Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [63]
Viveka Gustafsson thought for a few seconds before she replied. ‘You mean that thing about youth?’
Annika looked over at Berit.
‘Youth?’
‘An anonymous letter arrived, no signature or anything; I thought it was a note of sympathy from one of the neighbours who didn’t want to disturb me by knocking.’
‘Have you still got it?’
The woman let out a deep sigh that stemmed from the hopelessness of having to do anything connected with the living, the sort of daily routines that had brought light and united her with the rest of the world for decades but had now suddenly lost all meaning.
‘I think I put it in the pile with the newspapers, hang on, I’ll go and get it . . .’
A sharp noise hit Annika’s ear as the other phone was put down on a wooden table somewhere in Svartöstaden. There was the sound of rustling on the line, of footsteps coming and going.
‘Sorry to take so long,’ the woman said tiredly. ‘I’ve got it. It says: How should we judge whether a youth is revolutionary? How to discern this? There is only one criterion: if he is disposed to stand, and stands in practice, with the great worker and peasant masses. He is revolutionary if he wants to do so and does it; otherwise he is non-revolutionary or counter-revolutionary.’
Annika stared wide-eyed at Berit and grabbed a pen.
‘Can you repeat that slowly, please? I’d like to write it down. “How should we judge whether a youth is revolutionary?”’
‘How to discern this? There is only one criterion: if he is disposed to stand, and stands in practice, with the great worker and peasant masses. He is revolutionary if he wants to do so and does it; otherwise he is non-revolutionary or counter-revolutionary.’
‘“How to discern this? There is only one criterion . . .”’
Berit nodded, mouthed ‘Mao’.
Viveka Gustafsson continued reading down the line. ‘. . . if he is disposed to stand, and stands in practice, with the great worker and peasant masses. He is revolutionary if he wants to do so and does it; otherwise he is non-revolutionary or counter-revolutionary.’
‘Have you mentioned this to the police?’
‘No,’ the woman said, and for the first time life filtered in, a surprise which one day would lead to curiosity, and finally to actual joy in being alive. ‘Should I have done?’
‘What does the letter look like?’
‘Well,’ the woman said, ‘what can I say? It looks like an ordinary sheet torn out of a pad.’
‘A4? Lined?’
‘Blue lines. Is that important?’
‘Have you still got the envelope?’
‘Yes, it’s here.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Look like? An ordinary little white envelope, like when you fold a sheet of paper in four. Addressed to us, the Gustafsson family. Normal stamp, postmark . . . what does it say? Luleå, but I can’t see the date.’
‘What sort of stamp?’
A few seconds’ silence.
‘Someone playing hockey.’
Annika screwed her eyes tight shut, forcing her pulse to slow down.
‘I think you should call the police and tell them that you’ve received this letter. I might mention in the newspaper the fact that you got it, is that okay with you?’
The woman’s surprise had turned to confusion. ‘But why would you do that?’
Annika hesitated, unable to be entirely honest with Viveka Gustafsson.
‘I don’t really know if it means anything or not,’ she said. ‘It would be wrong of me to speculate about something I don’t know.’
The woman reflected on this, and it sounded almost as if she was nodding.
‘When you don’t know, you shouldn’t say,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to the inspector.’
‘Call me if there’s anything I can do for you,’ Annika said, aware that her words sounded empty.
24
‘What a weird conversation,’ Berit said. ‘For a while I thought the boy was actually here in the room.’
Annika pressed her hands against her cheeks, noticing that they were trembling.
‘It’s the same killer,’ she said. ‘It can’t mean anything else.’
‘Which police districts?’
‘Two cases in Luleå, one in Uppsala.’
‘It would make sense to talk to the National Murder Commission at once. If it hasn’t already reached their desks, it’ll soon be there after that call.’