Gieger Read online

  12

  Lotta seemed to be the more lucid of the sisters, and Sara didn’t want to have to go all the way out to Lidingö where Malin lived, so she called Lotta and agreed to meet her in Vasaparken outside her home, next to the renowned Sven-Harry Art Museum.

  Sara understood that Lotta wanted to be with her family, given that her father had just died, but she also needed to find out more about the spy theory – if nothing else, because it upended her own perception of the family with whom she had spent so much time as a child.

  ‘Did you know there was a hidden compartment in the upstairs bathroom?’ said Sara. ‘Behind a tile?’

  Lotta looked at her. Scrutinising her, almost slightly annoyed, as if Sara was bothering her with stupid jokes when the family was grieving.

  ‘What hidden compartment?’ she said. ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Sara. ‘It was empty. So you’ve no idea what might have been hidden in there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The theory is that the murderer took the contents with them. Might your parents have put money in there?’

  ‘No, Mum usually kept her money in a metal tin,’ said Lotta.

  Sara remembered the metal tin in question – black, red and gold with some kind of Chinese motif on it. Almost certainly the kind of stereotypical design that would have drawn negative attention nowadays.

  ‘But I don’t actually know if she still does that,’ Lotta continued.

  ‘The compartment had been covered back up,’ said Sara. ‘The murderer had replaced a tile and used adhesive around it.’ She was unsure what you called the stuff you used to stick bathroom tiles to the wall.

  ‘Where did he get it from?’

  Sara didn’t have an answer to that. Lotta undeniably had a point.

  ‘And why cover the hole?’

  ‘To conceal that the theft was the real reason for the murder? Do you know whether Stellan and Agneta hired any contractors recently?’

  Lotta shook her head. It was unclear whether she didn’t know or whether they hadn’t, but Sara didn’t ask her to specify. She seemed impatient to wrap up and return to her family, which was understandable. For Sara, the problem was that Lotta’s expression made her feel as if she was twelve years old and being difficult again. Her childhood friend had always been good at that.

  ‘OK,’ said Sara. ‘It’s a new lead to follow, at least.’

  ‘Was that all?’ said Lotta, looking at her with a frown. ‘You could have asked me that on the phone.’

  Just as in childhood, Sara felt a knot in her stomach because Lotta was annoyed with her. But she did actually have something else she wanted to bring up.

  ‘One more thing. East Germany.’

  ‘OK – what about East Germany?’

  ‘Does it bring anything particular to mind when I mention it?’

  ‘We went there a few times. And Dad was awarded prizes and so on. But what does that have to do with this?’

  ‘There’s a researcher who believes that your father worked for the Stasi, and that he reported people who wanted to leave.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It sounds mad. Why would he do that?’

  Sara didn’t have a good answer to that. She couldn’t remember a single thing that indicated anything like that, and now she was simply presenting facts about Stellan from what was essentially a complete stranger to one of the people she’d known the longest in her whole life. Sara stayed silent while she thought about what to say. Perhaps she should just apologise, forget all about it and be on her way? Or would that be giving in just because she’d always given in to Lotta in the past?

  ‘Because he believed in the East German project,’ Sara said at last. ‘But I’m going to look into this in further detail before we assume that it’s true. It’s a fairly well-known researcher who’s identified him as an informant, so regardless of whether it’s true, it’s possible that revenge could be a motive. I just wanted to ask whether you had any recollection of any threats towards Stellan? In more recent years, or back in your childhood? Letters, phone calls, someone who bumped into him out and about?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. People always approached him and wanted to say hello – but it was always friendly. These days, he would have been constantly stopping for selfies.’

  ‘Didn’t they show East German kids’ films on his show?’ said Sara.

  ‘Yes. The Little Sandman. But that was how it was back in those days – lots of stuff came from there. Bolek and Lolek. Drutten and Jena. And we travelled to lots of countries – not just East Germany.’

  Sara remembered very clearly how often the sisters were away travelling with their parents. Other children never got time off during term time, but presumably the school didn’t dare turn Uncle Stellan down. Malin’s and Lotta’s rooms were filled with toys and souvenirs from different countries and other parts of the world, in an era when charters to Majorca and weekends in London were the standard fare for Swedes. Sara felt ashamed when she remembered how many tiny souvenir trolls and foreign princess dolls she’d stolen from the sisters. Often, she hadn’t even played with them – she’d just thrown them away, frequently off the Nockebybron bridge. But they’d never noticed that anything was missing, so no harm was done.

  ‘He took part in a lot of demonstrations,’ said Lotta, after a period of silence. ‘And he was very engaged in the peace movement. Anti nuclear weapons and all that. But then, so was everyone back then.’

  ‘Things were more political then,’ said Sara.

  ‘What else has he said?’ said Lotta. ‘This researcher.’

  ‘She.’

  ‘OK, she. Why does she think Dad was a spy? Are you sure she’s not just some tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist? There were people who thought they were Dad’s kids or his secret wives. Celebrities have always attracted a lot of crazies.’

