‘Did she really say that?’
‘I’m quoting from the letter. Word for word. Hong Qiu also told her about a photograph you had shown her.’
Birgitta gave a start.
‘Really? A photograph? Did she say anything else?’
‘That it was of a Chinese man you thought had something to do with incidents that had taken place in Sweden.’
‘What did she say about the man?’
‘She was worried. She had discovered something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
Birgitta said nothing. She tried to work out what was implied by the message from Hong Qiu. It could only be a warning cry out of silence. Had Hong Qiu suspected that something might happen to her? Or did she know that Birgitta was in danger? Had Hong Qiu discovered the identity of the man in the photograph? In which case, why didn’t she say so?
Birgitta could feel her discomfort growing. Ho sat in silence, watching her, waiting.
‘There’s one question I must have an answer to. Who are you?’
‘I’ve been living in London since the beginning of the 1990s. I first went there as a secretary in the Chinese embassy. Then I was appointed head of the English-Chinese chamber of commerce. Now I’m an independent consultant to Chinese companies that want to establish themselves in England. But not only there. I’m also involved in a big exhibition complex that’s going to be built near a Swedish city called Kalmar. My work takes me all over Europe.’
‘How did you get to know Hong Qiu?’
The reply surprised Birgitta.
‘We’re relatives. Cousins. Hong Qiu was ten years older than me, but we’ve known each other since we were young.’
Birgitta thought about Hong Qiu evidently having said that she and Birgitta had been friends for many years. There was a message in that. Birgitta could only interpret it as meaning that their brief acquaintance had formed deep links. Significant trust was already possible. Or perhaps, rather, necessary?
‘What did it say in the letter? About me?’
‘Hong Qiu wanted you to be informed as soon as possible.’
‘What else?’
‘As I’ve already said. You should know where I live, in case something happens.’
‘What might happen?’
‘I don’t know.’
Something in Ho’s tone of voice put Birgitta on her guard. So far Ho had been telling the truth. But now she was being evasive. Ho knows more than she’s saying, Birgitta thought.
‘China is a big country,’ said Birgitta. ‘For a Westerner it’s easy to confuse its size with the impression that it’s secretive. The lack of knowledge is transformed into mystery. I’m sure that’s what I’m doing. That’s how I experienced Hong Qiu. No matter what she said to me, I could never understand what she meant.’
‘China is no more secretive than any other country. It’s a Western myth that our country is incomprehensible. The Europeans have never accepted that they simply don’t understand the way we think. Nor that we made so many crucial discoveries and inventions before you acquired the same knowledge. Gunpowder, the compass, the printing press, everything is originally Chinese. You weren’t even first to learn the art of measuring time. Thousands of years before you started making mechanical clocks we had water clocks and hourglasses. You can never forgive us for that.’
‘When did you last see Hong Qiu?’
‘Four years ago. She came to London. We spent a few evenings together. It was in summer. She wanted to go for long walks on Hampstead Heath and interrogate me on how the English regarded developments in China. Her questions were demanding, and she was impatient if my answers were unclear. She also wanted to go to cricket matches.’
‘Why?’
‘She never said. Hong Qiu had a number of surprising interests.’
‘I’m not all that interested in sports, but cricket seems to me totally incomprehensible — it’s impossible to work out how one of the teams wins or loses.’
‘I think her enthusiasm was due to the fact that she wanted to understand how Englishmen work by studying their national sport. Hong Qiu was a very obstinate person.’
Ho checked her watch. ‘I have to go back to London from Copenhagen later today.’
Birgitta wondered whether she ought to ask the question that had been forming in the back of her mind.
‘You weren’t by chance in my house the night before last? In my study?’
‘I was staying in a hotel. Why should I have wanted to creep into your house like a thief?’ she said, bemused.
‘It was just a thought. I was woken up by a noise.’
‘Had somebody been there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is anything missing?’
‘I thought somebody had disturbed my papers.’
‘No,’ said Ho. ‘I haven’t been there.’
‘And you are here on your own?’
‘Nobody knows I’m in Sweden. Not even my husband and children. They think I’m in Brussels. I often go there.’
Ho took out a business card and put it on the table in front of Birgitta. On it was her full name, Ho Mei Wan, her address and various telephone numbers.
‘Where exactly in London do you live?’
‘In Chinatown. In summer it can be very noisy in the streets all night long. But I like living there even so. It’s a little China in the middle of London.’
Birgitta tucked the business card into her purse. She accompanied Ho to the railway station to make sure she caught the right train.
‘My husband’s a conductor on the railway,’ Birgitta said. ‘What does your husband do?’
‘He’s a waiter,’ said Ho. ‘That’s why we live in Chinatown. He works in a restaurant on the ground floor.’
Birgitta watched the Copenhagen train disappear into a tunnel. She went home, prepared a meal and felt how tired she was. She decided to watch the news, but fell asleep soon after lying down on the sofa. She was woken up by the telephone ringing. It was Staffan calling from Funchal. It was a bad connection. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over all the crackling. She gathered that all was well and they were enjoying themselves. Then they were cut off. She waited for him to call again, but nothing happened. She lay down on the sofa again. She had difficulty taking in the fact that Hong Qiu was dead. But even when Ho told her what had happened, she had the feeling that something didn’t add up.
She began to regret not having asked Ho more questions. But she had simply been too tired after the complicated trial and hadn’t felt up to it. And now it was too late. Ho was on her way home to her English Chinatown.
Birgitta lit a candle for Hong Qiu and searched through maps in the bookcase before finding one of London. Ho’s husband’s restaurant was adjacent to Leicester Square. Birgitta had once sat with Staffan in the little park there, watching people come and go. It was late autumn, and they had made the journey on the spur of the moment. Looking back, they had often talked about that trip as a one-off but very precious memory.
She went to bed early, as she had to be in court the following day. The case, concerning a woman who had beaten up her mother, was not as complicated as the one involving the four Vietnamese, but she couldn’t afford to be tired when she took her place on the bench. Her self-respect wouldn’t allow that. To make sure that she didn’t spend the night awake, she took half a sleeping pill before switching off the lights.
The case turned out to be simpler than she had expected. The accused woman suddenly changed her plea and admitted all the charges against her. And the defence did not produce any surprises that would have extended proceedings. As early as a quarter to four Birgitta Roslin was able to sum up and announce that the sentence would be made public on 1 June.