The Living and the Dead in Winsford

17

It was the twenty-fourth of January 1986.

In the morning I had dropped off the children and was getting ready to travel to the Monkeyhouse. I was due to read the early evening news and didn’t need to be in the studio until one o’clock.

The telephone rang. It was Martin.

‘We have a problem,’ he said.

‘Really?’ I said.

‘My sister. She’s made a mess of things again. She’ll be coming over this evening.’

‘I thought she was in Spain?’

‘So did I. But she’s evidently been at home here in Sweden since Christmas.’

‘I see. And what’s the problem this time?’

Vivianne was Martin’s only sibling, and if she had a problem now it certainly wasn’t anything new. She had been divorced three times — but no children, thank God — and she had lived her life so far on the periphery of the film world. In January 1986 she was thirty-eight, five years older than her brother. It had all begun quite early on, when she was involved in two Swedish films in the sixties while she was still a teenager: one of them was regarded as an excellent example of the new vogue of Swedish sex and was sold to several countries. In connection with that Vivianne had met a rich American producer, married him and moved to Hollywood. She made a few films, met an Italian director, got divorced, married him and moved to Rome. Made a few more films. . And so on.

She had about five nervous breakdowns and five potential scandals behind her when she met the Spanish film mogul Eduard Castel round about 1980, and a sort of stability entered her life. That is what she claimed, in any case, and what we convinced ourselves. She even made a film that was featured at the Cannes festival, in which she played the role of a woman torn between love and sexual liberation. Martin and I saw it in Stockholm, and agreed afterwards that she had played the part brilliantly.

We had very little contact with Vivianne; it was really only when she was going through one of her crises that she remembered she had a brother. Martin used to sum her up as the triple m: a manipulative, manic-depressive mythomaniac.

And now it seemed to be a case of here we go again. I thought hard and concluded that I hadn’t seen her for over two years. She had stayed with us for a few days when she was in Sweden after her divorce from Castel. Synn had been born that year, and I was starting to recover from my post-natal depression — but my condition was a summer breeze compared with Vivianne’s state. Naturally, we had sat up three nights in a row, talking to her and drinking red wine.

‘I don’t really know what’s going on,’ said Martin now, on that freezing cold day in January 1986. ‘She was quite reticent. But she did say that it’s a delicate situation, and she’ll be coming round to us this evening. If I understood it rightly, she won’t be on her own.’

‘Not on her own?’

‘No, but I’m not certain. She asked if she could stay the night with us.’

‘What? Are you saying that Vivianne actually asked?’

‘Yes, she did. What’s so remarkable about that?’

‘Nothing, I suppose. But she doesn’t usually ask.’

It was silly of me, and Martin hated the role of protector of his sister. He disliked her just as much as I did, but we both found it hard to say no to her. He said nothing for a while, and I apologized.

‘Okay, it’ll work itself out, no doubt. When exactly is she coming?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Martin. ‘She’s supposed to be ringing again.’

I finished at the Monkeyhouse soon after half past eight, and as I hadn’t heard from Martin all day I rang home to find out what was going on.

‘I think she’s lost the plot,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen her like this before. But I’ve got the kids into bed at least.’

He sounded tired and worn out, and I couldn’t help but feel relieved that it hadn’t been my turn to do the domestic chores that evening. He must have done the shopping, collected the children, made a meal, read some stories and done the washing up. . all the time with his mad sister at his heels. It was of course out of the question that Auntie would have helped out with anything. I asked what exactly was happening.

Martin sighed. ‘She’s waiting for her lover to appear. Yes, you could no doubt say that’s what it’s all about.’

‘And who’s her lover this time round? Why does she have to show him off to us, by the way?’

‘I don’t think she wants to show him off,’ said Martin. ‘It’s more like the other way round.’

‘The other way round?’

‘Yes. It’s precisely because he mustn’t be seen that he’s coming to our house.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Well, God only knows,’ said Martin. ‘What she claims in any case is that he’s a national celebrity. A high-ranking politician — a minister, in fact. They’ve been having a relationship since Christmas. It’s absolutely top secret, and nobody must know about it. They couldn’t possibly meet in a hotel, for instance — that would be much too risky.’

I thought it over for a minute.

‘Do you believe all this?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Martin. ‘But she’s in a right flap, that’s for sure. He was supposed to appear at about eight o’clock, after a government meeting, but there’s been no sign of him yet.’

‘Does she remember that I’m a news presenter on the television?’ I asked.

‘She’s relying on our discretion,’ said Martin. ‘And I’ve promised her.’

