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I’ve bought a Swedish Police car!

Monday, September 3rd, 2012

This is a TRUE detective story. Yes! I’ve purchased a vintage model, and I’ve cracked a mystery at the same time. It may seem strange that it’s a Ford, when we are more used to seeing Volvos etc. In fact, the Swedish Police have used a whole variety of cars since wayback. It is a Ford Zephyr 6 Mk III. I believe only a small number were purchased, brought in part-built and assembled at the SAAB plant in Trollhättan. The Mk III only had a short run from 1962 – 1966, with only 105,256 made.

O.K. I’ll come clean. When I say it’s a model, it really is that. A model on 1:43 scale. But it is in mint condition and authentic to the period. Very wisely, the previous owner has kept this away from kids’ hands. So mine has the original wing mirrors intact (missing, you will observe in this photograph). I got it cheap off a stall on the market, for 5 English pounds sterling. It’s worth more, but the stallholder was impressed that I knew about its provenance, on what he believed to be a German police car. If it had been in it’s original box, it would have been worth nearer 30 to 40 GBP.

For 5 quid it’s provided me with a lot of fun researching the background. Of particular interest is the livery. The black and white markings are correct for the period. In fact these original police cars were painted with a white top. They were re-sprayed black, after complaints from police forces in Northern Sweden that they could potentially ‘disappear’ in a snowdrift, and not be visible to police helicopters etc.

You see correct examples of the B&W cars in the film of ‘Let The Right One In’ set in 1981. The police livery was changed to white and blue from 1985. Then from 2005 the familiar blue and flourescent yellow ‘Battenburg’ livery was adopted. You see examples of both of the latter as they are phased in, as seen in the Swedish (Henriksson) ‘Wallander’ TV series. The ‘Battenburg’ pattern was actually NOT designed to reflect the colours of the Swedish national flag. An attempt to solve an old problem. The odd geometric configuration was actually ‘designed-in’ by research psychologists, to maximise visibility. In an odd ‘twist-of-fate’ the configuration has been re-imported to many of the U.K. police forces.

So, what became of this Swedish police car? The Zephyr was judged a bit ‘lightweight’ for Swedish requirements and wasn’t re-ordered. It may have been hardy enough for English Pennine police forces, but not reliable enough for Swedish winter weather conditions. It was in use around Stockholm and Göteborg in the south of Sweden, but was consigned to routine traffic duties. Far from the heady ‘cop-chase’ action thrills as seen on the 1960’s BBC groundbreaking gritty police drama of ‘Z-cars’ where the Ford Zephyrs of the title, were as much characters, as the actors.

At this point, the last part of my mystery puzzle started to fall in place. Why such an unrepresentative version of a Swedish police car? The toy I have is one of a limited edition of 2,300 produced for the ‘Police Cars of The World Series’ by Vanguard/ Corgi. The answer to why Valiant chose this model, is that they already had the die-castings as they also produced a West Yorkshire police version, so they just needed to make a few adjustments (note it is left hand drive) and change the livery.

So a slightly ignoble ending to a story of valiance. But, for 5 quid, this toy model has provided me with much joy, and more of a ‘do-it-yourself’ detective story than many a ‘Nordic Noir’ paperback!

K.M.

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Posted in Article, CLASSIFICATION (GENERAL), Creative Non-Fiction, Crime and Forensics, Social Reality, TYPE / GENRE / INTEREST | No comments »

TWO VIEWS FROM UTØYA

Sunday, July 31st, 2011

INSIDE THE MIND OF A KILLER

Inside my mind there is sure perfect calm
Before the storm that will surely come
For ‘I’/'me’ will be the Eye of the Storm
‘The Cleansing’ you need in ME is Born

For every Crusade, yes that always rages
Throughout History’s yellowed pages
We say ‘Cometh the Man cometh the Hour’
And, I now must such innocence deflower

She kneeled before me, begged for mercy
I smiled, ‘Your re-formation is my duty’
I knelt, and smelled her hair so clean so fresh
Then put the final bullet through her flesh

I write so much my hands now are cramped
A thousand pages of my own ‘Mein Kampf’
So lock me in some Norwegian Landsberg
It’s all Power to me, the immovable iceberg

What wondrous works will I then produce?
A generation’s minds I will then seduce
I will feed deep down on their feeble brains
For I am THE Hero of the New-Volk domain

‘Eloi, Eloi ?’ I say ‘Lama Sabach Thanni?’
Papa, Papa, It was YOU deserted ME
On the Streets of London, I was betrayed
And now, here I am, the spawn of your seed

THE ISLAND

Death, came paid a visit to the island today
Death, came here and took our lives away
Death, came here, a wolf in sheeps clothing
Death, came to satiate his own self-loathing

Death, please pause, cause I’m only fifteen
Death, you lock the slugs into the magazine
Death, is it two wrongs don’t make a right?
Death, please tell me if I’m wrong or right?