  ‘I’ve got copies of the papers from the Stasi records for Stellan.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Lotta, and Sara got them out in response to a childhood reflex that made her obey. As she handed them over, she wondered what it might feel like, first to have one’s father murdered, and then to have him knocked off the pedestal he’d spent his whole life on. Would Lotta refuse to change her world-view, or would she accept the truth? Did she realise that she was fortunate to have had a father at all? What he had been like to his daughters couldn’t be changed by any spy revelations.

  Her childhood friend examined the papers closely, as if reading the judgement after an unexpected verdict against her in the hope of finding some formal errors that invalidated it. Her gaze seemed to linger on every single word. Perhaps she had a better grasp of her school German than Sara did. Her job at the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency probably demanded more of her English and French, given all the former colonies that now received aid.

  ‘There seems to be no doubt about it,’ she said at last, putting down the papers.

  ‘No,’ said Sara.

  Then they sat in silence for a long time. Mothers pushed their buggies through Vasaparken, people sunbathed on blankets on the grass, a young girl from a nearby kennels passed by with half a dozen dogs. Everyone was sweating in the heat but wanted to take the opportunity to be outside, Sara thought to herself.

  ‘Does this need to come out?’ Lotta said at last, which was when Sara realised what had been occupying her thoughts.

  Her own position.

  Being the child of Uncle Stellan was a plus, even when you had a career in the public sector. Being the child of a national traitor was very much a minus. It was rumoured that Lotta was a candidate for a significant ministerial post in the coming government reshuffle. If that was true, then this had come at an inopportune moment, to say the least.

  ‘It’s already out – there’s an article with his name in it. Although in that, he obviously denies it.’

  ‘It’s completely unknown,’ said Lotta. ‘But now he’s been murde
red, this is front page stuff. I’m thinking about the kids. They shouldn’t have to see their grandfather hung out to dry in the media after his death.’

  ‘I’m not going to spread it around. I’m just curious whether this might be linked to the murder.’

  ‘It’s such a long time ago. And I doubt it was all that serious.’

  ‘OK, but let me know if you do think of anything.’

  ‘Dad was naive,’ said Lotta. ‘Saw the best in everyone. He was probably tricked into this. I don’t think he saw himself as a spy or informant. He probably just thought he was being nice to people and answering questions and facilitating contact. Like his work with the peace movement, for instance.’

  Sara nodded, and a memory of Stellan with a big anti nuclear weapons symbol around his neck appeared before her.

  ‘They were busy with marches and demonstrations and lists of names. For peace and disarmament and against nuclear weapons,’ Lotta continued. ‘I think he started some game on television too. “It’s bombed with bombs” or something like that.’

  Typical Uncle Stellan. Everything he did, he did with an amusing and educational slant.

  ‘But he got all sorts of people involved in that. Ministers and celebrities. Even Palme.’

  ‘You never noticed any hatred towards him because he took such a clear position? I mean, Palme was very much hated for his part in the commitment to peace.’

  ‘No, no one hated Dad. Uncle Stellan was the only thing that was any fun in Sweden in the sixties and seventies. The only thing that wasn’t grey and depressing or hyper-political. Being against nuclear weapons back then was basically like being in favour of democracy today.’

  ‘Who did he mix with? Apart from celebrities at his parties?’

  ‘Colleagues. People he worked with.’

  ‘And a lot of politicians, right?’ said Sara. ‘People in power.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Celebrity Sweden was so small back then – everyone knew everyone. And given that he was popular across the board, I think our home became something of a haven. Reds and blues could mix and forget about politics. Relax and let their hair down a bit – without being watched. Well, “a bit” . . . Sometimes things went spectacularly wrong.’

  ‘Any scandals?’

  ‘No,’ said Lotta. ‘I’m sure there could have been lots, if people had seen how things ended up going sometimes – but it never left the house. I remember Dad saying, “Now we’re going to turn off the camera” – that meant that everything that happened from then on was top secret.’

  ‘That’s right – he filmed a lot.’

  Sara remembered Stellan with the Super 8 camera glued to his face at every family gathering. The same old camera throughout all those years, and endless film showings every time the Broman family had been away on their travels. Indescribably dull depictions of the banks of the Dalälven river combined with exciting films from exotic locations like London, Rome, Berlin, Paris, New York or Beijing. The former made one burst with ennui, while the latter made one cry tears of jealousy.

  The first time Sara went abroad, she and her mother had taken the ferry to Åland, and she still hadn’t been to more than half a dozen countries in her life. The Broman sisters had probably reached that figure before they had even started school. Worst of all, friends of Malin and Lotta sometimes got to go with the family on these wonderful trips, but only girls who were popular at school. Never Sara. The trips with the famous father were a way to score points in the social game being played in class, and taking Sara the slave along didn’t have any upsides.

  But she was good to have around when playing at home, because she did as she was told and was close at hand. All they had to do was summon her. ‘Order to the slave.’

  And there and then, Sara realised that there was a small part of her that actually liked the thought that Stellan Broman had been an East German spy.

  That there was something to crack the facade.

  The perfect, enviable, loathsome facade.

