Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘Calm down,’ Mehmet said, and the phone went ice-cold, the heated anger exchanged for hatred, the chill striking her ear, making her stiffen.

‘Go to hell,’ she said, and hung up.

She stood there, staring at the phone. He called her straight back.

‘So now Miranda’s yours alone? What happened to all your fine ideals about mutual responsibility? Your high-flown theories about shared parenting, that the child should belong to the collective and not the individual?’

Anne Snapphane sank onto her chair again. She had never imagined she could be sucked into such a stinking swamp of bitterness and ill-will and envy, the place where below-the-belt blows come from. And she couldn’t help it, she was there already, the quicksand had her, and if she struggled she would only sink to the bottom even faster.

‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘Who betrayed who? Who left who? Who’s trying to mess things up? It bloody well isn’t me.’

‘Sylvia spent the whole evening crying. She was inconsolable,’ Mehmet said, his voice sounding thick and tearful in a way that made Anne furious.

‘Good grief,’ she shouted. ‘It’s hardly my fault she’s got bad nerves!’

Mehmet paused for breath, gathering his larynx for a full-frontal assault.

‘Sylvia said that you had destroyed her, and there’s something you need to know, Anne: if you ruin things for my family, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

Anne felt the air being squeezed out of her lungs, all the oxygen disappearing from her brain.

‘Are you threatening me?’ she said. ‘Are you mad? Have you really sunk that low?’

The distance on the line grew, rolling round and round the swamp, and when he came back on the line he was light-years away.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘if that’s how you want it.’

And then it was silent, gone, the dialogue broken, and all around her everything was bubbling and frothing, and Anne leaned over her desk and wept.

Annika was getting more and more restless as she climbed the stairs back to the newsroom. Her search through the old editions had given her nothing but dirty hands and dusty jeans. The political climate of the time had not been consciously addressed in the contemporary media. Every day was just a new headline, then as now, with adverts to sell and stories to write and police reports to check.

The layout and print quality of newspapers in the sixties was terrible, scratchy fonts and badly reproduced pictures. She was glad she hadn’t been working then.

But every age has its own ideals , she thought as she headed towards her glass room. You live in an age just as much as you do in a place, and the sixties wouldn’t have suited her.

Did the twenty-first century, though?

She heard the phone start to ring and lengthened her strides.

‘I heard you were trying to get hold of me,’ said Hans Blomberg, the archivist of the Norrland News .

‘Oh, I’m glad you called,’ Annika said, pulling the door shut behind her. ‘How are you?’

A brief moment of surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’

She sat down on her chair, surprised in turn that he sounded so nonplussed.

‘The receptionist said you were ill, I was worried.’

‘Ah, yes, the tenderness of women,’ Hans Blomberg said, sounding as Annika remembered him, and she had to smile, picturing him sitting there in his cardigan next to his battered desk with the noticeboard above it, the child’s drawing, the sign telling him to hold out until retirement.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Annika stretched back in her chair.

‘No, no,’ the archivist said, ‘just the usual. I’m past my sell-by date, but I’m probably okay in the fridge for a few more days before they throw me out.’

Her smile faded as he spoke. The tone was cheerful but his frustration was obvious.

‘Ha,’ Annika said brightly, choosing to ignore the bitterness. ‘To me you’re like a vintage wine.’

‘Oh, it takes a Stockholm girl to appreciate a real man. What can I help you with, young lady?’

‘A general question of an even older vintage,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to find information about a young man from Sattajärvi who lived in Luleå at the end of the sixties, probably worked for the Church. His name’s Göran Nilsson.’

‘Is he dead?’ Hans Blomberg said, his pen scratching in the background.

‘I don’t think so,’ Annika said.

‘So we’ll leave the dear departed alone, then. What do you want to know?’

‘Anything. If he won a jitterbug competition, demonstrated against imperialism, robbed a bank, got married.’

‘Göran Nilsson? You couldn’t have picked a more common name, then?’

‘I’ve looked everywhere but haven’t come up with a thing,’ Annika said.

The archivist groaned loudly. Annika could see him gripping the desk and heaving himself out of his chair.

‘This might take a few minutes,’ he said, and that was the understatement of the day.

Annika had time to look through a few websites, read about all the detached houses for sale in the Stockholm region, and fall in love with a beautiful, newly built house on Vinterviksvägen in Djursholm for a measly 6.9 million. She went to get some coffee and spoke to Berit, then tried to ring Thomas’s mobile and left a message for Anne Snapphane before there was a noise on the line again.

‘Well, I’ve looked for easier things,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘Have you any idea how many Göran Nilssons there are in the archive?’

‘Seventy-two and a half,’ Annika said.

‘Exactly right,’ Hans Blomberg said. ‘And the only one from Sattajärvi I could find was in the wedding announcements.’

Annika raised her eyebrows, feeling her mood slump.

‘The wedding announcements? What, the kind of thing ministers did in church when people got married back in the eighteen hundreds?’

‘Well,’ Hans Blomberg said, ‘it was actually obligatory until nineteen seventy-three, but you’re right about the church connection. The banns had to be read in church for three Sundays in a row before a wedding, to keep everyone happy.’

‘So why did they put it in the paper?’

Hans Blomberg thought for a moment. ‘That’s just how it was in those days, there was a special column. The cutting is from the twenty-ninth of September nineteen sixty-nine; do you want me to read it out?’

‘Yes, please,’ Annika said.

‘Parish assistant Göran Nilsson, born in Sattajärvi, now of Luleå, and student Karina Björnlund, born and living in Karlsvik. The wedding will take place in Luleå City Hall, Friday twenty November at two p.m.’

Her pen raced across the notepad as she tried to keep up with him, feeling the goosebumps prickle. She had difficulty breathing. Good God. Bloody hell, this is impossible!

She forced herself not to get too excited, not yet; she couldn’t be sure until she checked.

‘Well, goodness,’ Annika said hoarsely. ‘Thanks, thanks a lot. You’re a vintage champagne.’

‘Whenever, my dear, just give me a call.’

They hung up and Annika had to stand up. Yes! Her mind was racing, the rush of blood pumping in her ears. She ran out into the newsroom with her heart pounding, but somewhere near the sports desk she gathered her senses and realized that she actually didn’t have anything yet. She got a cup of coffee from the machine and hurried over to Berit.

‘Where’s the Minister of Culture from?’ she asked.

Berit looked up from her screen, glasses on the tip of her nose. ‘Norrbotten,’ she said. ‘Luleå, I think.’

‘Not from somewhere called Karlsvik?’

Berit took off her glasses and lowered her hands to her lap.

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why?’