her mobile.

  Destiny must have grown a lot by now. She was about the same age as this child, almost three. The last time Annika had seen Birgitta, her sister had implied that there was something wrong with her daughter, that she was a slow developer. That ought to have become more apparent now, if it was true.

  Four hours and fifteen minutes until her plane took off.

  The train rolled into Malmö Central Station. She stood up, clambered past the mother and daughter, and the little girl waved as she got off. The mother didn’t look up from her phone.

  She went up a long escalator to the station building. In contrast to the granite and concrete stations, it was old and warm, light and beautiful, red bricks and painted ceiling. Shops and cafés lined the passageway that led to the various platforms, warm air pouring out of the open doors. She stopped in the middle of the gangway and people streamed past her, everyone on their way somewhere. She felt suddenly dizzy so she went into a café, ordered coffee, then sat down at a table and took out her phone. She pulled up a map of Malmö and looked for Branteviksgatan 5, and a branch of MatExtra supermarket in a place called Värnhem, Birgitta’s home and work.

  She found them straight away. Branteviksgatan was in Östra Sorgenfri, which sounded familiar. Wasn’t that where Zlatan Ibrahimovic´ was from? The ‘hooligan from Sorgenfri’: wasn’t that what he was called as a child? Värnhem was a square that seemed to be a hub for local traffic, and MatExtra was located in a shopping centre alongside. It looked as if it was within walking distance, almost directly south-east from the station.

  She drank her coffee.

  It wasn’t against the law to leave home. Adults were allowed to come and go as they pleased. Maybe Birgitta did want to be left alone for a while.

  She sent a message to Nina Hoffman, to see if she’d heard anything about the tracing of Birgitta’s phone.

  But there was another reason too, one that lurked in the back of every editor’s mind: the person who appeared in the local press calling for information about someone who was missing was usually the one who had killed them.

  Life was so fragile that killing someone was simple. Suddenly she could feel the iron pipe in her hand, cold and rough, the flakes of rust.

  She rubbed the palm of her hand on her jeans and finished her coffee.

  The wind outside the station was hard and hot. She crossed a canal and entered part of the city that felt medieval, low buildings with heavy façades, windows that seemed to bow in the sun. She passed squares lined with half-timbered buildings, and came to a row of clothes shops. She went into H&M, bought a new T-shirt and threw the old one away.

  She crossed another canal and found herself in Rörsjöstaden, with taller, more ornate buildings, and boulevards lined with chestnut trees.

  Birgitta’s childhood dreams had been very grand: she was going to be a princess, a prima ballerina, Madonna. She liked lace and tulle and pretty colours, was frightened of the dark, rats and spiders, so perhaps this place suited her. She used to paint watercolour landscapes that Mum loved, and portraits of Annika and their mother and grandmothe
r that were stuck to the fridge door with magnets. Annika remembered the conflicted feeling of pride and envy that the pictures aroused, her astonishment that Birgitta could create something so beautiful and real.

  Her sister would have enjoyed painting this avenue – it was certainly clichéd and grand enough. The sun filtered through heavy treetops, forming flickering patterns on the path beneath her feet. At the far end there was an ornate church with showy turrets and pinnacles, as ostentatious as a castle in a fairy tale.

  Annika quickened her pace, feeling a little giddy from the heat.

  At Värnhemstorget, the character of the city changed: it was now concrete slabs, rumbling buses and diesel fumes. A group of down-and-outs were having an argument about a bottle of schnapps, and Annika looked the other way as she passed them.

  ‘APOLOGIES FOR THE MESS: WE’RE REBUILDING’, said a sign on the revolving door. Annika was funnelled through with four women in full-length niqabs.

  The shopping centre was the cheaper sort, a long passageway of plaster walls and low ceilings, brown paper stuck to the inside of shop-windows. The MatExtra supermarket lay some way into the complex, with a lottery booth and letterbox by its entrance. The row of checkouts led directly onto the passageway. Only half of them were open, but the queues were short. This was where Birgitta worked.

  Annika stopped in the passageway and studied the cashiers. Four were young women, two middle-aged. They were wearing matching red blouses with the store’s logo on the back, scanning items with expressionless faces, handing back change and tapping instructions for debit cards.

  The cashier closest to Annika switched off her conveyor-belt, then got up from her chair and hooked a chain across the gap between her and the next checkout. Annika went up to her. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘my name’s Annika Bengtzon. My sister works here, Birgitta.’

  The woman had her arms full of moneybags. She was young, twenty-five at the most, with glossy dark hair and heavily made-up eyes.

  ‘I need to get hold of her,’ Annika said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I have to put the money away,’ the young woman said.

  Annika saw the tiredness in her eyes, the heaviness in her arms after a long shift, and suddenly it was her mother standing there, her arms laden with food she had brought home from the shop. Just peel the potatoes, Annika, don’t be so bloody lazy.

  ‘Do you know if Birgitta’s working today?’

  ‘Birgitta’s left,’ the woman said, taking a step back.

  ‘When?’

  The cashier’s eyes glinted. ‘You’re not a bit alike.’

  A flash of irritation. Of course we are. It’s just that Birgitta is fair and I’m dark. ‘Do you know where I can get hold of her?’ Annika asked. She forced herself to smile.

  The young woman looked at her watch. ‘Come with me to the office,’ she said. She turned on her heel and walked off towards the greengrocery, and Annika hurried after her. The young woman stopped beside an unmarked door fitted with a coded lock. ‘Wait here,’ she said.