Death, tell me just before you pull the trigger
Death, you see me as one more white nigger?
Death, you have family and friends yes, true?
Death, you kill me and you shoot yourself too

Death heard, however he would not relent
Death has a Christian soul but so impenitent
Death’s manhood lies flagging so impotent
Death’s Nazi-ism only that of a malcontent

Death, came paid a visit to the island today
Death, a coward didn’t take his own life away
Death, killed innocence, brought us to a head
Death, we’re remembered, you are long dead

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Posted in Analysis, Creative Non-Fiction, Events, Poetry, Psychology & Behaviour, Social Reality, Society and Sociology | 1 comment »

Stalker In The Dalsland Woods

Sunday, June 26th, 2011

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[Short Story, 990 words: Nordic noir, paranormal mystery, dark romance]

February 28th 2010

I sensed it again, as I have for the past week. Making my way alone, along the woodland path, between our farmhouse and the office where I work at the saw mill sheds, here in Dalsland. I pause and take in the air. It is watching, calmly, perhaps even nervously. It waits for me to pass on my daily route, then I feel its prescence fade. I know we both feel the skipped heartbeat of potential meeting, followed by the pain of separation. I feel no intuitive sense of fear, just curiousity and fascination. Personally, I intuit nothing but a need for companionship deep inside. A fellow traveller of the Swedish woodlands unsure and wary, tentatively following me.

I use the word ‘sensed’ advisedly. Being brought up in the country develops your senses. I have noticed cityfolk are often dependent on eyesight, for clues about the world around them. Perhaps the roar of traffic drowns out sensitive nuances in the landscape, that a country-bred person can ‘hear’.

It’s as if there is a pattern of sound that we expect to hear in the woods, a symphony of birdsong, animal cries, hum, buzz, and leaf rustle, accordingly orchestrated by the time of year. Once again, the template was disturbed. This is not like the muffled muted sound of winter snow. The punctuation by sharp cracks of noise on the thin clear air, like ice breaking on Lake Vänern. Now it is getting towards Springtime, but there is a hole in the wall of sound as I pass by my visitor. There is a silent emptiness while Nature holds its breath.

When I say I sensed ‘it’ I would show more acuity if I said ‘he’. Whatever is there, is definitely male. Among the heightened senses of the country dweller you can say the sense of smell is better developed. There is a definite musk note marking the atmosphere. This is beyond the dank smell of wet moss, fungii, exposed earth and animal trails.

While I was away at university in Stockholm, my fellow students used to mock my country ways. At the Karolinska Institute we studied physiology in lab experiments, using each other as subjects. My results for sensory acuity were exceptional. I told them I just put it down to my country upbringing. They even laughed, and some said I must be descended from some kind of werewolf.

I tread warily as I negotiate the woodland path. I imagine he sweats with anticipation, as I approach, and stifles his deep breathing to supress the clues of his location. But what is he? Who is he, and what does he want? Why is he so afraid of discovery? There are no bears left anywhere now. Likely, its just a very cautious roe deer or fox. It’s a very macho society up here in the plantations and logging camps. Perhaps he just smells the difference in me. I just intuit a fascination with me, almost a desire to protect or possess.

The guys at the saw mill joke when I tell them. They try to scare me by telling me it’s a wolf. There are no wolves here. Over the county border in Värmland, close to the Norwegian border, are a few remaining packs that haven’t died out through lack of breeding opportunities. Although that said, in January the government did permit a limited cull, the first in forty-five years. In theory, a wolf could make it this far travelling through the continuous woodland. In practice though, no wolf would attempt this unless it had a very determined nature. I did think that maybe it was one of the guys trying to freak me out, but I can’t see a practical joke going on this long.

I haven’t told my adoptive parents about this, I don’t want them to worry. They don’t need me interrogating them. It always produces a big strain between us when I badger them about the circumstances of my birth. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’ as they say, but I’m still no clearer about my origins and parentage. It just produces mutually frosty reaction between us. Anyhow, all this was a few days ago. Yesterday, I didn’t sense any prescence at all. Maybe he’s been caught in some animal trap? I haven’t heard anything pining or whining. I hope he’s alright.

