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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
The action swings from London to Sweden, and then back into the past, to Franco's Spain, as Roy & Castells hunt a monstrous killer … in the latest instalment of Johana Gustawsson's award-winning, international bestselling series. ***Longlisted for the CWA International Dagger*** 'Historical sections highlight, in distressing detail, the atrocious treatment of mothers-to-be in Franco's Spain … A satisfying, full-fat mystery' The Times 'Assured telling of a complex story' Sunday Times 'Gustawsson's writing is so vivid, it's electrifying. Utterly compelling' Peter James _________________ Spain, 1938: The country is wracked by civil war, and as Valencia falls to Franco's brutal dictatorship, Republican Therese witnesses the murders of her family. Captured and sent to the notorious Las Ventas women's prison, Therese gives birth to a daughter who is forcibly taken from her. Falkenberg, Sweden, 2016: A wealthy family is found savagely murdered in their luxurious home. Discovering that her parents have been slaughtered, Aliénor Lindbergh, a new recruit to the UK's Scotland Yard, rushes back to Sweden and finds her hometown rocked by the massacre. Profiler Emily Roy joins forces with Aliénor and soon finds herself on the trail of a monstrous and prolific killer. Little does she realise that this killer is about to change the life of her colleague, true-crime writer Alexis Castells. Joining forces once again, Roy and Castells' investigation takes them from the Swedish fertility clinics of the present day back to the terror of Franco's rule, and the horrifying events that took place in Spanish orphanages under its rule. Terrifying, vivid and recounted at breakneck speed, Blood Song is not only a riveting thriller and an examination of corruption in the fertility industry, but a shocking reminder of the atrocities of Spain's dictatorship, in the latest, stunning instalment in the award-winning Roy & Castells series. _________________ 'French novelist Johana Gustawsson writes novels of startling originality. Blood Song [is] truly horrifying' Sunday Times 'Her sleuths tracking a monstrous killer, transporting us from modern-day fertility clinics in Sweden to the abuses of Spanish orphanages under the brutal rule of General Franco … a truly European thriller' Financial Times 'Gritty, bone-chilling, and harrowing – it's not for the faint of heart, and not to be missed' Crime by the Book 'A relentless heart-stopping masterpiece, filled with nightmarish situations that will keep you awake long into the dark nights of winter' New York Journal of Books 'Emotional and atmospheric' New Books Magazine 'Intricately plotted, visceral and emotional the author ramps up the tension and the unfolding keeps the reader guessing to the very end. Scenes are raw, vivid and gripping' Promoting Crime 'I don't think there's a crime writer who writes with such intelligence, darkness and deep sadness as Johana Gustawsson. This was extraordinary' Louise Beech 'Blood Song caught and has held onto my thoughts, it is clever, provocative, and a seriously good read' LoveReading 'A fascinating and engrossing read, but also one that I found intensely harrowing, deeply intimate and which made me cry' Live & Deadly 'A real page-turner, I loved it' Martina Cole 'Cleverly plotted, simply excellent' Ragnar Jónasson 'A must-read' Daily Express 'Bold and audacious' R. J. Ellory
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Seitenzahl: 391
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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BLOOD SONG
A Roy & Castells Thriller
JOHANA GUSTAWSSON
translated by David Warriner
PRAISE FOR BLOOD SONG
‘A truly European thriller … Assured telling of a complex story’ Sunday Times Crime Club
‘I don’t think there’s a crime writer who writes with such intelligence, darkness and deep sadness as Johana Gustawsson. This was extraordinary’ Louise Beech
‘This book has managed to fascinate and haunt my head in equal measure, it is a truly magnificent book’ The Quiet Knitter
‘Johana Gustawsson wields a seriously eloquent pen, she creates an acutely vivid picture while tackling the most difficult of subjects with a beautiful balance … Blood Song caught and has held on to my thoughts; it is clever, provocative, and a seriously good read’ LoveReading
‘It’s this unpredictability that makes Blood Song so good … an intricate plot and a mind-boggling ending’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘A gripping plot, moments of heartbreak, vivid scenes, and characters that will remain with you long after you’ve reached the final pages’ The Book Review Café
‘A well-plotted, intelligent thriller … tragic and heartbreaking – a book of love, loss and hope, and a book to make you cry and make you think’ Off-the-Shelf Books
‘A sobering book all round but an excellently told story’ Blue Book Balloon
‘Sharp writing, the unfolding of a gripping plot, dark subjects dealt with with care and attention yet never shying away from the horrific truth’ The Book Trail‘A beautiful but haunting tale that has its roots firmly embedded in the truth. The author writes with such intensity that she paints a picture that will forever be captured in your heart and in your mind’ Chapter in My Life
PRAISE FOR JOHANA GUSTAWSSON
‘Dark, oppressive and bloody but it’s also thought-provoking, compelling and very moving’ Metro
‘A bold and intelligent read’ Laura Wilson, Guardian
‘Compelling’ Woman’s Own
‘Disturbing, moving and utterly mesmerising, this is a book that has the power to shock and the artistry to impress long after the last page has turned’ Lancashire Post
‘They make a terrific, original duo. They have a future’ Marcel Berlins, The Times
‘A real page-turner … I loved it!’ Martina Cole
