Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘So it’s correct, then?’

His silence was all the confirmation she needed.

‘Now I’d like you to tell me something,’ he said.

She hesitated, but only for the sake of it. Without the inspector she didn’t have a story.

‘I spoke to someone,’ she said, ‘who says they saw Benny Ekland get run down on Skeppargatan in Svartöstaden. There was a gold-coloured Volvo V70 parked in the entrance to the football pitch, the front facing the road, with a man at the wheel. When Benny Ekland stumbled past the engine started, the car pulled out and drove at Ekland at full speed. My witness says Ekland tried to get out of the way, running from one side of the road to the other, but the car followed him. The collision happened more or less in the middle of the road.’

‘Bloody hell,’ the inspector muttered.

‘It gets worse,’ Annika said. ‘Ekland hit the car twice, and was thrown into the air, landing in the middle of the road. The car stopped, reversed and drove over him again, and then over his head. After driving over his skull the driver stopped – definitely a man – got out of the car and dragged the body up the slope towards the football pitch. There he wiped down the body somehow, then drove off towards – what’s it called? – Sjöfartsgatan, down towards LKAB’s ore terminal. What was the damage to the car?’

‘Front and windscreen,’ Inspector Suup said without hesitation.

‘You must have worked out that this was no ordinary accident. The skull was crushed and his back was broken, all the internal organs mashed up.’

‘Quite right, the results of the post mortem came through this afternoon. So someone saw the whole thing?’

‘The witness wants to stay completely anonymous.’

‘You can’t persuade the person in question to contact us?’

‘I’ve already done what I can, but I’m happy to try again. What do you think?’

‘If the witness information is correct, which it may well be, then we’ll have a premeditated murder on our hands.’

Annika typed the quote directly onto her laptop.

‘Can you think of anything off the top of your head that Benny Ekland wrote that could explain why someone wanted him dead?’

‘Ekland wasn’t afraid of controversy and unpleasantness, so it’s not impossible. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I speculated like that at this point. If the witness information is correct, and I mean if, then obviously we’d be open to any possible motive.’

‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’

‘No, I’m only the PR guy these days, but I’m the one you need to talk to. The preliminary investigation was allocated to Andersson, in the prosecutor’s office, I think, but she’s been in court all day so I don’t imagine she knows anything about this yet.’

When they had hung up Annika found her way to the newsroom. In a narrow room full of long tables and static electricity she found a group of lethargic editors, all white faces and evasive eyes.

‘We have to talk,’ she told the night editor.

With surprising ease the fat man got up and walked ahead of her through the room, past the sports desk, and opened the door to a small space that functioned as the smoking area.

Annika stopped in the doorway; the stench was awful. The man lit a cigarette and coughed violently.

‘I gave up nine years ago,’ he said, ‘but yesterday morning I started again.’

She took a step forward, leaving the door ajar. The walls closed in around her. She was having difficulty breathing.

‘What’s this about?’ Pekkari said, blowing a sad little plume of smoke towards the ventilation unit.

‘Benny was murdered,’ Annika said, her heart racing. ‘I have a witness who saw how he died. The police have confirmed that the witness’s story matches what they know so far. Do we have to stay in here?’

The editor stared at her like he’d seen a ghost, holding his cigarette motionless, halfway to his mouth.

‘Please?’ Annika said, unable to wait, as she pushed the door open and staggered through it.

She went over to the other corner of the almost empty sports section; one lone reporter looked up anxiously from his large computer screen.

‘Hi,’ Annika said.

‘Hi,’ the man replied, then looked down again.

‘Murdered?’ Pekkari whispered in her ear. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘Not at all. I’ll write the article, and you can publish it in its entirety, but you don’t get to release it to the agencies. We get to do that.’

‘Why would you give away something like that?’

‘Call it solidarity,’ Annika said, concentrating on getting her pulse rate down. ‘Besides, we don’t exactly share the same readers. We’re not competitors, we complement each other.’

‘I’ll get our guy onto it,’ the editor said.

‘No,’ Annika said. ‘My byline. This is my story, but you can publish it.’

He looked at her in astonishment.

‘That’s one I owe you,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Annika said, and went back to her laptop.

Anne Snapphane woke up with a dull ache in her head and white lights in her eyes. Her mouth tasted disgusting and there was a terrible noise coming from under the bed. After much confusion, her brain finally worked out that it was the phone ringing. Her hand fumbled clumsily beside the bed and eventually caught the spiral cord of the receiver. She lifted it to her mouth with a groan.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ Annika said on the other end. ‘It’s fucked. If I didn’t have a mortgage I’d resign today. No, make that yesterday.’

Her voice had a strange echo, like it was hitting a glass wall.

‘What?’ Anne said, a croak that bounced off the ceiling.

‘ Paula from Pop Factory forced into oral sex ,’ Annika read with her echoing voice.

Anne tried to sit up.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know if there’s any point in doing this any more,’ Annika said. ‘I’ve uncovered the murder of a reporter, possibly with links to terrorism, we’re the only ones with the story, and what happens? Radio and television news have led all morning with Benny Ekland, giving us the credit, and what do we decide to run on the front fucking page? A fucking blowjob!’

Anne gave up, slumping back onto the pillows, and laid an arm over her eyes. Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer, making her break out in a sweat. A vague feeling of anxiety was turning her stomach.

I shouldn’t have had that last one , she thought vaguely.

‘Anne?’

She cleared her throat.

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten or so. I’ve come out to that bloody museum on the airbase again, and do you think the bastard who runs it is back at work? Like fuck he is, so I’m sat out here like an idiot.’

She made no effort to understand, merely accepted that she had lost it. Again.

‘That’s bad,’ she agreed.

‘Are you coming this evening?’

Anne rubbed her forehead several times, trying to remember what they’d agreed.

‘Can we talk later? I was just-’

‘I’ll be home after five.’

She dropped the receiver on the floor, where it lay emitting a dead buzzing sound. Carefully she opened her eyes again, forced herself to look at the empty space beside her.

He wasn’t there. Not any more. She looked up at the ceiling, then across at the window. She remembered his smell, his laughter, and those angry little wrinkles. The gradual realization that he would no longer be with her had left her stiff, numb and cold. They had a deal, an agreement. A wonderful child, a shared life, the perfect mix of freedom and responsibility. No guilt, no demands, just care and support. Separate homes, their daughter spending a week at one, then the other, with a few shared evenings and weekends, Christmases and birthdays.