I found my sleep disturbed last night. It was as if he was communicating to me. I couldn’t see much but it was a guy for sure. It was dark and my eyes kept peering through the gloom and mist, but I couldn’t see much except for the heavy fur coat he was wearing. He spoke to me but it sounded like an unfamiliar dialect, very guttural, definitely not from around here. I tried speaking but couldn’t get words out. It was definitely him though, I caught his warm musk scent signature. Somehow it felt like he was calling to me, a call from the wild. I woke in a start, shivering, and looked out of the window. I could see nothing. Perhaps he was out there, looking up, observing me from some far corner of the farmyard.

I am determined to go and look for him later tonight. I feel that he needs me and I must respond. It is a full Moon tonight so I will be able to see my way more clearly. Today is bright and sunny so the air will be clear. I will wear my Winter furs though, as it will be cold. I feel a sense of impulsion to stalk my strange visitor until we meet face to face. I hope he will be there to greet me. I feel no sense of fear about this adventure, only exhilaration like going on a ‘blind date’, no, more than that .. an elopement. I’m only writing this in my journal …in case … I don’t come back.

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Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Media, Paranormal, Psychology & Behaviour, Supernatural | 1 comment »

ADAGIO IN G MINOR: A Euro-Musical Mystery story

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

Illustration by Victoria Frances

This is a real life ’cold’ case. Perhaps you can help to resolve it? Your input is valued. This is taken from my own libretto developed from the work. Arrangements vary slightly. This is my own setting to ‘Adagio per flauto; Archi ed organo’ Gunilla Von Bahr & Stockholms Kammerenensemble.

Albinoni’s ‘Adagio in G minor’ is a well-loved but doomy, piece of music. The natural assumption being that it was written by the Venetian composer Tomaso Albinoni. Those who search further may be aware that it is often credited as composed by Remo Giazotto, a 20th century musicologist. Sometimes it is represented as ‘arranged by Giazotto’.

The confusion arises over Giazotto’s claim that the composition is founded on his own detective work in making sense of a fragment of manuscript. This, it was claimed was recovered from the State Library in Dresden, shortly after the cessation of hostilities in World War II. This rather conflicted with findings that though the building had been destroyed by Allied bombing, the armed forces had managed to salvage most of its collection.

Key dates circulate around the year ’8’. Attention being focussed on the year 1948, and the questioning of some of the assumptions set out by Giazotto. Purportedly written by Albinoni in 1708. Giazotto copyrights the work and it is published in in 1958. He dies in 1998, never having produced his claimed evidence.

Since then, research has concluded that this piece never existed in the Saxon State Library. Questions, but few answers. Why not stand by, and claim the original as his own? Why the subterfuge? Perhaps an eclectic combination of forensic science, human psychology, artistic reconstruction, and musical intuition, can resolve this unsolved mystery?

What do you think?

ADAGIO

(Organ/ Bass intro)

And when I feel the darkness
Rest heavy on my shoulder
There is nothing to compare
But only to stand and stare
In my own eyes revealed
Even, so ..

So what is, what is, what is love?
Love?
And what is warmth?
Without a soul?
I do not know
I do not know
I do not know

(Organ/ Bass passage)

Even the coldest snow-winds
They will not chill my heartstrings
There is only love in my heart
And nothing can turn me blue
And all this, it must be true
It, is true.

For even in the darkest night
I, still sense your light
Am drawn to it
What am I to do
What am I to do
What am I to do?

(Flute lead over string chord sequences)
(Orchestral section/ organ passage)
(Organ/ Bass intro reprise)

Oh what is love without you?
Without the light I’m blinded
Without your own light to guide me?
I sink into the pit of gloom

Oh
Give me the keys
Unlock your very own soul
Let me in and warm my heart

(Flute/ organ/ orchestral interlude)

So turn away!
Turn away, turn away

I am alone, I am alone!
I am alone
I am alone
I am alone

Go turn away, go turn away
Turn away, turn away
Turn away,
Turn me away

Alone!
Damned!
Go home!
Gone in darkness
Light, surpasses

All ….
All, is one now!
All, is gone now!
All, is gone
Truthfully
Truthfully
Truthfully
I am gone

(Flute section/ finale)

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Posted in Analysis, Article, Creative Non-Fiction, Fantasy, Music, Mystery | 2 comments »

TRIBUTE TO A MOONBEAM

Thursday, May 12th, 2011

Imagine if you were the following character from a book or film: Born to radical-lifestyle leaning parents, with your mother just turned eighteen. Frequent moves in your early life from town to town, with your parents separating a year after your birth. Your acting career commences aged nine in a TV series. You continue balancing schoolwork and theatre acting. You set up home for yourself aged fifteen, in your country’s capital city. By this time another two film roles behind you, one of which is the lead. At sixteen you quit school to co-star in a feature film for which you a jointly awarded Best Actor by your country’s national film academy.