  And in a way, Stellan’s being drawn to East Germany didn’t seem that illogical. Maybe he’d been tempted by the image of the dictator as the great Father – the one who took care of his people, and demanded absolute obedience and devotion in return.

  He had probably been able to relate to that.

  Spending time on television could twist the mind of the most sensible person, and Stellan Broman had been synonymous with Swedish television for decades. He had adorned magazine covers, been on the radio, been talked about in workplaces and every single school. He had been worshipped as a demigod in twenty-six-inch format. No matter where he went, he was stopped, thanked, feted. He signed autographs and shook hands, and every time he left the capital city to make a visit somewhere else around the country, the local papers would plaster the visit all over their front pages.

  It wasn’t Uncle Stellan who invented colour television, but in Sweden it had been he who received the praise for this new form of technology. In the eyes of the people, he’d brought both colour and life to the whole country.

  His phenomenal memory had its own role to play. He seemed to remember every face, every name, every anecdote he’d ever encountered. People he’d only met in passing would be remembered years later – even details like where they lived. He could reel off telephone numbers and door numbers that people had once chosen on his shows. All of Sweden watched Uncle Stellan, and all of Sweden felt seen by him. Whether Stellan had actually cared about all the people he met, Sara had no idea. But he had benefitted enormously from it seeming as if he did.

  In her mind’s eye, an old black-and-white television clip played. She hadn’t even been born when it was broadcast for the first time, but she’d seen it repeated dozens of times, if not hundreds. Seen it reproduced in the weeklies, television supplements, morning papers, business magazines, specialist texts – she’d even heard that it had been analysed in a couple of academic dissertations. The clip was from back in the era when there was only one television channel and everyone watched the same programme.

  A grainy black-and-white picture, a sprightly tone, wide smiles and gentlemen in jackets and ties – despite the light-hearted atmosphere. Uncle Stellan was in the studio with the young singer Barbro ‘Lill-Babs’ Svensson, the quizmaster Nils Erik Bæhrendtz and the minister of finance, Gunnar Sträng. As part of a good-natured parody of his own show, Double or Quits, Bæhrendtz had been quizzing Sträng about the new tax laws and had found a gap in his knowledge. Sträng had been given a dunce’s cap as punishment, and had not only laughed at the silliness, but, to the boundless joy of the audience, he’d even put the cap on. The peals of laughter would never stop. There were sensational front pages across all the country’s newspapers the next day with the finance minister in his dunce’s cap. A historic moment.

  After Tivoli in the 1960s, it became Stellan’s Place in the 1970s, and the morning show Up with the Cockerel in the 1980s and right up until the 1990s. Then commercial television arrived on the scene, and the newspapers began to write about viewer figures; when each small decrease led to malicious speculation that Uncle Stellan was losing his grip, that he might be ‘finished’ and that he was past his sell-by date, he eventually gave up. Stellan Broman wanted to be loved and admired – not scrutinised and compared.

  The reason he gave was that he wanted to spend more time with his family after all his years of hard work. But Sara knew it was too late for that. His daughters were almost grown up. They were more than used to their father’s physical absence, even if he had always been a presence psychologically. They’d been able to see their father on television more or less every night as they grew up. and everyone knew they were his daughters. Friends, colleagues, employers.

  So things had worked out for them.

  Lotta was an A-grade child from the start. Top marks, scholarships, chair of the student council, solo performances at every end-of-year assembly. She played basketball in the national league, studied in America for a year, graduated in
political science in record time despite being involved in Amnesty at the same time. Then she got involved in the sporting movement, and applied to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but was headhunted as an expert for the Ministry of Communications; there, she soon became an undersecretary of state before becoming the Director General of the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency just a couple of years ago. A DG who was tough as nails, but respected by her subordinates. A presence in debates. A name increasingly mentioned in connection with the government.

  Malin followed in her father’s footsteps. Script supervisor for SVT in her early days, then producer of an entertainment show under the legendary entertainment boss Linde Berg. An embarrassing stint as presenter on Sommarbubbel, a hasty return to behind the camera, a brief marriage to a male presenter, a romance with another. Now married to her rich financier, and for many years in charge of producing the old classic Allsång på Skansen. Sara assumed that Malin was surrounded by many competent colleagues.

  What secrets – if any – were hiding in this envied and feted family?

  She wanted to find out the truth – if only for her own sake.

  Had she effectively grown up in the home of an East German spy?

  13

  Just as Sara got into the car in the car park at Sabbatsberg, Anna called and told her that her colleagues had brought in the gang they’d been monitoring – one of the ones running riot in Nockeby and Höglandet. They were known for their violence, which made them very interesting suspects in relation to Stellan’s murder.

  Unlike many of the foreign gangs active in the area, these burglars were a group of eighteen- to twenty-year-olds from Hässelby-Vällingby who’d been under surveillance for a long time. It appeared that they were involved in everything from drugs to carjacking and burglary. They had threatened witnesses and harassed the police, and the fact that the police hadn’t acted against them sooner had caused muttering among the force. But now the decision had been made to arrest them immediately. A murder took priority over gathering evidence before an almost-guaranteed drugs raid.