The Final Word

by Liza Marklund

  If Birgitta had come here in secret, without telling her mother or her husband, where would she go? What would she have done here? Why was it such a secret?

  She drove back towards the works, again avoiding looking at the turning to Tallsjön, and let the car roll past the grey factory buildings towards the discount store. Her family had toiled there for generations, possibly since the works were established in the 1600s. When her father had started there were more than a thousand employees, and when he had died, they were down to a hundred or so. The number had kept shrinking until it sank below ten, and now the ironworks had been shut down for years. Other enterprises had moved into the premises, the Kolhus Theatre and a museum, various artists’ groups, and now the discount store. The manor house, all one thousand square metres of it, had been sold a few years ago for the same price as a three-room flat on Södermalm. She could just see the crenellated façade beyond the theatre.

  She parked the car behind an old Volvo, took her bag and went inside the building. The store was called Warehouse 157. It was poorly lit, but the ceilings were high and the cement floor had been polished. Displays of cut-price clothing stretched as far as she could see.

  She took out her mobile and pulled up the photograph of Birgitta sitting on the terrace, her hair fluttering in the wind as she smiled at the camera, and headed towards the checkouts. Only one of the six tills was open. A woman of Annika’s age, her hair in a ponytail, was sitting there reading a magazine.

  ‘Hello,’ Annika said. ‘Sorry to bother you, but can I ask you something?’

  The woman looked up. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Did they know each other? Annika stopped, uncertain.

  ‘Annika Bengtzon!’

  Annika took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. So who was the woman? ‘Hello,’ she said feebly.

  ‘Are you back?’ the woman asked.

  Who was she? No one from her class, maybe the year above, or below. ‘Only for the day,’ Annika said. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Hey,’ the woman said, ‘I heard about your husband. God, that was rough.’

  The penny dropped. Helene Bjurstrand. That was her name. From the parallel class.

  ‘I mean, kidnapped by terrorists,’ Helene Bjurstrand said. ‘Awful.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Annika said.

  ‘You don’t think something like that could happen to anyone you know,’ the woman said.

  Oh, so she knew Thomas, did she?

  ‘Do you remember my sister, Birgitta?’ Annika asked.

  She held out her mobile with the Facebook picture, but Helene Bjurstrand didn’t look at it. ‘Of course I do. She moved to Malmö last autumn.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Annika said. ‘You haven’t seen her recently? In the last week or so?’

  The woman took the phone and looked at the picture. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I haven’t seen Birgitta since she moved. How are they getting on down there?’

  ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ Annika said. ‘Do you know if anyone else has seen her lately?’

  ‘If anyone has, it would be Sara. Sara Pettersson.’

  ‘Does she still live on Tallvägen?’

  Helene Bjurstrand sighed. ‘The fight over that will’s going to outlive us all. But how are you? I’ve moved back, as you can see. Lived in Huddinge for ten years, but after the divorce I thought I might as well come home. Are you still living in Stockholm or . . .?’

  Annika smiled and put her phone in her pocket. ‘It was lovely to see you again,’ she said, and headed towards the café.

  The two baristas behind the counter probably hadn’t been born when she’d left Hälleforsnäs, so there was no danger of them recognizing her. Neither of them had seen Birgitta in the past couple of weeks, they said, but they didn’t look at the photograph particularly closely.

  Annika bought a cappuccino and a ciabatta roll, then took her tray out on to the terrace. At once she knew where she was. This was where the photograph of Birgitta had been taken, the picture she had just shown the baristas. She sat down at a table in the corner, possibly the same one from which Birgitta had been laughing at the camera. The sky had grown even darker and the wind was stronger, stirring up the muggy air. There was a sulphurous smell. She took a bite of the roll.

  ‘Is this seat free?’

  She looked up. She’d recognize that face in her sleep: Roland Larsson, an old classmate of hers. Jimmy’s cousin.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sit down. Good to see you.’