In the next four years you write for magazines, make personal appearances and you star in another six films and/or TV series. This includes your first role in an internationally acclaimed film. You then suddenly stop acting as a career, return to high school in adult education classes. You pass examinations with flying colours, master computer programming among other skills, and enrol at university. You achieve your new ambition and qualify as a medical doctor, specialising in pediatrics. In between times you are still active in feminist and radical political circles. During this time you have become married, and given birth to your own three children.

And all of this before the age of thirty! Would you find it believable? Well this is no fictional story, it is the true life of Rebecka Månstråle (Moonbeam) Liljeberg, born May 13th 1981. [sometimes credited as Rebecca Liljeberg].

I therefore take this opportunity to wish her a happy thirtieth birthday on May 13th 2011!

If you live outside Sweden, it is possible you might ask ‘who is Rebecka Liljeberg?’’ but within Sweden, she is considered a national treasure. These notes are a tribute to Rebecka.

I guess all of us hope to lead happy and fulfilling lives. Likewise, I believe most of us at some time feel our achievements fall short on our ambitions. Rebecka is a fine example of just what can be attained when we put our minds to it. Without the benefit of family contacts in the industry, the determination she learned at her mother’s knee paid dividends. Natural talent amplified by sheer will-power. Not all of us get the same opportunities to prove ourselves in life. It is also inspiringly typical of Rebecka that she acknowledges her good fortune. Her life is now personally dedicated to her own family, and professionally to the most vulnerable in society: helping heal sick children.

She has never ruled out a return to acting at some point in the future, but it is probably unlikely if ever. It is perhaps a tribute to her enduring popularity that she was ranked fourth among Swedish actors to place the role of Lisbeth Salander in a poll in a Swedish national newspaper. All this, given her unavailability for the part! It would be sad, but understandable, if we did not see her talents applied again to the world of entertainment. The story of child actors and burnout is all too commonplace. Rebecka chose to make a completely tangential move while her artistic career had reached a high-point. In her all-too-brief meteoric career in acting, she has left us with a lasting legacy of acutely observed performance. Her moonbeam continues to glow down on us.

Rebecca Liljeberg, actor, now more commonly recognised as Dr Rebecka Liljeberg.

Happy Birthday, and many happy returns!

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Posted in Article, CLASSIFICATION (GENERAL), Celebrity, Events, Films, Media, Social Reality, TYPE / GENRE / INTEREST | 5 comments »

THE GIRL WHO WOKE UP TOO SOON

Tuesday, March 1st, 2011

The Girl woke with a start. She was in a sweat, but as she sat bolt upright in bed, the cool air hit her like a pail of cold water. Someone had thoughtfully left a nitelight on. She checked the electric clock on the bedside table. 07.00 – 10:11:04. She rubbed her eyes, disbelieving. What the Hell was this, was she way down the South in Sweden then? What was South? More to the point, who was she?

By the table was a pile of magazines. At the top were newspapers in an unfamiliar language. The Girl flicked through them till she came upon one called ‘Millenium.’ She was unsure exactly why, but that seemed to mean something to her. Her eyes were too unfocussed to read beyond the headlines. Her head throbbed and she had a stomach cramp. It felt like something called a ‘hangover’ but she knew deep inside that she didn’t drink that much.

The back of her mind was wrestling, trying to make sense of a dream she had woken from. Was she still in a dream? It troubled her. Not only did she know that she didn’t drink much, she also knew that she didn’t dream much. Dreams to her were nightmares. They belonged back in that other time ‘when all the trouble began.’ Dreams, like dead people should be buried deep underground and not disturbed, she recalled.

Her fingers fumbled over the bedside table. There was a jug of water and a glass. Ignoring the glass, she lifted the jug and drained its contents. She spat across the room. Tepid, the water tasted of metal. She caught a small glass dish of small pastel pebble shaped objects. Nervously she sucked on one and the hit of sugar registered. She bit hard and crunched. To her disgust, the aroma of cyanide filled her nostrils and she spat out the sugar almond.

There was suddenly the sound of a metallic clanking and creaking of wooden floorboards. Her mind was on red alert until something deep in her brain told her to relax, this was central heating coming on.

Feeling her way over the objects on the bedside table she encountered a small cardboard pack. Tentatively she flipped open the lid. She studied the contents. Instinctively she knew they were not for eating. Drawing out a small cylindrical tube she put it to her lips. There was a shiny metal object next to the pack. Her fingers flipped randomly until this object produced a spark. Lighting the object, she drew deeply in. It felt good. Seconds after feeling good she coughed and spluttered. She felt easy but also queasy and stubbed out the cigarette.