‘Gustawsson’s writing is so vivid, it’s electrifying. Utterly compelling’ Peter James
‘A great serial-killer thriller with a nice twist … first rate’ James Oswald
‘A bold and audacious debut from a very talented writer. Heralds the beginning of a thrilling new series’ R.J. Ellory
‘Cleverly plotted, simply excellent’ Ragnar Jónasson
‘Viscerally brutal yet delicately beautiful, like blood spatter on fresh snow. An unbelievable debut’ Matt Wesolowski
‘Gripping … utterly mesmerising’ Thomas Enger
‘A relentless, heart-stopping masterpiece, filled with nightmarish situations that will keep you awake long into the dark nights of winter’ New York Journal of Books
‘Well written and powerful, and the suspense is brutal’ Kingdom Books
‘Beautifully lyrical language depicting murder most foul, but in a story that will stay with you long after you turn the final page, for all the very best reasons’ Jen Meds Book Reviews
‘Immersive, intelligent, fascinating in its historical layers … a proper page-turner with a great big dose of heart and soul’ Liz Loves Books
‘Enthralling, gripping, compelling. It is disturbing, barbaric, savage. It is bloody brilliant’ Swirl & Thread
‘A superbly written novel with great characters, a brilliantly conceived and delivered plot and more than enough to keep you hooked’ Mumbling About
‘The intricate linking of the multiple narratives, the fascinating character development and the shocking finale are complemented by the captivating prose’ Hair Past a Freckle
‘Johanna’s writing is outstanding and I was gripped from the first page … Once again the author mixes historical facts with fiction over two timelines, and it works like magic’ Bibliophile Book Club
‘A dark, bold, spine-chilling book that is the very definition of gripping’ Ronnie Turner
‘Meticulous plotting and great characterisation … Mesmerising murder in abundance’ Books Life & Everything
‘Dark and twisted – a brilliantly complex plot that has twists and turns throughout’ Have Books Will Read
‘It’s difficult to explain how such a grotesque plot line can be so beautifully written. The author has a delicate touch with words, and then, out of nowhere, her writing becomes darker and vicious as she brings the horrific scenes to the reader’ Random Things through My Letterbox
For Elsa, My little sister, my kindred spirit.
‘Is the sea beautiful?’
‘Yes, it is very beautiful.’
‘That’s what people who have seen it say. I would like it to be true – that it’s very beautiful.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my sons lie in the sea.’
—Dulce Chacón, The Sleeping Voice.
Quotation translated by Johana Gustawsson.
Contents
Author’s Note
PARTS OF THE BOOK you are about to read take place in Spain, during the Civil War and under the Franco regime.
During the Spanish Civil War, Republicans and Nationalists battled for nearly three years. The Nationalists, led by General Francisco Franco, emerged victorious in 1939. Franco went on to tyrannise Spain for thirty-six years, until his death in 1975.
Every dictatorship brings its share of atrocities. The Franco regime was no exception and under it Spain suffered one of Europe’s highest death tolls of the twentieth century, second only to Germany. Here are some numbers that may convey some sense of the sheer scale of Franco’s repression:
During the Spanish Civil War, between 1936 and 1939, 150,000 people were executed by Franco’s army – not counting the many more who died in combat.From 1939 to 1940, Franco’s regime imprisoned close to a million people.More than 500,000 prisoners of war were deported to around 200 concentration camps.300,000 women and men were incarcerated in prisons that were only made to hold 20,000 inmates.In March 1939, nearly 500,000 people fled Spain and crossed the border into France.Between 1944 and 1954, more than 30,000 children disappeared without a trace. After Franco’s death, some 800 mass graves were discovered all around Spain, containing the remains of an estimated 40,000 to 60,000 people who had been arbitrarily executed.During the same era, Vichy France and Fascist Italy, respectively, imprisoned 60,000 and 15,000 people. For Franco, war was just the first stage in what he – with the Spanish Catholic Church’s blessing – saw as a crusade: the complete eradication of undesirable ‘Reds’ from the country. These included Communists, freemasons, socialists and Republicans – in other words, anyone who did not share the dictator’s ideology. Hence, even the slightest word uttered against the regime or the state, against the Church, the police or the army, would be considered a personal insult to El Caudillo and constitute grounds for immediate arrest.
As an assertion of his power, Franco perpetuated the state of war he had declared in 1936 for twelve years, only lifting it in 1948. For these twelve years he imposed on the people of Spain his state of terror, barbarity, killing, moral repression, Church-sanctioned morality, media censorship and obscurantism. Once his people were enslaved by fear and the Republicans were silenced, Franco used the Church to maintain his grip on the country.
While the victims of execution, deportation and imprisonment were mainly men, women were certainly not spared. If they did not fall victim themselves to arbitrary execution for simply adhering to the Republican ideology, or because they were close to a ‘Red’ loyalist, the killing or imprisonment of their husbands would leave many women socially isolated or struggling in extreme poverty. It is practically impossible to determine exactly how many women were imprisoned for political reasons. The Franco regime did not confer this label on women: as such, their prisons were filled with prostitutes and delinquents. However, according to numbers from Spain’s national institute of statistics, in 1942 there were 7,275 female political prisoners.
