Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [92]
Sattajärvi was covered by Pajala.
Göran Nilsson was born 2 October 1948, the only son of Toivo and Elina Nilsson. His mother’s birthplace was given as Kexholm. The couple married 17 May 1946. Father died 1977, mother 1989.
She wrote all of this down and thanked them.
Kexholm?
She would have to go online after all.
Käkisalmi, also known as Kexholm, turned out to be at the mouth of the River Vuoksen, where it flowed into Lake Ladoga on the Karelian Isthmus, not far from the old Swedish city of Viborg.
In other words, now in Russia.
She found a site through the county council in Luleå, with a lot of information about the history of the area.
In the autumn of 1944 Karelia was invaded by the Soviet Union and the whole district was emptied of its original inhabitants. 400,000 people fled deeper into Finland, and some of them carried on to Sweden.
She stared at the screen.
Ethnic cleansing, she thought. An old concept, only the terminology is new.
Did that mean anything? Was it important that the terrorist’s mother had been driven from her home by Russian soldiers?
Not sure. Maybe.
She logged out and called the parish office in Lower Luleå. It was always easier to do this sort of research over the phone, when no one could see her being so nosy.
Karina Björnlund was born 9 September 1951, second child of three to Hilma and Helge Björnlund. The couple divorced in 1968, the mother remarried and now lives on Storgatan in Luleå. Father dead. Brothers: Per and Alf.
So what did that tell her?
Nothing.
She thanked the parish secretary and got up, restless, and walked around the flat before picking up the phone again and calling the Norrland News.
‘Hans Blomberg is off today,’ the sour receptionist said.
‘Put me through to the archive anyway,’ Annika said quickly before she got another rant about the EU.
A young woman answered.
‘I know the powers that be have decided that we should cooperate with the Evening Post, but no one ever asks us if we have enough time to do it,’ the woman said, sounding stressed. ‘You can have the password, then you can log in direct and check the archive online.’
She needs to calm down before she ends up like Hans, Annika thought.
‘What I’m looking for probably isn’t on the net,’ she said. ‘I’m after the earliest cuttings you have for Karina Björnlund.’
‘Who? The Minister of Culture? We’ve got kilometres’ worth of columns about her.’
‘The very earliest ones. Can you fax them to me?’
She gave her home number, making a mental note to turn the fax machine on.
‘How many? The first hundred?’
Annika thought for a moment. ‘The first five will do.’
The sound of air being exhaled, a long sigh.
‘Okay, but not before lunch.’
They hung up and Annika went out into the kitchen and cleared the breakfast things, checked what was in the freezer and worked out that she could do chicken fillets in coconut milk for dinner.
Then she tied on her shoes and pulled on her jacket.
Have to get out, have to breathe.
She picked up a microwaved pasta dish with mushrooms and bacon from the 7-Eleven on Fleminggatan, and ate it slowly with a plastic spoon as she crossed Kungsbron in to the city centre.
She threw the paper tray in a bin by the junction of Vasagatan and Kungsgatan, then walked quickly towards Hötorget. She only slowed down once she reached Drottninggatan, Stockholm’s only truly continental pedestrian street, with its mix of heaven and hell, street-sellers, performers, whores and the frozen tramps who filled the gaps between the retail palaces. She was pushed forward in the crush, strangely full of tenderness, she was jostled along by people, and felt something oddly melancholic as she took them in: the mothers with clenched teeth and squeaking, swaying buggies; groups of beautiful young women from immigrant suburbs with their high heels and clear voices, finally out of sight of home, their hair dancing above unbuttoned jackets and tight tops; important men with their universal uniforms