Buried Angels. Camilla Lackberg
Chapter Seven
He’d been preparing for weeks. It had proved difficult to get an interview with John Holm in Stockholm, but since the politician was coming to Fjällbacka on holiday, Kjell had managed to persuade him to give up an hour of his time for a profile article to be published in Bohusläningen.
Kjell was sure that Holm would know of his father, Frans Ringholm, who had been one of the founders of the Friends of Sweden, the party which Holm now led. The fact that Frans was a Nazi sympathizer was one of the reasons that Kjell had distanced himself from his father. Shortly before Frans died, Kjell had come to some measure of reconciliation with him, but he would never share his father’s views. Just as he would never respect Friends of Sweden or its newfound success.
They had agreed to meet at Holm’s boathouse. The drive to Fjällbacka from Uddevalla took almost an hour in the summer traffic. Ten minutes late, Kjell parked on the gravel area in front of the boathouse, hoping that his tardiness would not cut into the hour he’d been promised for the interview.
‘Take a few pictures while we’re talking, just in case there’s no time afterwards,’ he told his colleague as they got out of the car. He knew this wouldn’t be a problem. Stefan was the newspaper’s most experienced photographer, and he always delivered, no matter what the circumstances.
‘Welcome!’ said Holm as he came to meet them.
‘Thanks,’ said Kjell. He had to make a real effort to shake Holm’s hand. Not only were his views repulsive, but he was also one of the most dangerous men in Sweden.
Holm led the way through the little boathouse and out on to the dock.
‘I never met your father. But I understand that he was a man who commanded respect.’
‘Well, spending a number of years in prison does have that effect.’
‘It can’t have been easy for you, growing up under those conditions,’ said Holm, sitting down on a patio chair next to a fence that offered some protection from the wind.
For a moment Kjell was gripped by envy. It seemed so unfair that a man like John Holm owned such a beautiful place, with a view of the harbour and archipelago. To hide his antipathy, Kjell sat down across from the politician and began fiddling with the tape recorder. He was well aware that life was unfair, and from the research he’d done, he knew that Holm had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
The tape recorder started up. It appeared to be working properly, so Kjell began the interview.
‘Why do you think you’ve now been able to secure a seat in the Riksdag?’
It was always a good idea to start off cautiously. He also knew that he was lucky to catch Holm alone. In Stockholm the press secretary and other people would have been present. Right now he had Holm all to himself, and he was hoping that the party leader would be relaxed seeing as he was on holiday and on his own turf.
‘I think the Swedish people have matured. We’ve become more aware of the rest of the world and how it affects us. For a long time we’ve been too gullible, but now we’re starting to wake up, and the Friends of Sweden has the privilege of representing the voice of reason during this period of awakening,’ said Holm with a smile.
Kjell could understand why people were drawn to this man. He had a charisma and a self-confidence that made others willing to believe what he said. But Kjell was too jaded to fall for that sort of personal charm, and it made his hackles rise to hear Holm’s use of ‘we’ when referring to himself and the Swedish people. John Holm certainly did not represent the majority of Swedes. They were better than that.
He continued with the innocent questions: How did it feel to enter parliament as a member? How had he been received? What was his view of the political work being done in Stockholm? The whole time Stefan circled around them with his camera, and Kjell could imagine what the pictures would show. John Holm sitting on his own private dock with the sea glittering in the background. This was a far cry from the formal photos that usually appeared in the newspapers, showing him wearing a suit and tie.
Kjell cast a quick glance at his watch. They were twenty minutes into the interview, and the mood he’d set was pleasant, if not exactly warm. It was now time to start asking the real questions. During the weeks that had passed since his request for an interview had been granted, Kjell had read countless articles about Holm and watched numerous clips of televised debates. So many journalists had made a poor job of it, barely scraping the surface. On the rare occasions they did slip in a probing question, they were invariably fobbed off with a self-assured response that was riddled with erroneous statistics and outright lies that they never thought to challenge. Such shoddy work made Kjell ashamed to call himself a journalist. Unlike his colleagues, he had done his homework.
‘Your budget is based on the huge savings which, according to your party, the country will achieve if immigration is halted. To the tune of seventy-eight billion Swedish kronor. How did you arrive at that figure?’
Holm gave a start. A furrow appeared between his eyebrows, signalling a slight annoyance, but it swiftly disappeared, to be replaced by his usual smile.
‘The numbers have been carefully substantiated.’
‘Are you sure about that? Because quite a few people have been saying that your calculations are wrong. Let me give you an example. You claim that only ten per cent of those who come to Sweden as immigrants actually get jobs.’
‘Yes, that’s correct. There’s high unemployment among the people that we allow into Sweden, and that places an enormous economic burden on our society.’
‘But according to the statistics I’ve seen, sixty-five per cent of all immigrants in Sweden between the ages of twenty and sixty-four have jobs.’
Holm didn’t reply, and Kjell could practically see his brain working overtime.
‘The figure I have is ten per cent,’ he said at last.
‘And you don’t know how that number was derived?’
‘No.’
Kjell was beginning to enjoy the situation. ‘According to your calculations, the country would also save a great deal because the cost of social services would be lowered if immigration was stopped. But a study of the period from 1980 to 1990 shows that the tax income contributed by immigrants greatly exceeds state expenditure on immigration.’
‘That doesn’t sound at all credible,’ said Holm with a wry smile. ‘The Swedish people can no longer be fooled by such fraudulent studies. It’s common knowledge that immigrants take advantage of the social service system.’
‘I have a copy of the study right here. Feel free to hang on to it and go through it at your leisure.’ Kjell pulled out a sheaf of papers and placed them in front of Holm.
He didn’t even glance at them. ‘I have people to attend to stuff like that.’
‘I’m sure you do, but they don’t seem to read very well,’ said Kjell. ‘Let’s consider how much it would cost to implement your proposals. For instance, the universal military service you want to institute – what would that bill run to? Shouldn’t you be able to list all the costs so we can see what they are?’ He slid a notepad and pen over to Holm, who glanced at them with an expression of distaste.
‘All the numbers are included in our budget. You can look it up.’
‘So you don’t have them memorized? Despite the fact that your budget figures are the core of your policy-making?’
‘Of course I have a thorough understanding of the finances.’ Holm shoved the notepad away. ‘But I have no intention of sitting here and jumping through hoops.’
‘All