Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

She was silent for a few moments before she replied.

‘Karina Björnlund,’ she said. ‘The Minister for Culture.’

The editor-in-chief didn’t move a muscle. His hands remained clasped above his shirt buttons, his back stayed at the same angle, his eyes didn’t move, but the air in the room had suddenly turned grey, difficult to breathe in.

‘I presume,’ Schyman said after a silence of indeterminate length, ‘that you have bloody good back-up for this accusation.’

Annika tried to laugh, but the noise came out as a dry snigger.

‘Not really,’ she said, ‘but the minister really is the most likely culprit.’

Schyman leaned forward quickly, heaving himself out of the chair with the help of the desk and walked across the floor, not looking at Annika.

‘I don’t know that I want to listen to this,’ he said.

Annika was halfway out of her chair to follow him, but felt the whole room lurch. She sank back and picked up her notes.

‘The footprints found at the scene were size thirty-six,’ she said. ‘They must have been made by either a child or a small woman, and of those two alternatives an adult woman with small feet is most likely. Women hardly ever turn to terrorism unless it’s together with their men. Ragnwald planned the attack, his fiancée carried it out.’

Schyman interrupted his restless wandering across the floor and turned to face her, hands by his sides.

‘Fiancée?’

‘They were due to get married, parish assistant Göran Nilsson from Sattajärvi and Karina Björnlund from Karlsvik in the parish of Lower Luleå. I’ve checked all the Göran Nilssons and Karina Björnlunds with their backgrounds against the historical information in the National Population Address Register, and they’re the only two.’

‘The terrorist and the culture minister?’

‘The terrorist and the culture minister.’

‘They were getting married two days after the attack?’

Annika nodded, watching her boss’s unfeigned astonishment, and felt the ground slowly solidify beneath her again.

‘How do you know that?’

‘A wedding announcement in the Norrland News published less than four weeks before the attack.’

Anders Schyman folded his arms, rocked back on his heels and looked out of the large, dark window towards the Russian embassy.

‘You’re quite sure that Karina Björnlund, in the autumn of nineteen sixty-nine, was planning to marry a man who ended up becoming a professional killer?’

She cleared her throat and nodded, and Schyman continued his reasoning. ‘And our Minister of Culture would have destroyed the property of the state, murdered one conscript and wounded another, all for love?’

‘I don’t know that, but it seems logical,’ Annika said.

The editor-in-chief went back to his chair and sat down carefully.

‘How old was she?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Was she living with this bloke?’

‘She was still registered at her parents’ address in Karlsvik.’

‘What was her job?’

‘In the wedding announcement it said she was a student.’

Anders Schyman picked up a pen and wrote something on the corner of a diagram.

‘Do you know,’ he said, looking up at Annika, ‘this is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.’

He let the pen fall, the small sound of plastic on paper grew and echoed in the silence, the floor opened up beneath her and she was falling.

‘I’m glad that you came to me with this information,’ he went on. ‘I hope you haven’t mentioned this nonsense to anyone else?’

Annika felt the heat rising in her face, and her head was starting to spin.

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Not to Berit? Not Jansson?’

He studied her close-up for a few seconds, then straightened his back.

‘Good.’ He turned away. ‘From now on you won’t be covering terrorism at all. You will not spend a minute more on Karina Björnlund or this bloody Ragnwald or any explosions in Luleå or anywhere else. Is that understood?’

She jerked back against her chair, away from his breath, which had come extremely close again.

‘But isn’t it at least worth carrying on and checking?’ she said.

Anders Schyman looked at her with such incredulous astonishment that she felt her throat burning.

‘That Sweden’s most sought-after terrorist for more than three decades happens to be a teenage schoolgirl from a village in Norrbotten who lived with her mum and went on to become a minister in a Social Democratic government?’

Annika was breathing fast through her mouth.

‘I haven’t even spoken to the police-’

‘So much the fucking better.’

‘They must have questioned her, maybe there’s an entirely innocent explanation-’

An angry signal from the intercom silenced her.

‘Herman Wennergren is here now,’ Schyman’s secretary said over the crackling speaker.

The editor-in-chief took three long strides to the intercom and pressed the button.

‘Ask him to come in.’

He released the button and glanced over at Annika with a look that condemned her to the underworld.

‘I don’t want to hear another word about this,’ he said. ‘Get out.’

Annika stood up, surprised that she hadn’t collapsed completely. She grabbed her notebook with hands that didn’t feel like they were her own, and aiming for the door at the end of a long tunnel, fumbled her way out.

Anders Schyman watched the door close behind Annika Bengtzon, disappointment burning in his gut. So incredibly sad. Annika was so thorough, so ambitious. Now she had evidently lost her grip completely. Lost touch with reality and fled into some sort of fantasy world with terrorists in government and professional killers involved with local politicians in Östhammar.

He had to sit down, and turned his chair so that he ended up looking at his own reflection in the dark glass, trying to make out the contours of the concrete buildings spread out below the Russian flag.

What were his responsibilities as her boss in a position like this? Should he tell human resources? Was Annika Bengtzon a danger to herself or anyone else?

He saw himself gulp as he sat there in his office chair.

He hadn’t noticed any suicidal tendencies or signs of violence. The only thing he knew for sure was that her articles were no longer reliable, and that was something he was paid to deal with. Bengtzon needed to be managed much more strictly, both by him and by the other editors.

Sad , he thought again. There had been a time when she was very good at digging up stories.

The door flew open and Herman Wennergren strode into his room without knocking, as usual.

‘It’s a good idea to pick wars you can win,’ the chairman of the board said through clenched teeth, dropping his briefcase on the sofa. ‘Can I have some coffee?’

Anders Schyman leaned forward, pressed the button on the intercom and asked his secretary to bring two cups. Then he got up and walked slowly, back straight, towards the sofas where Wennergren had sat down, still wearing his coat, unsure what this unannounced visit meant.

‘A bad day on the battlefield?’ he said, settling down on the other side of the table.

The chairman of the board fingered the lock of his briefcase, his nails clicking against the metal in an unconscious and irritating way.

‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said. ‘I can give you good news that I appear to be winning on your behalf. I’ve just come from a meeting of the Newspaper Publishers’ Association, where I proposed you as new chair after the New Year. The last chap hasn’t worked out at all, so we all agreed we need a change, and my suggestion met surprisingly little resistance. No one had any objections, neither publishers nor directors.’