Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘ There is no construction without destruction ,’ he read. ‘ Destruction means criticism and rejection, it means revolution. It involves reasoning things out, which means construction. If you concentrate on destruction first, you get construction as part of the process .’

Annika was scribbling furiously, got half the words down. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Forsberg lower the letter.

‘Does that ring any bells?’ he said.

Annika saw Inspector Suup shake his head and mechanically mimicked his movement.

‘We’ll be upstairs,’ Forsberg said, and disappeared again.

‘Can I go public with Ragnwald?’ Annika asked.

The inspector nodded.

‘And it won’t mess up any investigation if I write about it?’

‘Quite the reverse,’ Suup said.

Annika looked at the policeman, aware that he would be prepared to bend the rules if it would help the investigation. He could doubtless be pretty sly if he had to be, but that was just part of the job.

‘So why are you telling me?’ she said.

The man stood up surprisingly quickly. ‘The information is correct insofar as it matches our suspicions,’ he said. ‘We don’t know if he actually did it, but we believe he was involved. He may even have arranged the whole thing. He must have had accomplices; you know there were footprints found at the site. There aren’t many men with size thirty-six shoes.’

This last detail was new.

He left her sitting among the readers’ letters about rubbish collections and dogshit, with the distinct suspicion that she had been given more than just a scoop.

Slowly she filled in the letters she had missed in her notes.

There is no construction without destruction .

True enough , she thought.

If you concentrate on destruction first you get construction as part of the process .

God knows.

The taxi-drivers’ voices cascaded over her as she walked through the small airport, making her feel slightly hunted. Didn’t they ever work? Maybe they just stood by the entrance, in the warm air coming out of the doors of heated buildings, protected against the arctic cold in their dark-blue uniforms and gold buttons.

She got a seat at the back of the plane, next to a woman with two young children. The woman had one of them on her lap, while the other clambered about the cabin. Annika felt the stress rising beyond her tolerance level: this was her only chance to get anything written.

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the stewardess once they were in the air. ‘I have to work. Is it okay if I move forward a bit?’

She stood up and gestured a few rows ahead in the half-empty cabin. The toddler in its mother’s lap started to scream in her ear.

‘You’re booked into this seat, so I’m afraid you can’t move. You should have booked Business Class,’ the stewardess said curtly, turning back to her drinks trolley.

‘I’m sorry,’ Annika said, louder this time, ‘but I did. Or rather my employer did. Can I move, please?’

She struggled past the mother and blocked the aisle. The stewardess squeezed past the trolley with irritated little steps.

‘You heard what I said. After September eleventh, you can’t just change seats.’

Annika took a long stride closer to the stewardess, breathing right in her face.

‘So throw me off,’ she whispered, taking her laptop from the overhead locker and moving five rows forward.

With stress raging through her veins she wrote three articles before the plane touched down at Arlanda: an account of Luleå the day after the murder announcement, the sorrow of Benny Ekland’s workmates, and the police questioning of the witness at the crime scene. The night crew would have to put together the overview and factual box-outs. She held back the details about Ragnwald and the F21 attack. She wasn’t going to let go of them that quickly.

She hurried across the terminal and disappeared underground with her heart racing. She called Spike from the Arlanda Express and gave him an update, then he put her through to Pelle on the picture desk so they could talk about illustrations. The newly established collaboration with the Norrland News gave the Evening Post full access to the whole of their picture archive, both new and old, which saved them having to send someone up or use a freelancer.

‘Hmm, you’re not going to find picture of the year among this lot,’ the pictures editor said, as Annika heard him clicking through the transferred material, ‘but they’ll do for tomorrow’s edition. At least some of them are decent resolution, and even in focus.’

With her coat flapping, she walked from the central station to the place her six-year-old spent his days. The wind was damp and full of the smells of soil, leaves and car fumes; the grass was still green and half-dead leaves clung to a few branches. The light from a million lamps overpowered the Nordic autumn evening, giving the illusion that reality could be controlled, tamed.

There are never any stars in the city , she thought.

Annika’s son threw himself at her as if she had been away six months. He pressed his sticky face against hers and ran his fingers through the hair at the back of her neck.

‘I missed you, Mummy,’ he said in her ear.

She rocked the boy in her arms, stroking the stiff little back, kissing his hair.

Hand in hand they walked off to Ellen’s nursery school, until the boy pulled himself free and ran the last ten metres to the door.

Ellen was tired and reserved when she came over. She didn’t want to go home, didn’t want a hug. Wanted to carry on cutting out pictures, Daddy would pick her up.

Annika clenched her jaw to stop herself exploding, noting that her boundaries had evaporated.

‘Ellen,’ she said firmly, ‘Kalle and I are going now.’

The girl stiffened, her face contorted, eyes open wide, and a desperate cry came out.

‘My oversall,’ she screamed. ‘I haven’t got my over-sall!’

She dropped the scissors and ran over to her peg, searching frantically for the overall. Annika could sense the disapproving stares of two other mothers further down the corridor.

‘Well, come on now,’ she said, going over to her daughter. ‘I’ll help you, but you’ve to stop being cross.’

‘It’s called an overall,’ Kalle said.

On the way home Ellen let out occasional little sobs.

‘We go on the bus with Daddy,’ the boy said as they stood huddled on a traffic island at the traffic lights on Kungsholmsgatan.

‘It’s too crowded and hot on the bus,’ Annika said, feeling suffocated at the very thought of it.

She had to carry Ellen from Bergsgatan. Once they were home, she quickly lit a fire in the stove to force the cold back from the draughty windows, and ran down to the yard with the stinking bag of rubbish, her hands and legs moving without her even being aware of them. Then she put the rice on as she fished her laptop out of her bag and turned it on, switching the cable from the phone in the kitchen, and putting a pack of cod into the microwave to defrost.

‘Can we play on the computer, Mummy?’ Kalle asked.

‘It’s Daddy’s computer.’

‘But Daddy lets us. I know how to start it.’

‘Watch some cartoons instead, they’ll soon be on,’ she said, connecting to the paper’s server.

The boy went off, shoulders drooping. She cut the cod into slices as her laptop signed in, turned the slices in salt and flour, then put them in a heavy pan with a bit of melted butter. She listened to the frying sound as she sent over the three articles, then splashed some lemon juice over the fish, dug out some frozen dill and scattered that over the top, then poured in some cream, warm water, fish stock, and a handful of frozen prawns.