Madrid’s Las Ventas prison alone housed close to 11,000 women between 1939 and the end of the Second World War in 1945. It was designed to hold 500 inmates. Those who were mothers were allowed to keep their children until they turned three years old. However, many did not live to that age due to overpopulation, famine, lack of care and hygiene and disease. Meanwhile, their mothers often vegetated for years in these death camps, living in fear that they might be hauled before the firing squad at any time.
The nature of the conflict was what made this dark time in Spain’s past particularly terrifying. This intense and bloody episode of Spanish history saw some of the worst human atrocities imaginable: one people with two political ideologies opposing one another, first with arms, before the ‘victors’ subjected the ‘victims’ to their fierce repression – giving thousands of torturers and executioners the power of life or death over strangers, neighbours, friends, fathers and brothers.
The acts of violence depicted in the historical chapters of this novel were inspired by actual events that have been recognised and confirmed. While these acts are certainly cruel and some may find the images hard to stomach, there has been some softening to spare sensitive readers the most brutal details and avoid these pages sinking too deeply into the misery of those times.
Although the characters who live and die in these pages are the figment of my writerly imagination, the experiences they endure are rooted in the terrible truth of a dark, dark chapter in Spanish history.
—Johana Gustawsson, 2019
Falkenberg, Sweden
Friday, 2 December 2016, 10.00 pm
KERSTIN WISHED SHE COULD have stopped the hands of time ticking. Cling on for just a few more seconds, so she could hold back the monster. Hide it. Tame it, somehow. But she had no longer had a choice. It had been now or never. So she had taken Göran by the hand, thrown open the gates of hell and released her inner demons.
Now Göran was asleep, face down in the well of his pillow. None of the words exchanged after their dinner had stopped sleep from coming and his anger had ebbed away into the night. Set free from the day and numbed by fatigue, his whole body now rested soundly, in childlike surrender.
Kerstin took off her dressing gown and slipped into bed beside him. Placing a hand on her husband’s greying chest, she kissed his shoulder, where it curved to meet his armpit, the sweet spot where she loved to lay her head. She wished she could slide her thigh across Göran’s legs and quiver at the touch of the soft hairs and hard muscles. She longed to hold him until the grief fought its way to the surface and flooded over her. She was waiting for the tears to come. For them to trickle timidly, one held-back drip at a time, then suddenly well into a raging torrent that would sweep her away. She wanted to cough up all the sadness caught in her throat and spit it out. Feel the panic set in as she struggled to breathe. She wanted the sorrow to sweep her away. She wanted to drown in it.
Kerstin shivered and pulled the duvet up to her shoulders. She hated this never-ending darkness. Some days, the sun seemed to never rise at all, and only snow would break up the clouds. Without it the moon could never part the heavy blanket of the night. Their bedroom was above the living room, overlooking the sea. Every night, Kerstin savoured the moment when she would lie in bed, gazing out at the water. But the sea was never more resplendent than when it shimmered in the summertime. Now, on the cusp of winter, it shivered with goosebumps as the wind whipped the surface into whitecaps. Perhaps the snow wasn’t far away, after all.
Earlier, as Kerstin had stepped out of the shower, Göran had asked her to sleep in the guest room; nowhere near him. He had then taken the cushions off the bed, folded the fur throw and placed them all on the chaise longue with the same calm, calculated movements as every other night, but this time avoiding her gaze. Kerstin had left the bedroom in her dressing gown, her damp hair dripping splotches onto the floorboards. She had closed the door behind her and waited as obediently as a dog told to sit outside. With her nose pressed to the door frame she had listened to the silence, and waited for stillness, before opening the door again and getting into bed beside her husband. She didn’t know how to sleep any other way.
Suddenly, she felt a weight descend on her lower abdomen, as if a heavy rock were crushing her pelvis. That was where all her repressed anger tended to build up. According to her acupuncturist, it was a boundary thing – something to do with how she related to others. Whatever. Although perhaps there was some truth to that. She had to admit, she hadn’t really known whether she’d been coming or going that evening. Kerstin massaged her belly in a circular motion, pressing with the tips of her fingers to smooth the edge off the pain.
The mattress heaved as Göran stirred and turned onto his side, staring out to sea, at anything but his wife. Kerstin reached for her husband’s hand, intertwining their fingers, pressing her moist palm to his. Trying to catch his eye. She wanted to draw him closer, put in words what had happened. But Göran twisted out of her embrace as if she were a stranger he couldn’t bear to be around. He threw off the duvet, sprang out of bed and left the room.
Kerstin opened her mouth and drew a deep breath of air; the atmosphere in their bedroom was stifling. Fire flared in her chest, and flames of rage and desperation licked their way up her throat. She clamped her hands over her mouth and screamed. Creases ravaged her face, but the tears never came, only dry sobs. Always the same arid anguish. Except this time, she warmed to it, snuggling up to it as if it were Göran’s arms and she were finding solace in his embrace, taking refuge in his shadow. She let the grief wash over her.
