Part 23 (2/2)

She drummed her fingers in irritation as her computer slowly started up, then Googled 'goran nilsson' and got several hundred results.

There were so many Goran Nilssons in the world. She searched through the results and then turned instead to the Yellow Pages website to see how common the name really was, trying different districts at random. There were 73 in Blekinge alone, 55 in Boras, 205 in Stockholm and 46 in Norrbotten. Several thousand in the whole country, in other words.

She had to narrow the search somehow, add another word to the terms.

'goran nilsson sattajarvi'. No results.

The letters, she thought. Maoism or left-wing groups Maoism or left-wing groups.

Bingo. Ma.s.ses of hits, like Kristina Nilsson Nilsson, Mao Mao Zedong, Zedong, Goran Goran Andersson, all in the same result. Andersson, all in the same result.

Then she tried to find pictures instead, 'goran nilsson mao'.

Four results, small squares on the screen that she squinted at, leaning right forward. Two were logos for something she didn't investigate further, one cultural revolutionary portrait of the Master himself on someone's homepage, and finally a black-and-white picture of some young people in dated outfits. She looked closer, reading the description, clicked on the link and reached a homepage that someone had set up about their youth in Uppsala. There was a caption that put the picture in context.

After the establishment of the fundamental 9 April Declaration, Mats Andersson, Fredrik Svensson, Hans Larsson and Goran Nilsson were prepared to bravely mobilize the ma.s.ses in the name of the Master.

She read the text twice, surprised at the slightly ridiculous religiosity it suggested. Then she stared at the young man on the far right, his shoulder hidden behind the man next to him, short hair, nondescript features, evidently not that tall. Dark eyes that were staring at a point to the left of the photographer.

She clicked back to the front page of the site and discovered that there were more photographs from Uppsala on the server, several from various demonstrations, but mostly from parties of one sort or another. She looked through all of them, but the dark young man named Goran Nilsson didn't appear on any of the others.

Could it be him? Could he really have been an identifiable activist in the sixties, in which case he might well appear in various media from those days?

Archives like that were never available digitally; it was all envelopes of pictures and cuttings.

Her newspaper had the largest archive in the country. She grabbed the phone and asked the archivists to check if they had anything on a Goran Nilsson in Maoist groups at the end of the sixties. The woman who took her call showed little enthusiasm.

'When do you need it?'

'Yesterday,' Annika said. 'It's urgent.'

'When isn't it?'

'I'm sitting here waiting and can't do anything until I hear from you.'

An almost inaudible sigh on the line. 'I'll do a quick check and see if I can find him in his own right. Reading through everything that was published on Maoism would take several weeks.'

Annika stood and looked out over the newsroom until she got an answer.

'Sorry. No Goran Nilsson described as a Maoist. We've got a couple of hundred others though.'

'Thanks for checking so quickly,' Annika said.

What other archives were there from that period, in the places where Maoists were active? The university cities, she thought. The Compet.i.tor The Compet.i.tor existed then, but there was no point in calling them. existed then, but there was no point in calling them. Upsala Nya Tidning Upsala Nya Tidning? She had no contact there. Was there a newspaper in Lund?

She scratched her head in irritation.

What about Lulea?

She had picked up the phone and dialled the Norrland News Norrland News reception before even realizing she was doing it. reception before even realizing she was doing it.

'Hans Blomberg was off sick yesterday, I don't know if he'll be in today,' the receptionist said, ready to disconnect her.

Annika suddenly felt an immediate and inexplicable fear. Good G.o.d, surely nothing could have happened to him?

'Why? Is it serious?'

The receptionist sighed, as if she were dealing with someone who was a bit slow. 'Burned out, like everyone else. Personally I think they're just lazy.'

Annika started. 'You're not serious?' she said 'Have you thought that all these people started getting burned out when we joined the EU? All the s.h.i.+t coming over our borders comes from the EU, people, toxins, burn-out. And to think I voted yes. Fooled, that's what we were.'

'Is Hans Blomberg often ill?'

'He only works part time now, got a disability pension a while back. Often he's not even here on the days he's meant to be.'

Annika bit her lip. She had to get into the Norrland News Norrland News archive as soon as possible. archive as soon as possible.

'Can you ask him to call me when he comes in?' She left her name and number.

'If he comes in,' the receptionist said. he comes in,' the receptionist said.

Goran Nilsson, she thought as she hung up and stared at the young man on her computer screen. Is that you, Goran? Is that you, Goran?

The coffee machine had been repaired and the drinks were hotter than ever. She took her two cups into her room, letting the caffeine warm her brain.

Her eyes were stinging from lack of sleep. She had lain in bed with her eyes closed for hours while Thomas twisted and turned, moaning and scratching. The death of the local councillor had really shaken him.

She shook off her tiredness and carried on searching, typing in 'Sattajarvi', and reached a site about a building project at the end of the nineties.

There was a map. She leaned towards the screen to find the village and could just make out the tiny letters spelling out the names in the surrounding area: Roukuvaara, Ohtanajarvi, Kompeluslehto.

Not just another language, she thought. Another country, frozen solid, stretching up across the tundra above the Arctic Circle Another country, frozen solid, stretching up across the tundra above the Arctic Circle.

She leaned back.

What was it like growing up north of the Arctic Circle in the fifties, in a family where the father was a religious leader in a strict and weird belief system?

Annika knew the Swiss psychoa.n.a.lyst Alice Miller had found that a striking number of West German terrorists were the children of Protestant ministers. Miller saw a connection: the terrorist's violence was a rebellion against a strict religious upbringing. The same could easily be true of Sweden and Laestadianism, the religious movement of Northern Sweden.

Annika rubbed her eyes. At that moment she caught sight of Berit hurrying past. She forced her mind to clear and pulled herself up out of her chair.

'Have you got a minute?' she called from her door.

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