The girl rubbed her temples. Something wasn’t right here. She surveyed the room. It seemed semi-familiar and gave her a good feeling. Against that her survival instincts beat at her breast.

She got up off the bed and explored the room. She checked herself then realised the door was open. Someone was there staring at her. She attacked the tall wooden structure. Suddenly the reflection hit her hard. At first it felt like someone had just opened the door inwards and a stranger had stepped in and was staring at her.

The rational part of her mind fought for control with the ghostly image. The image was her but not her. At first she jerked backwards She raised her fist to smite down the apparition in her Nazi uniform. At the first punch her knuckles were bruised. The shape mirrored her movements as she did battle with it. She punched and kicked and screamed abuse, landing blows on cold flat smoothness instead of bones and flesh.

With an almighty crash the door disintegrated as shards of glass flew off at tangents. The invader was dead. The Girl’s skinned knuckles and her bare feet were cut and bleeding. She paused and drew breath. Lighting another cigarette, she mourned over a chunk of shattered mirror as she studied herself. ‘I’m sorry Camilla. There’s only room for one of us in this World.’

The Girl squatted on the floor. She held up fragments of mirror and observed herself. She moved the mirror plane observing her whole naked body, trying to read the significance of the tattoos carved deep within her.

There was a sound of gunfire. The rat-tat-tat of machine-gun exchange in the distance. It disturbed her reverie. It seemed to be getting closer. Pushing back the drapes, she found French windows opening onto some sort of courtyard. Movement activated lights came on as a line of horseback riders entered the courtyard.

A young woman at the head of the party called up to her and waved enthusiastically, ‘Lisbeth!’

The name Lisbeth meant something to her she was sure. She struggled to place a name for the leader of the riding group. ‘G -G – Gina?’

The ginger headed girl below called back, ‘Yes, Georgina!’

Lisbeth surveyed the sky without reason. She saw the silvery globe low on the horizon. ‘Moon’ she mouthed.

‘Yes! that’s it?’ came the reply.

For some reason, her prescence seemed to be causing amusement among the gaggle of horseback riders, who appeared to be mostly young girls. What looked like an older man to the left of Georgina called out to her, ‘Perhaps Lisbeth should put some clothes on?’ He trooped off to the left and the riding party followed suit.

Lisbeth sensed her predicament and pulled a drape around her torso. ‘Who’s that mofo?’

Georgina called back ‘It’s Paul!’

‘Chako Paul, Shakabao, Paul who?’ Lisbeth shouted back annoyed.

‘McCartney of course!’

‘Never heard of him, doesn’t mean anything to me.’

Georgina giggled. ‘I think that bump on the head may have affected you.’

Lisbeth summoned up the best of her reasoning powers. ‘Just the fuck explain: where am I , whose house am I in, what happened?’

Georgina calmed her restless horse, and attempted to put together a sequence of thoughts. ‘Mmmm you’re in Fairlight, East Sussex. It’s your house, well farm actually. You took a bad fall off a horse, you were concussed. I’m looking after you?’

The inter-neurons beneath the ice-cap of Lisbeth Salander’s skull went into overdrive. Like pieces of a frozen fragmented jigsaw they began to collide and fit together. ‘I’m hungry, I want breakfast. NOW!’

Georgina responded ‘Why don’t you put on a gown and join us for breakfast?’

‘I want breakfast in bed’ Lisbeth asserted, as she felt a resurgence of authority building up inside her.

‘Any preferences?’ Georgina enquired hesistantly.

‘PIZZA of course!’ came the certain reply, ‘Make it Pepperoni.’

‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’ Georgina nodded, ’but, it may be cheese pizza, with a bacon sandwich. Anything else?’

‘Get me my laptop.’

Georgina nodded in a dispirited way, ‘is that it?’

Lisbeth sucked in the chilled Sussex air through her flared nostrils. Feelings she was unfamiliar with, connected themselves. She observed her flaming-haired disciple. ‘Yeh. You.’

‘Breakfast in bed, with a side order of me, coming up’ Georgina exhaled.

Lisbeth Salander looked out over the Sussex Downs and began to feel at home. The fog and mist in her mind dispersed as the first rays of sunlight penetrated the cloud cover. She pinched herself. She was not dreaming now, but what just what did those dreams mean?

[This is a draft sketch from the first chapter to my novel 'THE GIRL WHO DREAMED TOO MUCH'. The storyline is © Copyright to the Author. The identified character 'Lisbeth Salander' is the intellectual property of the Estate of the late Stieg Larsson (all rights reserved).]

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Posted in Books, Crime and Forensics, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Films, Psychology & Behaviour, Series | 2 comments »