Suddenly, hands grabbed her ankles, yanking her naked body off the bed. Her head cracked against the floorboards, and the pain felt like it was crushing her skull, shooting all the way down to her fingertips. She clawed desperately at the floorboards, but only succeeded in tearing her nails to shreds.
The panic felt like it was tearing her chest apart. As the blows pummelled her body from left to right, all she could do was stare wide-eyed at the ceiling as the searing pain gave way to sheer terror, which paralysed her lungs and her throat.
Louise, Louise, Louise, Louise.
Her sleeping daughter in the bedroom down the hall.
Grant Road, Harrow, London
Saturday, 3 December 2016, 1.00 am
JENNIFER MARSDEN’S FATHER had contacted the police at eight that night. Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Pearce’s first reflex was to turn to Emily Roy. The profiler had interviewed the girl’s parents, then her grandparents, who lived a few doors down the street, before moving on to the neighbours.
Emily looked to Aliénor Lindbergh for the go-ahead. Aliénor nodded. Emily rang the bell and retreated a few steps.
The door was opened almost right away by a thirty-something woman bundled up in a dressing gown, black hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.
‘Martine Partridge?’
The young woman scratched at her cheek with blue false nails. ‘Yeah…’
Aliénor registered Emily’s smile. Took a mental picture of it. Tight-lipped, mouth turned up at the corners. Narrowed eyes, too.
‘I’m Emily Roy. I work with the Metropolitan Police. This is my colleague, Aliénor Lindbergh.’
The woman looked down her nose at Aliénor, giving her the once-over. ‘You recruitin’ in primary schools these days then, are yer? This about young Jennifer, innit?’
Emily squinted at her. ‘Sorry to bother you so late, Martine,’ she continued. ‘Is it all right if I call you Martine?’
‘I prefer Marty.’
‘Marty.’
‘What’s ’er name again – your colleague I mean? I didn’t catch it.’
‘Her name’s Aliénor.’
‘Alien-or? Well that don’t exactly ’elp a girl get ahead in life, does it! They must’ve ’ad a field day wiv you at school, innit?’
Emily frowned.
Aliénor bit her tongue. That was the hardest thing, really: knowing when to say something and when to keep her mouth shut, even when the other person was expecting a reply. So much behaviour to decode all the time. To understand and integrate. A whole other language to learn.
‘That’s not from ’round ’ere, is it? Alien-or,’ Marty went on. ‘Where’s that from, then?’
Emily gave a discreet nod.
Aliénor replicated Emily’s smile: mouth turned up at the corners, narrowed eyes. ‘It’s French,’ she said, trying not to let her smile falter.
‘French? Ooh la la! You don’t have a French accent, though. I’d never ’ave pegged you as a frog.’
‘I’m not French; I’m Swedish.’
‘Swedish? Why make fings easy, I s’pose…’
‘When was the last time you saw Jennifer, Marty?’ Emily interjected.
‘This morning. She walks past ’ere to catch the 182 on ’er way to the ’igh school.’ Marty slowly opened and closed her eyes like a lizard lazing in the sun.
Emily let the silence percolate between them for a moment. ‘Would you mind if we continued our conversation inside?’ she suddenly ventured.
Marty’s eyes zeroed in on her sharp nails. She traced an index finger around the edges. ‘Jones … My Jones needs ’is rest…’
‘Jones? Is he your husband, Marty?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if suddenly afraid she would wake him up.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Emily replied, striding forwards.
Marty had no choice but to step aside and let her pass.
The profiler made her way through to the kitchen and took a seat at the small, square table. The dirty dishes from what looked like dinner had not been cleared away. Marty stood on the other side of the table, as if she were waiting to be told what to do. Emily motioned for her to sit down.
Aliénor was still standing in the doorway, watching Marty fidget with the belt of her dressing gown.
‘You didn’t see her come home again this afternoon?’ Emily prompted.
‘What?’
‘Jennifer. You didn’t see her coming home from school this afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know the Marsden family well, Marty?’
‘Not really … Just as a neighbour, y’know,’ she replied, with shifty eyes.
‘Jennifer never stopped in here on her way home from school, for a chat?’
The corners of Marty’s mouth turned downwards. She smoothed her dressing gown with the back of her hand. ‘Do you really fink I’d let a tramp like that set foot in ’ere? In my ’ouse? Under my bleedin’ roof?’
Emily gave Aliénor a subtle glance. ‘Do you mean Jennifer, Marty?’ she replied, as Aliénor disappeared down the hallway.
‘Yeah, Jen … Miss Marsden, yeah,’ she spat, with a pout of disgust.
‘Marty, could we have a word with Jones?’
The young woman shook her head like a stubborn child.
‘Why not, Marty?’
‘I don’t want you to see ’im like that,’ she replied, twisting the belt of her dressing gown around her index finger.
‘What do you mean, like that?’
‘The way ’e is … naked … not a stitch on ’im…’
‘That’s not a big deal, Marty. We can cover him up. So no one sees him.’
‘Yeah … I s’pose…’ Marty tilted her head to one side.
‘Your colleague … I don’t want ’er to come upstairs wiv us.’
‘No, don’t worry, Marty. We’ll go upstairs just the two of us. My colleague will stay down here. Is that all right, Marty?’
‘Yeah, ’s all right … I s’pose that’s all right.’