  Annika was left standing outside next to a wooden crate full of new potatoes from Holland. A minute or so later the cashier returned. The air smelt of soil. ‘Why do you want to get hold of Birgitta?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. ‘Has something happened?’

  Her accent was more Västergötland than Skåne.

  Annika took a deep breath and forced herself to stand still. ‘I didn’t know she’d stopped working here. When did she leave?’

  ‘Two weeks ago. It came out of the blue – she just texted Linda. I didn’t even know she’d applied for a new job. She hadn’t mentioned it. Pretty shitty, if you ask me, you can tell her that from me. She could have called in to say goodbye and all that.’

  Annika was rooted to the spot. ‘A new job? Do you know where?’

  ‘Another supermarket, Hemköp at Triangeln. She could have let us know she’d got a permanent job. People usually get cake for everyone when they leave . . .’

  So Birgitta had got a permanent job. Not even their mother knew that. If Barbro had known, she would have phoned Annika at once and crowed about how well Birgitta was doing, how clever and appreciated she was. Or would she? After all, she’d never mentioned that Birgitta and Steven had moved to Malmö. Why had she kept quiet about that?

  ‘And Linda is?’

  ‘Our boss. Okay, so Birgitta was only a temp, but you should still hand your notice in properly, I reckon.’

  ‘Is your boss here?’

  The young woman shook her head. ‘She’s opening up tomorrow. So what’s happened?’

  ‘How long had Birgitta been working here?’ Annika asked.

  The young woman tilted her head. ‘She started last autumn, doing odd shifts. Then at the end she was filling in for Fatima, who’s on maternity leave. Are you really her sister?’

  Annika shuffled her feet, feeling stifled by the smell of potatoes. ‘Elder sister,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while since we were in touch.’

  ‘Birgitta never mentioned that she had a sister.’

  ‘Do you know her well?’

  The young woman shrugged. ‘Birgitta was Linda’s favourite. She told her she’d get the next permanent job, even though there were others who’d been here longer.’ The cashier pulled a face that said she was one of them.

  ‘Elin, come in and close the door. The alarm’s gone off!’ someone called, from the inner reaches of the store.

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘If Birgitta gets in touch,’ Annika said, ‘can you ask her to call me?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? What is it that’s so important?’

  ‘Just tell her I got her messages,’ Annika said.

  The cashier gave a disappointed shrug and disappeared. The door closed with an electronic click.

  Annika remained where she was, relieved. Birgitta was changing her life. She was no longer relying on the favours of workmates but teaming up with her boss and aiming for permanent employment. Leaving her loser of a husband and creating a new life full of responsibility and success. Maybe she was looking for somewhere new to live as well, and as soon as she’d found a decent flat she’d fetch Destiny. She just wanted to get everything sorted out before getting in touch.

  Annika left the supermarket and hurried along a grimy passageway as she called Directory Enquiries and asked to be put through to the Triangeln branch of Hemköp in Malmö. The call was answered by a receptionist with a thick Skåne accent.

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of one of your employees,’ Annika said. ‘Her name is Birgitta Bengtzon. Is she working today?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Birgitta Bengtzon, she—’

  There was a loud noise in the background.

  ‘I can’t put you through to any of the cashiers.’

  A tiny glimpse of progress.

  ‘So she is working today?’

  ‘I don’t know. Has she got a mobile?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘If it’s urgent, you’d better call her on that.’

  The call was disconnected. She looked round, trying to get her bearings. She found Triangeln Hemköp on the map on her mobile. It was next to the railway station so she could look in on her way back to Kastrup.

  A bus on its way to Bunkeflostrand pulled up with a belch of fumes at the stop in front of her. Two of Malmö’s more unfortunate citizens had fallen asleep on a bench, a scruffy German shepherd sitting next to one, panting. An empty schnapps bottle lay on the ground. The bus set off with a bestial roar.

  She dropped her phone into her bag and started walking towards Birgitta’s home in Östra Sorgenfri, trying to make sense of the sequence of events. According to Steven, Birgitta had gone off to work as usual on Sunday, but hadn’t come home. According to her workmate, she had left her job two weeks ago. She had asked Annika for help first thing on Sunday morning when, according to Steven, she had been at home, and would soon have been setting off to work.


  One thing was clear: Steven was lying.

  There was a large cemetery ahead of her, neatly maintained graves stretching as far as she could see, granite stones, raked gravel paths.

  Just to be on the safe side she tried calling Nina Hoffman, but there was no answer. She sent a quick text: Hi, I’m on my way to see Steven and wondered if you’ve heard anything I can pass on to him. I’ll call later. Annika.

  Now Nina knew where she was.

  She walked along beside the cemetery fence and looked across the gravestones. Such a short time we are alive, and such a long time dead.

  Birgitta could have gone missing two weeks ago, but for some reason Steven had kept quiet about it until this Monday. He could have sent that text from Birgitta’s mobile, or forced her to send it,

  Maybe she hadn’t left home at all. Maybe Steven was holding her captive in the flat. Perhaps she wanted a divorce or to move home to Hälleforsnäs. The critical moment is when the woman says she’s leaving.

  Behind a wooden fence she could hear laughter and children playing. The sun was blazing as she crossed a main road and found herself among three-storey yellow-brick buildings. She could smell freshly cut grass, and some boys were playing football. She walked quickly along a footpath. Two girls with lollipops in their mouths cycled past her. She ought to be there by now, and she stopped outside a library to check the map. To her surprise, she found that she had wandered into Rosengård, Sweden’s most notorious ghetto, the housing estate that the Danes used to scare their kids.