  The first time she had had dinner alone with Jimmy, years ago now, they had talked about Roland. We used to lie in the hayloft at Grandma’s on summer evenings, down in Vingåker, Jimmy had said, and Roland would spend hours talking about you. He had an old photograph he’d cut out of the paper, of you and a few other people, but he’d folded it so only you showed. He kept it in his wallet . . .

  Roland Larsson sat down, scraping the chair. His stomach had expanded considerably. She pulled her tray back to make room for him on the other side of the table.

  ‘What brings you to these parts?’ he asked.

  ‘I was on a job not far away and thought I’d stop off here,’ Annika said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Birgitta recently?’

  Roland took a large bite of the carrot cake in front of him, then began to talk with his mouth full. ‘How’s Jimmy doing? Haven’t heard from him in ages. Is he still slaving away for the government?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

  He drank some coffee. ‘You should all come and visit this summer! I know Sylvia would really like that.’

  Sylvia Hagtorn was a former classmate and an old enemy: she had hated Annika from their very first day at school.

  Roland adjusted his tie. ‘We’re expecting number two in September,’ he confided.

  ‘That’s great!’ Annika said. ‘Congratulations.’

  Roland Larsson laughed. ‘Things are really happening here. I’m going to be chair of the local council, if things go the way we hope in the election, and it looks like they will.’

  ‘Yes, the Social Democrats are bound to hold on to Flen,’ Annika said.

  ‘We’re doing a good job,’ he said. ‘People can see that. We care about each other out here.’ He popped a piece of carrot cake into his mouth, and some icing got caught on his moustache. ‘Take the ironworks, for example. Ten years ago it looked like Poland in the fifties. Now, with the discount outlet, the museum, the lattes, it’s great.’

  Annika couldn’t disagree with that.

  ‘Sylvia runs Mellösa Pod-Radio, and Hälleforsnäs Allehanda is switching from monthly to weekly publication. There’s plenty of news for them to cover. We’ve had a wave of break-ins in the summer cottages in the forests round here over the last few weeks. We’re talking about recruiting a freelance editor to take care of things, if you’re interested?’

  Annika coughed.

  ‘Just think of the quality of life we’ve got out here,’ Roland said. ‘Everyone knows everyone else so no one falls through the net. Everyone can afford to live in a decent home, there’s all the nature, and we’re only an hour from Stockholm if we want to go to the opera or theatre.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Birgitta recently, have you?’ she asked again.

  Roland looked at her cheerfully. ‘I have, actually,’ he said. ‘I saw her outside Konsum in Malmköping, but I didn’t talk to her.’

  Annika sat up straight. ‘You did? Can you remember when? What was she doing?’

  Roland ate some more carrot cake and reflected. ‘It must have been last Friday, because Sylvia and I were going to a party that night and I stopped to buy a bottle of red to take along. Not that Sylvia can drink at the moment but . . .’

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to her?’

  Roland looked rather taken aback. ‘She was sitting in a car,’ he said. ‘I was going to go over and knock on the window, but she was asleep so I didn’t bother.’

  ‘What time of day was it?’
/>   ‘Afternoon, about five, half five, maybe. Why? Has something happened?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Annika said quickly. ‘I was just wondering. What sort of car was she in?’

  Roland was looking worried, and Annika tried to smile reassuringly.

  ‘Goodness, what sort of car? A Ford, maybe? Or a Nissan? I’m not much good at cars.’

  Birgitta had been in Hälleforsnäs. Roland would never have got that wrong. After all, he’d been on the point of knocking on the window when he had seen that she was fast asleep.

  ‘Tell her to stop by in Mellösa next time she’s here. I know Sylvia would love to see her.’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘So you’re still living with Jimmy? On Södermalm?’

  She nodded and took a bite of her ciabatta roll.

  Roland Larsson pushed his empty plate away and wiped his moustache with a napkin. ‘I sometimes wonder what life would have been like if I’d gone away,’ he said. ‘If I’d concentrated on my career, maybe got a job with the government. Who knows? Maybe I’d have been living on Södermalm.’ He winked pointedly at Annika.

