LITMIR.BIZ

       5

      ‘We now commit Adnan Kassab’s remains to eternal rest.’

      The funeral director knelt on the mat surrounding the little hole and carefully placed the urn inside it. Down there threads of roots stuck out here and there, like narrow hairy fingers groping out of the earth and reaching toward the weak winter light.

      They must have used a digger to break through the frozen ground, Atif thought. One single scoop in the ground, that was all it would have taken. Adnan had hardly been of a religious persuasion, so using a priest or an imam would have felt strange. Better like this. Cremation, a short ceremony, and then down with the urn. He glanced toward Cassandra, who was standing next to him. She hadn’t wanted Tindra to attend the funeral, said she was too young. A six-year-old shouldn’t have to confront death, at least not yet. There hadn’t been much he could say to that. But one thing he definitely didn’t agree with was the large wreath on the other side of the grave. An overblown affair, presumably the largest you could order, and it made all the others look insignificant.

      Never forgive, never forget written in ornate golden letters on the silk ribbon. The men who had in all likelihood sent the wreath were all standing in the group just behind Atif. A couple of dozen people, almost all men. Most of them were wearing sunglasses even though the sun had barely risen above the pine trees. Several of the men had nodded to Atif as he and Cassandra hurried past in the chapel. There were a few familiar faces, but most of them were unknown. In Adnan’s world, friendship was often a perishable commodity.

      In a short while he would have no choice but to talk to them. Shake their hands, accept their condolences. He wondered whether any of them drove a large Audi with shiny wheel trim. But that was really none of his business. Cassandra wasn’t the sort who liked living alone; she needed a benefactor. Someone to take care of her. Her and Tindra, he corrected himself. The thought of the little girl made him feel slightly brighter. But the feeling vanished when he looked down into the grave again.

      He was hardly in any position to stand in judgement over Cassandra. If it hadn’t been for him, Adnan might have stood a chance. Might not have ended up as a couple of kilos of ash in a cheap urn before he had even turned thirty-five.

      Money, respect, recognition – that was what it was all about. Adnan had followed in Atif’s footsteps, the way he used to in winter when he was little. Adnan had followed the path marked out for him, not reflecting on where it was going to take him. Or on the fact that he was actually walking around in a large circle and would end up back where he started sooner or later. Atif had tried to make his little brother understand – at least that was what he tried to tell himself afterward. Had tried to persuade him that the only way to get anywhere in life was to dare to take a step into unknown territory. But clearly he hadn’t sounded convincing enough.

      After the move to Iraq they only spoke a few times a year. Christmas and birthdays, little more than that. They had mostly talked about Tindra or their mother, never about work – his own or Adnan’s. But Atif had still got the impression that Adnan knew he had changed sides. Maybe their mother had mentioned it, before she disappeared into her own memories. She and Adnan had always been close. He was the youngest, Mommy’s little boy.

      During the early years there had been vague talk of Adnan moving down to join them. They talked about setting up their own business, a security firm, something like that. When their mother got worse Atif even bought a plane ticket for his brother. But a week before he was due to leave, Adnan was arrested for taking part in the robbery of a security van and locked up for two months. The trip was never mentioned again after that. It had never been more than idle talk, Atif thought. Adnan would never have left Tindra. The same would have applied to him if it had been his daughter.

      Atif looked around at the rows of snow-covered gravestones. He hated Swedish cemeteries. He hated the smell of box hedging, which even the snow was unable to hide. The day after tomorrow he would be leaving and going back to the heat, to his house and garden. Leaving all this behind him, for good.

      A gust of wind caught the dark pines, making a dull, rumbling sound that drowned out the funeral director’s concluding words. Beside Atif, Cassandra shivered and pulled her coat tighter.

      Sleep well, little brother, Atif thought.

      ‘So, how are you feeling, David?’

      Sarac gave a little shrug. ‘Bruised, sore, a bit confused. Apart from that, not bad.’ He was clutching the piece of paper in one hand, keeping it under the covers, out of sight of the thin-haired man in the visitor’s chair.

      ‘The doctor said something about gaps in your memory?’

      Sarac tried to force a smile, then glanced down at the note that the nurse had written for him.

       You’ve had a mild stroke.

       You were involved in a car accident in the Söderleden Tunnel on November 23, 2013.

       Your doctor’s name is Jill Vestman.

       The gaps in your memory are …

      ‘Temporary,’ he said quickly. ‘That’ll improve as soon as the swelling goes down a bit.’

      At least Sarac had no trouble remembering Kjell Bergh. He had recognized his balding, overweight boss the moment he walked through the door. Bergh was the sort of man who could never be taken for anything but a police officer, even though he didn’t wear a uniform. There was something about the way he held himself and his weary but watchful eyes. Almost forty years in the force had left their mark.

      ‘So how much do you remember?’ Bergh adjusted the vase of flowers he had just put on the bedside table. There was a note of tension in his voice.

      ‘The accident and the days leading up to it are a bit of a jumble,’ Sarac said. ‘The weeks before too. But all that’s only—’

      ‘Temporary.’ Bergh nodded. ‘Yes, you said.’

      ‘The car accident. Can you tell me what happened?’ Sarac said.

      Bergh shrugged his shoulders and pushed his thin glasses up onto his forehead.

      ‘You drove straight into one of the concrete barriers in the Söderleden Tunnel. Next to the exit for Skanstull. Head-on, no rubber on the road to suggest that you braked, according to the traffic unit. Molnar’s group got there just after the accident and managed to put the fire out. I heard that a couple of the guys were in tears, it looked so bad.’

      Sarac

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