Shadow Read Free

she would have to fill out an inventory form on which furniture and objects of value had to be listed along with any other assets found, such as cash. Any property belonging to the deceased would go firstly to pay for funeral expenses and a headstone, and secondly to the settlement of the estate. Whatever remained would go to any creditors.
    Solveig took a quick look through the other wardrobe, then they both moved into the living room. This room was mainly furnished with older pieces. A bureau, a bookshelf and a more modern sofa – nothing that would generate large sums for the estate. A bed had been set up in front of the TV, and on the table next to it lay a TV guide, two scraped-off lottery tickets with no win, and a considerable array of medicines. They stood lined up on a piece of paper, cross-ruled with handwritten dates: Imdur, aspirin, Bisoprolol, Plavix, Plendil, citalopram, Pravachol.
    It was amazing what society would do to keep people alive. Not to mention the enthusiasm of the pharmaceutical industry.
    Like an exclamation mark amid the old-fashioned furnishings, a red push-button telephone sat on a small table inside the doorway. Marianne went over and leafed through a small stack of papers. A handwritten list of postal giro account numbers for radio service, telephone company and insurance. A notice from Söder Hospital. A supermarket flyer. A brochure from the chemist’s about the use of Bisoprolol. Atthe bottom lay a dog-eared address book. Marianne looked up the letter A. A handful of names and phone numbers were written with different pens, and all but two were crossed out. The sum total of a lifetime of acquaintances collected in a little book. One by one the links to the outside world had vanished and were then deleted.
    Address books were her best tool in the search for relatives. She would ring all the numbers she found, in the hope of persuading someone to come to the funeral. When older people died, the numbers were often disconnected with no forwarding number. Occasionally so much time had passed that new subscribers had taken them over.
    A sudden thought made her turn to the letter R. At the top of the column of names she found what she was looking for. Ragnerfeldt. The name was not crossed out.
    ‘Here are some photos.’ Solveig was kneeling in front of the old bureau with a brown envelope in her hand. Marianne put the address book in her bag and went over to her colleague, casting a glance inside the open bureau doors. Piles of neatly ironed tablecloths, crystal glasses of various designs, a Chinese-inspired coffee service. A red cardboard binder labelled Household Accounts on the spine. Marianne pulled it out and stuffed it into her bag.
    ‘I wonder if this is a picture of her? Looks like it’s from a birthday.’ Solveig turned it over. ‘Nothing written on it.’
    She handed Marianne the picture. A faded colour photo of an elegantly dressed woman sitting in an easy chair surrounded by vases of flowers. Her hair was brushed back and fastened in a bun. Her face wore a serious expression, as if she wasn’t comfortable being the centre of attention.
    Solveig took out another photo.
    ‘Look, here he is. That’s him, isn’t it?’
    Marianne looked at the picture. Black-and-white this time. Axel Ragnerfeldt was sitting at a wooden table staring into the distance with a coffee cup in his hand. A woman of about the same age and two small children were also at thetable, looking into the camera. A girl and a boy. The boy was a few years older.
    Marianne nodded. ‘That’s definitely him. I didn’t even know he had a family.’
    ‘Maybe it’s not his.’
    ‘It looks like a family photograph.’
    Marianne put the photo back in the envelope and stuffed it into her bag.
    Solveig moved on to the bookshelf. ‘Here are some of his books.’
    Marianne followed her.
    ‘Signed?’
    Solveig opened a book. The florid signature flowed above the printed name, but this time without a personal greeting.