  Annika stuffed the rest of the bread into her mouth and drank the last of her coffee. ‘It was really great to see you,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  ‘Are you going?’

  She smiled and took the car keys out of her pocket. ‘Got to get back to work,’ she said. ‘Take care.’

  ‘Say hi to Jimmy,’ he called after her. ‘And try to get out here again this summer. We’ve got our own place by the lake.’

  ‘Sure,’ Annika said. ‘I’ll tell him!’

  She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as she walked away.

  Sara Pettersson’s home was a single-storey villa with a basement and a small garden, which was mostly scruffy lawn, on a side-street off Flensvägen. She rented it from Olle Sjögren’s estate: his family couldn’t agree if the house should be sold in its present state, or renovated first. Any eventual profit from the sale would go to pay legal fees but for the moment Sara went on living there.

  Annika parked the car on the street and walked up to the porch. There was no doorbell, so she knocked, then tried the handle. It was unlocked, and she pushed it open. ‘Hello?’ she called.

  A dog barked.

  ‘Don’t let him out!’ a woman shouted from inside the house.

  Annika quickly closed the door, and the dog went on barking like mad inside.

  ‘Charlie, go and lie down!’

  The dog whimpered, then fell silent. The door opened.

  Sara Pettersson had put on weight. Her hair was long, streaked various shades of red and mauve. She was holding the dog’s collar, and the look on her face was one of unfeigned astonishment. ‘Annika? Bloody hell, is it really you? What are you doing here?’

  Annika didn’t move from the porch. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  Sara pulled out her mobile and glanced at the screen. ‘I’ve got a client at one o’clock. Come in, come in . . .’ She dragged the dog into the kitchen. It was a mongrel, German shepherd mixed with Labrador, perhaps. Its tongue lolled from its mouth as it struggled to get free. Annika stopped in the kitchen doorway and looked at the well-preserved 1970s décor: brown cupboard doors and orange tiles. On the kitchen table there were lots of small bottles of nail varnish, arranged in rows, colourful pots of files and cotton buds, strips of foil and a pile of white hand-towels. There was a strong smell of acetone.

  ‘It’s probably best if you introduce yourself to him,’ Sara said. ‘Otherwise he’ll never give up.’

  Annika held out her hand to the dog, which leaped up at her.

  ‘Charlie!’ Sara Pettersson herded the dog into the next room and slammed the door. It started to howl in protest. ‘Well, it’s certainly been a while,’ she said, turning to Annika. ‘How can I help you, then? Do you want your nails done?’

  Annika and Sara had known each other for thirty years, ever since Sara had moved to Tattarbacken with her mother just before she started school. She and Birgitta had been best friends ever since, in the same class all the way through school. Annika was never allowed to join in when they played together, not that she wanted to. They played at being hairdressers, models, make-up artists, and Annika had preferred football, snowball fights and cross-country skiing. Sara was now thirty-seven, the same age as Birgitta, but she looked older.

  ‘Are you running your own salon?’ Annika asked, nodding towards the paraphernalia on the table.

  ‘Diamond Nails,’ Sara said, walking over to the fridge. She took out a can of Diet Coke and held it towards Annika, eyebrows raised.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Annika said.

  ‘Lacline, hard as diamond, you burn the polish on with UV light. It works really well, lasts for weeks. Do you want to try?’

  ‘Not really,’ Annika said. ‘I actually came to ask if you’d seen Birgitta recently.’

  ‘I got everything online. The internet’s brilliant, don’t you think? It doesn’t matter where in the world you are, you have the same access to things as everyone else.’ Sara poured the fizzy drink into a glass, took a large swig, then went over to Annika and took her hand. ‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘When did you last have a manicure?’

  Ellen had painted Annika’s nails last winter, but that probably didn’t count. ‘It’s been a while,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got good foundations, just like Birgitta,’ Sara said, patting her fingertips and pointing to one of the rib-backed chairs. ‘Would you like anything else, coffee, some wine, maybe?’

  There was a box of South African merlot on the worktop.

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘What colour would you like?’