Two armed police officers suddenly burst into the kitchen, barking orders. Marty looked up at them in a daze. Then she did what she was told and got on her knees and lay face down on the kitchen floor with her arms and legs spread apart.
Emily went upstairs to join the two other officers, who were waiting for her in the bathroom doorway. There were half a dozen overturned candles wallowing in red puddles on the bathroom floor. A man was lying in the bathtub, his body immersed in the bloody water, right arm hanging over the side, head slumped over his chest. Jennifer also lay in the bath facing him, her throat slit.
Emily walked downstairs and out of the Partridge house. DCS Jack Pearce was waiting for her by a marked police car. Aliénor was crouched beside the car, hugging her knees into her chest, rocking back and forth.
‘What’s happened?’ Emily asked Pearce.
Her superior gulped and moistened his lips. Hesitated for a second or two. Emily stiffened. In that short silence, she sensed the pain. The urgency. And the fear.
El Palomar, Spain
Tuesday, 21 December 1937, 10.00 pm
SOLE WAS ABOUT TO GET UP, but Teresa placed her hand on her shoulder. ‘Please, just sit for a while, Sole. You’re going to make me dizzy. You’ve been on your feet all evening!’
‘Well, I’m not exactly going to let you do everything, am I?’ Sole protested.
‘I don’t want to see you move out of that chair,’ Teresa insisted.
‘Your dinner was delicious, mi Sole,’ said Paco, stretching his long arms above his head. ‘Gracias,mi amor, you’ve made it such a wonderful birthday.’
Sole smiled at him as she rubbed the big round belly stretching her woollen dress.
‘I feel like there are two of them in here,’ she wheezed, running the tips of her fingers around the contour.
‘I think it’s just the one, but a hefty one at that,’ Teresa replied as she cleared the table. ‘Just like his father. Have you seen the size of Paco?’
‘You see, mi Sole, she agrees with me,’ Paco said, draining his glass of Montitxelvo. The smooth dessert wine enveloped his mouth with its gentle sweetness as he clicked his tongue against his palate to savour every last drop.
Teresa piled the cutlery, plates and glasses into a big metal bowl.
‘Are you sure you want to go to the font and do the dishes right now?’ Sole asked her.
‘Sí. Concha should be down there as well. We’ll have a little gossip.’
‘The river must be as cold as ice, Tere. You won’t feel your fingers! Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?’
Teresa and her brother exchanged a knowing glance. It couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
‘I’ll be done in no time, you’ll see,’ she argued as she hoisted the bowl up and balanced it on the top of her head. The dishes shifted and clanged against the sides, echoing the first knocks at the door, which were soon followed by a louder, more insistent banging.
Paco drew himself up to the full height and breadth of his stocky frame as he opened the door – and froze.
A group of Blueshirts, three of them, stood in the doorway.
Teresa gripped the handles on the bowl so she wouldn’t lose her balance.
‘Paco Morales Ramos, come with us!’ the one in the middle barked, adjusting his hat before hooking his fingers over his belt, where the Astra 400 was waiting in its holster.
Sole stood and placed one hand on her belly and the other on her chair. A film of cold sweat was spreading across her neck and upper lip. She clenched her jaw so she wouldn’t gnash her teeth.
Paco turned his palms upwards, spread his arms wide and forced a smile. ‘What’s all this about, señores?’
The man on the left reached out and clamped a hand around Paco’s wrist.
‘All right, all right,’ Paco said.
‘Soledad Melilla Santiago,’ the one in the middle barked at Sole.
Not daring to say a word, Sole gripped the chair more tightly, as her belly began to contract intermittently.
‘No, I’m Sole,’ Teresa interjected.
‘Is that so? You’re Sole?’ the militiaman smirked. He took a step forwards, leaned his face down towards hers and brushed his lips against her ear. ‘Don’t you dare insult El Caudillo, you dirty little puta,’ he hissed. ‘You think we don’t do our homework, eh, before we come and round up the traitors of Spain? Think we don’t know who’s red, like your brother, and who’s blue, like us? Do you think we don’t know that bastard of a Republican brother of yours knocked up his wife? And that your husband, Teresa Morales Campos, is with the Resistance?’
Teresa swallowed. ‘My husband died six months ago, señor.’
‘Are you sure about that, Tere? That your Tomeo’s been dead for six months?’
She shivered. ‘Sí, señor.’
The man nodded and straightened himself up, but kept his eyes trained on her. He tugged at his sleeves to adjust his jacket, then stepped back to join his colleagues. ‘Round up all three of them,’ he calmly instructed.
Flask Walk, Hampstead, London, home of Emily Roy
Saturday, 3 December 2016, 4.00 am
THE PACKET OF GROUND COFFEEnext to the box of English Breakfast tea. The jasmine green tea, on top of the plain green tea. Then the thyme honey. The jar of Demerara sugar. And the four boxes of Anna’s pepparkakor, one on top of the other.
Aliénor Lindbergh breathed a deep sigh of relief. Everything was organised properly in Emily’s kitchen cupboard. She watched as the profiler put three mugs out on the worktop.
