‘I find it hard to imagine you in court.’
‘So do I. But that’s where I spend most of my days.’
The next day Karin went with Birgitta to the main railway station.
‘Well, I’d better be getting back to my Chinese poets,’ said Karin. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll spend this afternoon reading up on a couple of forthcoming trials. I envy you your poets. But I’d prefer not to think about it.’
They were just about to go their different ways when Karin took hold of Birgitta’s arm.
‘I haven’t asked you at all about the events in Hudiksvall. What’s happening?’
‘The police are convinced that, no matter what, the man who committed suicide did it.’
‘On his own? All those dead bodies?’
‘Maybe. But they still haven’t managed to find a motive.’
‘Lunacy?’
‘I didn’t think that at the time, and I still don’t think so.’
‘Are you in touch with the police?’
‘Not at all. I just read what’s written in the newspapers.’
Birgitta watched Karin hurrying off through the big central hall, then caught a train to Kastrup, tracked down her car in the car park and drove home.
Growing older involves a kind of retreat, she thought. You don’t just keep rushing forward. Like the conversations Karin and I had. We’re trying to find our real selves, who we are, both now and then.
She was back in Helsingborg by about twelve o’clock. She went straight to her office where she read a memorandum from the National Judiciary Administration before turning her attention to the two cases she needed to prepare.
She suddenly felt happiness bubbling up inside her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Nothing is too late, she thought. Now I’ve seen the Great Wall of China. There are other walls and especially islands I want to visit before my life is over and the coffin lid nailed down. Something inside me says that Staffan and I will manage to handle the situation we find ourselves in.
It was eleven o’clock before she was at home and began to get ready for bed. There was a ring at the front door. She frowned, but went to answer: there was nobody. She stepped out and looked up and down the street. A car drove past, but apart from that it was deserted. The gate was closed. Kids, she thought. They ring the bell, then run away.
She went back in and fell asleep before midnight. She woke up soon after two without knowing what had disturbed her. She didn’t remember having had a dream and listened into the darkness without hearing anything. She was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when she sat up. Switched on the bedside light and listened. Got up and opened the door onto the landing. She still couldn’t hear anything. She put on her dressing gown and went downstairs. All the doors and windows were locked. She stood by a window overlooking the street and pulled the curtain to one side. She thought she might have glimpsed a shadow hurrying away down the pavement, but blamed her overactive imagination. She had never been afraid of the dark. Perhaps she had woken up because she was hungry. After a sandwich and a glass of water she went back to bed and soon fell asleep again.
The next morning when she was about to pick up her briefcase, she had the feeling someone had been in her study. It was the same kind of feeling as she’d had in connection with her suitcase in the hotel room in Beijing. When she had gone to bed the previous evening, she had put all the documents into the briefcase. Now some of the edges of those documents were protruding from the top.
Although she was in a rush, she checked the basement. Nothing was missing; nothing had been touched. My imagination’s running away with me, she thought. I had enough of a persecution complex in Beijing — I don’t need any more of the same here in Helsingborg.
Birgitta Roslin locked her front door and walked down the hill to the town and the district court. When she arrived she went to her office, switched off the telephone, leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, and thought over the case she had to deal with about a Vietnamese gang accused of smuggling cigarettes. In the back of her mind she ran through the most important parts of the case against the two Tran bothers, which had resulted in their being arrested, three separate times, before finally being charged. Now they faced being tried and sentenced. Two more Vietnamese men, Dang and Phan, had been arrested during the investigation.
Birgitta Roslin was pleased to have prosecuting counsel Palm in her court. He was a middle-aged man who took his professional duties seriously. On the basis of the material she had access to, Palm had insisted on a thorough police investigation, which didn’t always happen.
As the clock struck ten she entered the courtroom and sat at her desk. The lay assessors and recording clerks were already in their places. The public gallery was packed. There were both police officers and security guards on duty. Everybody had been required to pass through metal detectors. She opened proceedings, noted down names, checked that all involved were present, then let the prosecutor take over. Palm spoke slowly and clearly and occasionally addressed his remarks to the public gallery. There was a large group of Vietnamese present, most of them very young. Birgitta Roslin also recognised journalists and a sketch artist working for several national newspapers. Birgitta had a drawing of herself, done by the same artist, that she had cut out of the paper. She had put it in a desk drawer, as she didn’t want her visitors to think she was vain.
It was a hard day. Although the police investigation had made it obvious how the crimes had been committed, the four young men started blaming one another. Two of them spoke Swedish, but the Tran brothers needed an interpreter. Roslin was forced to point out on several occasions that the translation was not clear enough — indeed, she wondered if the girl really understood what the brothers were saying. She also needed to instruct some of the people in the public gallery to be quiet and threatened to remove them if they didn’t calm down.
While she was having lunch, Hans Mattsson called in to ask how things were going.
‘They’re lying,’ Birgitta said. ‘But the case against them is solid. The only question is whether the interpreter is up to it.’
‘She has a good reputation,’ said Hans Mattsson in surprise. ‘She’s supposed to be the best one available in Sweden.’
‘Perhaps she’s having an off day.’
‘Are you?’
‘No. But it’s taking time. I doubt we’ll be finished by tomorrow.’
During the afternoon proceedings Birgitta continued to observe the people in the public gallery. She noticed a middle-aged Vietnamese woman sitting alone in a corner of the courtroom, half hidden from those sitting in front of her. Every time Birgitta glanced over, the woman seemed to be looking at her, whereas the rest of the Vietnamese were mainly watching their accused friends or family members.
Birgitta remembered when she had sat in the Chinese courtroom a few months earlier. Maybe I have a colleague from Vietnam observing me, she thought ironically. But surely somebody would have mentioned it. Besides, that woman doesn’t have an interpreter sitting next to her.
When she concluded the day’s proceedings, she was uncertain how much more time was necessary to wrap up the case. She sat in her office and made an assessment of what still needed to be done. One more day might be enough, if nothing unexpected happened.
She slept deeply that night, without being disturbed by strange noises.
When the trial resumed the following day, the woman was in the same seat again. Something about her made Birgitta feel insecure. During a brief adjournment she summoned an usher and asked him to check if the woman kept to herself even outside the courtroom. Just before the court reconvened, he called in to report that she did indeed — she hadn’t spoken to anybody at all.