  Annika sat down on the wooden chair and looked at the rows of little bottles, utterly bewildered. ‘Has it been long since you last heard from Birgitta?’

  ‘Your mum asked me the same thing the other day. What’s going on?’

  ‘Did you know she was up here last week?’ Annika asked.

  Sara Pettersson’s eyes widened. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘She’d have come to see me. Do you want me to do your nails, or . . .?’

  Annika tried to relax. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can make them look a bit more modern,’ Sara said, taking hold of Annika’s left hand and rubbing her cuticles with yellow cream. ‘What makes you think she was here?’

  ‘Roland Larsson saw her outside Konsum in Malmköping last Friday.’

  Sara’s lips tightened at the mention of Roland Larsson’s name. They had been seeing each other before he’d moved in with Sylvia Hagtorn in Mellösa. Sara worked on Annika’s nails with fast, firm movements. The sticky yellow cream was now smeared on the cuticles of both hands. She picked up a file and began to shape the nails into elegant curves. ‘I haven’t seen Birgitta since they moved, although we Skype sometimes. I know she was back at Christmas, but we didn’t meet up then. I was away seeing Mum and her partner in Bälgviken. Can you relax your arm? Thanks.’

  Annika hadn’t realized how tense she was, and let Sara pull her hand towards her. She was poking at the cuticles with a chrome-coloured implement, and it hurt a bit. ‘The last time you Skyped, did she say anything particular?’

  Sara glanced up, then carried on working. She soaked a ball of cotton-wool with something that smelt like surgical spirit, then energetically rubbed off the cream she had just smeared on. The dog began howling on the other side of the door again.

  ‘Shut up, Charlie!’ Sara yelled.

  The dog fell silent.

  ‘We talked about the summer. She said she’d come and see me during her holiday, but she didn’t want to stay with your mum, and staying here wouldn’t work, not with Steven and the kid, so we talked about places she could rent. She was going to get in touch with Margareta Svanlund, because she’s got that little cottage in her back garden.’

  Annika was watching Sara’s face. She didn’t seem to be very fond of Birgitta’s family. ‘Do you know why Birgitta and Steven moved to Malm�
�?’ she asked.

  Sara’s movements as she applied the undercoat of polish became slightly jerkier. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘We haven’t really had that much contact,’ Annika said.

  ‘You didn’t even come to the wedding.’

  Ah, there it was again.

  Her sister had got married on 20 January, the same day that the newly elected American president had assumed office, which also happened to be Annika’s first big reporting job as US correspondent. It would have been professional suicide to fly back to Sweden for a wedding, but she still wished she’d done it. Staying in the USA was clearly a failure to prioritize properly. She had apologized, but it hadn’t helped.

  ‘Stick your hand in,’ Sara said.

  Annika looked at the box Sara pushed in front of her, rather taken aback: it looked like a small oven made of plastic. Dubiously she pushed her hand through the opening of the box. Sara pressed a red button on top and it filled with neon-blue ultraviolet light.

  ‘I know Steven thought Birgitta was drinking too much,’ Annika said.

  Sara snorted and painted undercoat on the nails of the other hand. ‘Sweden’s so puritanical,’ she said. ‘Look at Spain. They drink wine with their lunch every day and they live just as long as we do. We ought to have a more relaxed attitude to alcohol, if you ask me.’

  Maybe Sara didn’t know about Birgitta’s stay in hospital with alcohol poisoning.

  The light in the box went out and the world was left rather greyer. Charlie was whimpering feebly on the other side of the door.

  ‘Change hands,’ Sara said, then pressed the red button again.

  While the undercoat was burned on to Annika’s right hand, Sara, with a great deal of concentration, set about painting Annika’s nails different colours. Her thumb ended up blue, her index finger orange, the rest of her hand all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘Do you know if Steven’s ever been violent?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Only the once.’

  Annika’s head spun. The lamp went out.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘They’d been out to a party and had an argument on the way home. He hit Birgitta in the mouth, split her lip. Okay, I’m just going to put a top layer on, then you’re done.’