The Shadow Girls by Henning Mankell Page A

these?’
    ‘The next generation.’
    The reporter coughed.
    ‘That’s a strange but interesting answer.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Humlin said.
    ‘But you have to admit,’ the reporter continued, ‘it’s a big step for you as a poet to be trying your hand at a crime novel.’
    Humlin stiffened. His knuckles on the hand holding the receiver grew white.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’
    ‘We just received a press announcement from your publisher that you are working on a crime novel to be published in the autumn.’
    Humlin had often had reason to think badly of Lundin in the past, but at this moment – cornered without warning by a reporter – he hated him. The only plot for a crime novel he could possibly think of was that of a writer who murdered hispublisher by stuffing false press announcements down his throat.
    ‘Hello?’ the reporter said. ‘Are you still there?’
    ‘I’m here.’
    ‘Do you want me to repeat the question?’
    ‘No need. It’s just that I’ve decided not to answer any questions about the new book. I’ve only just started working on it and it’s easy to lose one’s sense of concentration. It’s a bit like letting unwelcome guests into one’s home.’
    ‘That sounds complicated. But surely you have something to say. Why would your publisher be releasing this information otherwise?’
    ‘That I have no idea about. But I will say that I should be ready to talk about the book in about a month.’
    ‘Can you at least tell me what it’s about?’
    Humlin thought hard.
    ‘I suppose I can say it will play out in the minefields of cultural difference.’
    ‘Look here, Mr Humlin, I can’t write that. No one will understand a word of it.’
    ‘People from different cultures who meet and do not understand each other. Conflicts. Is that better?’ Humlin asked.
    ‘So the murderer targets immigrants?’
    ‘I’m not going to say anything else. But you’re on the wrong track.’
    ‘You mean immigrants are killing Swedes?’
    ‘There are no murders of any kind in this book.’
    ‘How can it be a crime novel?’
    ‘I will say more in due course.’
    ‘When will that be?’
    ‘In about a month.’
    ‘Can you say anything else?’
    ‘No, nothing more at this time.’
    Humlin hung up. The reporter had sounded grumpy by the end. Humlin himself was furious and drenched in sweat. He wanted to call Lundin immediately, but knew that nothing would really come of it. The damage was already done. The crime novel he was thought to be writing was already the new literary sensation.
    *
    Andrea stopped by unexpectedly that evening. Humlin had fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted by his conversation with the reporter. When he heard Andrea at the door he jumped up as if caught in the act of doing something unlawful. But when he heard that she didn’t slam the door he breathed easy. That meant she was not immediately going to attack him. If she closed the door gently that usually meant she was in a good mood.
    She lay down beside him on the sofa and shut her eyes.
    ‘I’m starting to get bitchy,’ she said. ‘I’m turning into an old woman.’
    ‘It’s me. I often give you reason to worry,’ Humlin said. ‘But I’m trying to change all that.’
    Andrea opened her eyes.
    ‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘But maybe one day I’ll get used to it.’
    They cooked dinner together and drank some wine even though it was the middle of the week. Humlin listened patiently while she ranted about the increasing chaos of the Swedish medical system. At the same time he was thinking about the bestway to tell her that he was going to meet with Leyla. But foremost in his mind was what his mother had told him the night before, that she and Andrea discussed intimate details of their private life.
    She seemed to have read his thoughts.
    ‘How was your visit with Märta?’
    ‘Oh, the way it usually is. But she had bought oysters. And then she told me something I didn’t