Emily filled the stainless-steel basket with black tea leaves and put it back in the teapot. Then she poured a splash of milk into one of the mugs, forgetting again that Jack preferred to add it afterwards. One hand on the handle, she was waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. Next, the three of them would sit down at the table. The conversation would take a while to get going. Jack would be the one to say the first word. The first sentence. And she and Aliénor would listen as they drank their tea.
Aliénor wondered whether her parents’ cellar had been reorganised while she had been away. Was the O’boy chocolate drink powder still in its place between the coffee and the peppermint tea? Had her mother arranged the books on the family shelves by colour, like she had always wanted, rather than by topic and then alphabetical order, the way they were when she left?
That’s what she should be doing when she went back to Sweden. Before she saw her parents. Before she kissed them. And pressed her cheek against her sister’s. She should check that everything was in its place. The chocolate powder and the books. And the dogs’ baskets, in the cubbyhole at the back of the kitchen. Even though they’d been dead a while, the dogs.
Aliénor tried to focus by running her fingers along the grooves of the vintage solid oak table. Seven months. Seven months since she had left her parents’ home. Seven months since she had started as an intern with the Metropolitan Police alongside Emily and Jack. Emily was training her to be a BIA like her. A Behavioural Investigative Adviser. Or, as most people would say, a profiler. Jack Pearce didn’t approve. But he didn’t know how to say no to Emily. Maybe because they were sleeping together.
Emily had suspected Marty Partridge from the start. Her intuition had been right. She had solved the disappearance and murder of Jennifer Marsden in a matter of hours. While her own family – of sorts – was being torn apart.
The packet of ground coffee next to the box of English breakfast tea. The jasmine green tea, on top of the plain green tea. Then the…
Aliénor knew they wouldn’t let her kiss her parents, though. Or press her cheek against her sister’s. The three of them must be on the autopsy table right now. Or perhaps they were still in body bags? Were they naked or clothed? She had no idea.
‘Aliénor?’
Emily’s voice. Her posture mirrored Jack’s, their hands cupped tightly around their mugs, which were no longer steaming. They were watching her. With a stern look in their eyes. Or concerned, perhaps. Yes, it was a look of concern. She recognised the crease above the nose, between the eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Is nine in the morning all right?’ Emily repeated.
‘What are you talking about? I wasn’t listening.’
‘The flight at nine in the morning to go back to Falkenberg.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Aliénor pressed her index finger into the groove in the wood. ‘Are you coming with me?’
‘Yes, of course. Of course I’m coming with you.’
Falkenberg, Strandbaden Hotel
Saturday, 3 December 2016, 12.00 pm
ALEXIS CASTELLS FILLED HER GLASS, and her mother’s, with Christmas beer.
‘Mon Dieu, that saucisson is good! What’s it made with?’ Mado Castells asked, licking her lips as she wolfed down her third slice.
‘Are you sure you want to know, Maman?’
‘Listen, I used to make you fritters with sheep brains when you were little, and we eat rabbit, don’t we? So I’m not afraid of eating Bambi and friends. Go on, tell me what’s in there.’
‘Elk.’
‘Ha! I knew it, Madame Eklund.’
In two weeks’ time, Alexis was going to become ‘Madame Stellan Eklund’, as her family liked to tease. Even though they were actually doing the opposite, with Stellan taking Alexis’s last name. That was all the rage in Sweden, apparently. Mr Stellan Castells was going to be a true poster boy for multiculturalism. Alexis’s father Norbert was over the moon that his son-in-law to be was embracing their family’s Catalan heritage to the point of carving it into his family tree.
Mado polished off her plate and went back for seconds to the julbord, the traditional Christmas buffet Swedish restaurants served during the festive season.
They had enjoyed their relaxing mum-and-daughter date that morning at the market in Halmstad, where they had sampled some local glögg, the traditional mulled wine sprinkled with raisins and slivered almonds. Mado had splashed out on lots of candles and Christmas decorations, gleefully anticipating her husband’s protests when the time came for them to pack their suitcases for the trip home. She figured they would have plenty of room, considering the kilos of Sassenage and Morbier cheese they had brought over from France for Alexis and her in-laws.
‘It’s actually quite a sweet little tradition, isn’t it?’ Mado conceded, dipping a chunk of sausage into a dollop of Västervik mustard. ‘A bit like Christmas tapas, don’t you think? I mean, it’s not as classy as the food chez nous, but it’s not bad, I suppose.’
‘Maman, can’t you give the poor Swedes a proper compliment for once? Don’t you think it’s a bit snobby to criticise their food all the time?’
‘Me, a snob? That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I used to put up posters for the Communist party, I’ll have you know!’
An icy gust of wind whipped the bay window. Mado flinched. The wind was toying with the sea, stirring up frothy waves that teetered their way in to the shore before crashing against the jetty.
‘You’re going to end up settling down here, I know it…’ Mado sounded like she was trying to come to terms with the tragedy of such a conclusion.
Alexis stiffened. Keep calm, she told herself. ‘Maman … you know it’s easier for me to move to Sweden. I can write my books from anywhere. But Stellan’s business is so Scandinavian, it’d be impossible for him to work from London. The company he runs with Lena is here, not there, you know that.’ She stroked her mother’s face, and Mado nuzzled her cheek into her daughter’s palm.
