The Farm by Tom Rob Smith Page B

end of a long gravel drive. Every window on the front looked out onto the pig barn, odd when you consider that there were fields and trees in the other directions. Unlike our farmhouse, which was built two hundred years ago, they’d torn down the original property and put in its place a modern house. By modern I don’t mean a cube of glass, concrete and steel; it was traditionally shaped, on two floors, with pale blue timber cladding, a veranda, a slate roof. They wanted the appearance of tradition but all the advantages of modernity. Our farmhouse, despite its many failings, was more appealing, a genuine representative of Swedish architectural heritage rather than an imitation.
     
    When I knocked on the door there was no reply, but their gleaming silver Saab – and Saab’s not even a Swedish company any more – was in the drive. They were at home, most probably out on the land. In search of them I set off, walking through their fields, absorbing the sheer enormity of their property, an agricultural kingdom – perhaps fifty times the size of our little farm. Nearing the river, I came across a gentle slope covered in weeds, a bump in the landscape. Except it was man-made. Under the mound was the roof of a shelter not dissimilar to the bomb shelters constructed in London during the war or tornado shelters built in America. There was a steel door made from the same material as the roof of the pig barn. The padlock was hanging open. Taking a chance, I knocked and heard a commotion inside. Seconds later the door was pulled open. That was the first time I came face to face with Håkan Greggson.
    • • •

F ROM HER JOURNAL MY MUM produced a newspaper clipping. She held it up for inspection, her cracked nail slicing across the head of Håkan Greggson. I’d seen him before, in the photograph my mum had emailed – the tall stranger in conversation with my dad.
     
    The clipping is from the front page of Hallands Nyheter . The majority of people in the region subscribe. When we refused, because we couldn’t afford the cost, there was malicious chitchat about why we’d snubbed a local institution. There was no option but to subscribe. Chris was furious. I explained to him that you can’t put a price on fitting in. Anyway, I’m showing this to you because you need to understand the power of the man I’m up against.
    Håkan’s in the centre.
    To his right is the tipped-to-be leader of the Christian Democrats, Marie Eklund. A stern woman, one day she’s going to be a great politician, by ‘great’ I mean successful rather than decent. She failed me. I went to her in person, with my allegations, at the height of the crisis. Her office refused to grant me an audience. She wouldn’t even hear me speak.
    On Håkan’s left is the mayor of Falkenberg, the seaside town nearest our farm. Kristofer Dalgaard. His friendliness is so excessive you can’t help but question it. He laughs too loudly at your jokes. He’s too interested in your opinions. Unlike Marie Eklund, he doesn’t have any ambition except to stay exactly where he is, but maintaining the status quo can be as powerful a motivation as wanting to climb upwards.
    And finally there’s Håkan. He’s handsome. I don’t deny it. He’s even more impressive when you meet him in person. Tall with broad shoulders, physically he’s immensely powerful. His skin is tough and tanned. There’s nothing soft about his body – nothing weak. He’s rich enough to employ an army of people while he could act like a decadent emperor, issuing orders from his veranda. That’s not his way. He wakes at dawn and doesn’t finish work until the evening. When you’re in his presence it’s hard to imagine him ever being vulnerable. When he grabs you his grip is unbreakable. Though fifty years old, he has the vigour of a young man, with the cunning of an older man – a dangerous combination. I found him intimidating, even on that first day.
     
    As he emerged from the gloom of his