‘But we’ll be meeting him, will we?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Martin again. ‘But I assume so.’

We didn’t, in fact. When the alleged lover and national celebrity finally arrived at our house in Nynäshamn — it was almost ten o’clock, I’d been at home for over half an hour — the security level had been raised to the ceiling, with red alert. Martin and I stood in our living room window and watched the proceedings: Vivianne had gone out to meet him when he parked his car a couple of blocks away, exactly as they had arranged on the telephone shortly beforehand. He was quite a slim man, slightly shorter than Vivianne, wearing smart dark clothes and ordinary shoes despite the fact that it was more than ten degrees below zero: but that was just about all we could make out as he was walking pressed up close to Vivianne, staring down at the ground, and with some kind of scarf or jacket hood over his head. It concealed all of his face, and it reminded me of when the police escort an accused into a courthouse so that photographers can’t get pictures of him.

A few metres from the front door Vivianne noticed that we were standing in the window, watching them. She stopped dead and waved at us in annoyance — it was obvious that we were supposed to keep out of the way. We looked at one another, shrugged and went to sit down in the kitchen. I recall thinking that it was among the most absurd situations I had ever experienced, and I was on the point of going out into the hall when I heard them hanging up their outdoor clothes. But Martin saw what I was intending to do, shook his head and placed his hand on my arm.

‘We’d better leave her alone. Things will only get worse if we start interfering.’

‘This is ridiculous, Martin.’

‘I know, but that’s life.’

We heard them walking up the stairs to the guest room, then closing the door and locking it.

Yes, they really did lock the door. When Martin and I tiptoed past soon afterwards, on our way to our own bedroom, we could hear them talking. Very faintly. It sounded like a serious, conspiratorial conversation.

He must have left at some time during the night, for Vivianne was alone when she came down for breakfast the next day. It was a Saturday, both Martin and I had the day off. Vivianne looked tired and shaken, and to begin with she had nothing to say about the previous evening. I at least hoped that we would be spared having to listen to her account of it all, and that she would leave everything shrouded in mystery. But after a cup of coffee she had evidently decided to lift the veil of secrecy somewhat.

‘It’s an incredibly delicate situation,’ she said. ‘There’s so much at stake, and lots of things could go wrong.’

That was not an unusual claim, coming from Vivianne Holinek. Her life had to be littered with drama and perilous situations, otherwise it was not a life worth living.

‘So you are having a relationship with a top politician, and you’re afraid his wife will get to know about it — is that it?’ I asked, and received a dirty look from my husband.

‘I can’t go into details,’ said Vivianne, ‘but it’s much more complicated than that. And I have to bear the responsibility myself. Perhaps it was unfair to involve you, but the situation was such that I didn’t have any choice.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Martin. ‘I thought he looked like-’

‘That’s enough!’ interrupted his sister. ‘No names. Don’t make the situation worse than it is already.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I hope you had a good time anyway.’

‘It’s not like you think,’ said Vivianne.

She left us an hour later, warning that she might well come back. She said she was in a very precarious situation, but given the circumstances her own safety was not the most important consideration. There were much more important things at stake than that. People’s lives could be under threat.

We didn’t hear from her again until a month later. Or rather, it was Martin who heard from her. She telephoned from a hotel in Copenhagen and according to Martin she was totally hysterical. He spoke to her for ten minutes, but I couldn’t hear what was said as I was in another room; however, I could hear that he was doing his best to calm her down. When the call was over, I asked what it was all about this time.

‘She’s mad,’ said Martin. ‘I reckon she’s ripe for the loony bin. She claims that somebody is going to be killed.’

‘Killed?’

‘Yes, and that she can’t do anything about it. I really do think she’s gone off the rails this time.’

Four days later Olof Palme was murdered in Sveavägen in Stockholm. That same day I asked Martin if we ought to contact the police.

‘Not on your life,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t you think there’ll be enough loonies ringing the police with tips? Surely you don’t seriously think that my sister would have anything to do with the assassination of the Swedish Prime Minister?’

I didn’t think so, of course, and as we said nothing from the start, we didn’t say anything later either. And it was over a year before we heard anything from Vivianne again. She was now living in Austria with a professional skiing instructor, and I think I’m right in saying that we only met her twice more before she died.

The fact that she died on the anniversary of Palme’s death was something we discussed briefly, Martin and I. We agreed that it was a coincidence. If it had been ten years later, we might have regarded that as being of some significance: but in fact twelve years had passed.

Nevertheless, I do occasionally think about that mysterious man walking up our drive with the hood concealing his face, I have to admit that.