‘I get that it’s more complicated for you to travel to Falkenberg,’ Alexis carried on, ‘but you have always said London was too sprawling and intimidating for you. Falkenberg is much more of a human-sized town.’
Mado wriggled free of her daughter’s embrace. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is, but still, it’s going to be a shock for you to go from a city of millions to a town of a few thousand people. It’d be one thing if you were moving to Stockholm … but Falkenberg? Good heavens! They might as well bury you alive. And you know I never have the chance to get used to you living somewhere before you pack up and move again!’
‘Oh, come on, Maman, give it a rest. I’ve been in London more than ten years!’
Alexis’s patience was already wearing thin. Mentally, she was drumming her fingers on the table.
‘All right, then, spit it out. Tell me what’s really ruffling your feathers. Is there something about Stellan that’s bothering you?’
‘No, no, not at all, it’s not that,’ Mado mumbled into her plate.
Alexis suddenly had the feeling the roles were reversed. Or maybe not. Surely mothers sometimes felt the need and were within their rights to seek reassurance from their grown children.
‘It’s the Scandinavian culture, Alexis. It’s … such a world away from our own. It’s … full of little quirks. It’s … They’re unemotional, indifferent, stuck up, almost, while we Mediterraneans, we’re spontaneous and expressive, if not a bit over the top. Every time I open my mouth, they jump out of their skin. As if I were some kind of alien! I know I’m larger than life, but they’re so lukewarm they make me want to slap them sometimes. Seriously, though, these people are bizarre. Take that cartoon with the duck, for instance, what do they call it?’
‘Donald.’
‘No, the name of the cartoon, not the character. What’s it called again?’
‘Kalle Anka.’
‘That’s the one. Every Christmas Eve, they show the same cartoon on TV at exactly the same time, and they’ve been doing that for the last fifty years or more! Seriously? Not to mention that dried-out bread they put on the table that you have to slather with butter and load up with cheese to give it half a chance of tasting like anything. It’s like eating a straw mat! Back home, we wouldn’t even feed that to the chickens. And what’s with their obsession about golf…? Well, it’s your choice, I suppose…’
‘Here I was, thinking you were enjoying yourself…’
‘Now, if you were to tell me you’re doing all this because you’re planning to start a family, then I’d understand, you know,’ her mother carried on, oblivious.
There it was. Mado had finally spat it out. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. Alexis was childless and fast approaching forty. For Mado Castells, nothing was worse than letting the sacrosanct uterus go fallow. If you asked her, women flourished and proved themselves through motherhood. Above all else, women were mothers. Mothers – and she-wolves too. So, ladies, show us your wombs, then bare your teeth!
Alexis spread some butter on a piece of crisp knäckebröd, which promptly broke in her hand.
‘You see. What did I tell you? Just like straw, that stuff is!’
‘Oh come on, Maman! Don’t tell me you’re going to get on your high horse about the almighty French baguette now, are you?’
‘I don’t even have to,’ Mado argued, as she swept the crumbs of unleavened crispbread away with the tips of her fingers.
Alexis sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon. Like a day without bread, as her mother would say.
El Palomar, Spain
Tuesday, 21 December 1937, 10.30 pm
THE SHORTEST OF THE THREE FALANGISTS, the thin one who had grabbed Paco by the wrist, shoved them into the back of the van. There were two bench seats, one facing the other, down the sides. He barked at Paco to sit on the right, and Sole and Teresa on the left. Then he slammed the rear doors shut and the van pulled away.
Teresa wrapped an arm around Sole’s shoulders and placed a hand on her sister-in-law’s belly. She could feel her nephew rippling around like a little sardine, and caught Paco’s eye when she looked up. She wished she could snuggle up to her brother now, clasp his fingers in hers and give him a kiss for their mother. For herself too. And for the Yaya. He was the man of the family now. The only one left. Apart from the little one in Sole’s belly. Teresa was sure they had been blessed with a baby boy.
Paco looked back at his sister with eyes full of resignation. Teresa tried to swallow her fears, but they lodged in her throat.
The van slowed down and came to a halt. Teresa heard the front doors open and slam shut, then the dull thudding of boots on the ground. Slow, shuffling steps that kicked up the dust beneath their soles as they went. They were taking their time, as if they were enjoying the anticipation.
Suddenly, Teresa felt a wetness spreading under her buttocks. Sole shot her a look of panic and started to tremble, right as the rear doors were flung open.
‘Outside! Now!’ one of the Falangists barked.
Teresa helped Sole out of the van. Paco offered his arm for his wife to lean on, but the thin man shouted for him to keep his hands off her. Paco did what he was told and retreated behind Sole.
‘She’s pissed herself!’ the thin man cried, when he saw the big stain seeping through Sole’s dress.
Sole opened her mouth. But Teresa opened her eyes wider, imploring her to stay quiet. If the men caught on that her water had broken, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill them all. The last thing they wanted was a woman in labour getting under their feet.
Sole and her baby had to survive.
The thin man punched Paco in the shoulder, herding him towards the front of the van, where the headlights were still blazing.
Teresa felt her legs buckling under her.
‘Not feeling tired, are we, my pretty? Get a move on! Sit down there, next to your brother! You too, pissy pants, come on! Right there, with your husband!’
He gave Teresa a kick in the back. She lurched forwards and got a mouthful of dirt. Struggling to straighten her wobbly legs, she managed to get back to her feet. Sole followed her in a daze, folding her arms to protect her belly.
They lined them up in the middle of the road, in the glare of the headlights.
All Teresa could see were two, huge, yellow pools of light floating in front of her eyes. She heard Sole weeping. She heard her brother cry ‘No pasarán!’ Followed by an explosion, then a dull thud and a crunching sound as Paco’s body crumpled to the ground in a cloud of dust and dirt.
Teresa’s arms flew in front of her face, as if a gust of wind had caught hold of them.
Her cries were smothered by a second gunshot.
Then a third shot rang out in the night.
Skrea Strand, Falkenberg
Saturday, 3 December 2016, 2.00 pm
THE SILENCE IN THE CAR was deafening. Because those who whisper in the darkness swallow up every other sound around. Consumed by the anticipation of what awaited them, Kommissionär Lennart Bergström and Emily Roy had not said a word since they left the police station.
Bergström parked in the driveway, in front of the double garage. Emily got out of the car first. The icy air burned its way down to her lungs.
‘Snow’s on the way,’ the commissioner said as he extricated himself from the vehicle.
The Lindberghs’ property sprawled over nearly six thousand square metres. In the middle of this barren landscape, their land seemed to go on forever. The luxurious property was visible all the way from the main road that ran parallel to the shore. A charming, traditional-style wooden house with a pale-green façade and white trim, it exuded the sweet, carefree days of childhood.
Emily followed a string of stepping stones to a patio overlooking a huge garden and a thin strip of sand that snaked a path to the Skrea Strand beach. A copse of apple trees was the only thing obscuring the panoramic view of the sea.
‘The house used to belong to a Norwegian film director,’ Bergström explained, standing behind her. ‘Aliénor’s parents bought it in the eighties.’
Still taking in the surroundings, the profiler didn’t turn around. She stayed there a few moments, watching, listening, before joining the commissioner on the doorstep.
Bergström said hello to the young female police officer posted at the door and signed the register. Emily strode into the house without looking at the officer. Bergström glanced at the new recruit in apology, but she shook her head and waved her hand with a smile. Emily Roy had worked with the commissioner and his team twice already, so no one raised an eyebrow anymore at her quirks.
Bergström followed Emily inside and closed the door behind him. He had been the first on the scene the night before. It was only last night, he thought. Barely a few hours had elapsed since they had combed the scene where Aliénor’s family had been massacred. The expansive Lindbergh residence had been invaded by a colony of white protective suits, all buzzing around, doing their jobs in an apparent sense of chaos that belied a meticulously organised operation. A hive of activity. Run by Björn Holm, the head of the SKL, the crime-scene unit. His worker bees had just left with three bodies in tow.
Bergström remembered the silence that reigned over operations like these. A silence just as laden with fear as the one that had hung over him and Emily in the car earlier. Death commanded deference, however often it crossed your path. He glanced over to Emily. She seemed not to feel the presence of the Grim Reaper. Either that, or she had learned to live with it. Emily’s petite frame projected an intimidating aura of toughness and strength. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail and was standing, sure of herself, in the middle of the hallway. Scoping out the territory, like a cat eyeing up its prey. To her right was a double living room that opened onto the patio. To her left, a dining room led through to a vast North American-style kitchen. Straight ahead, she saw a giant bow window with a sweeping view of the sea. To the right of the window was a steep staircase leading to the first floor.
Emily turned to look at Bergström. He answered her silent question with a nod of his chin towards the living room.
They traversed the first room, which was furnished with two sofas and a coffee table, and Emily stopped under the arch of a double sliding door. In front of another bow window, facing the beach, sat a huge U-shaped sectional sofa. Traces of black and white powder lingered on every surface – furniture, windows and light switches alike.
‘That’s where Göran Lindbergh was lying, with wireless headphones over his ears,’ Bergström explained as Emily approached the sectional.
The blood had soaked deep into the dark leather of the seat and armrest, as well as the carpet. Emily pointed to the spatters she could see on part of the backrest. ‘His head was propped up on a cushion, I presume?’ she asked.
‘Two of them,’ the commissioner clarified.
‘Was he wearing anything?’
‘Pyjamas.’
‘With a blanket over him?’
Bergström nodded. ‘He was stabbed through the blanket,’ he added.
‘Where’s the stereo?’
‘The stereo?’
‘What were the headphones connected to?’ Emily rephrased her question.
‘Spotify.’
The profiler shook her head, none the wiser.
‘He was listening to music on his iPad,’ Bergström translated with a smile.
‘Were the double doors closed?’
‘Yes.’
And the bow window?’
‘Also closed.’
‘Locked?’
‘No.’
Emily’s gaze lingered on the sofa before scanning the rest of the living room. ‘Upstairs?’ she ventured as she retraced her steps to the hall.
Bergström had forgotten how abrupt Emily could be. She gave everything a sense of harshness, making things feel like a rough wool sweater you’re itching to take off.
