Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

The overworked manager interrupted her abruptly. ‘I’ll have to refer you to our press office, we have public relations people there who can answer any questions you may have.’

She could hear her thudding heartbeat, and hoped it couldn’t be heard at the other end.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘I understand that, but my call isn’t really about the sort of thing I can talk to the press office about. Sorry.’

Stunned silence.

‘What?’ the man said finally. ‘What do you mean?’

Annika closed her eyes and said in a steady voice, ‘I should begin by saying that I’m not going to quote you; I’m not actually writing an article yet. I just want to clarify some details that emerged when we looked into various aspects of your operations.’

Stress had given way to surprise and suspicion when the man responded. ‘What do you mean? What aspects?’

‘It’s about over-charging on one of your projects.’

It sounded like the man was sitting down. ‘Over-charg…? I don’t understand…’

Annika stared at the ventilation unit.

‘As I said, I won’t quote you at all at this stage. I just want to check a few things out, and I’d appreciate it if this conversation stayed between us. I shall never mention that I spoke to you, and you don’t have to say that you spoke to me.’

Silence.

‘What’s this about?’

She could physically feel the tug on the line as he took the bait.

‘Over-charging from the account connected to the project looking into threats against politicians,’ Annika said. ‘The one you’re conducting together with the Association of Local Councils and the Department of Justice.’

‘Threats against politicians?’

‘The working group trying to prevent violence and threats against politicians, yes. I have to point out that we think the project is incredibly important, and as far as we can tell the work has been very productive, but the problem is in your accounts.’

‘I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.’

Annika waited, let the silence do the talking; her surprise carried off down the line, muddying the manager’s senses.

‘I see,’ she said slowly, ‘I was under the impression that you wanted to get to the bottom of this…’

Now the man started to get angry. ‘What do you mean? The bottom of what? Who says there’s anything irregular going on here?’

Annika sharpened her voice when she answered. ‘I hope you’re not trying to find out my sources. As I’m sure you’re aware, that’s a criminal offence. I shall ignore that last question.’

Silence fell again, growing, pulsating.

‘What’s all this about?’ the Federation manager eventually said. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

Annika took a deep, audible breath, then spoke with a low, confidential tone of voice. ‘According to my source there has been over-charging from the account containing the funds for the working group investigating threats to democratic representatives. One member of the group is said to have inflated the joint costs in order to conceal private expenditure.’

‘Sophia Grenborg?’ the man said, astonished. ‘Is she supposed to have committed fraud?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ Annika said apologetically. ‘I was just wondering if you could keep me informed of the result of your investigation. Not that you should make public any costs that don’t concern me, but please, just tell me if, or when, you decide to involve the police.’

The manager cleared his throat. ‘Well, anything like that is a long way away at this point,’ he said. ‘Naturally, we shall have to begin by conducting a thorough internal investigation. We’ll be contacting our auditors at once.’

Annika closed her eyes and swallowed. She wished the manager the best of luck and hung up. Then sat in silence wondering how long she ought to wait before the next call.

Not at all , she decided.

So she called the head of Economics & Devolution and started with hesitant questions about the Federation’s policy regarding the involvement of employees in non-operating sham companies. When the man got angry and was on the point of hanging up she asked if they had investigated why Sophia Grenborg, one of their employees, had only been assessed for an income of 269,900 kronor for the previous calendar year.

The man was thoroughly taken aback.

She concluded with the question: ‘The Federation of County Councils is funded by the tax-payers. Do you think it’s acceptable for the Federation’s employees to attempt to get out of paying tax?’

Naturally, he could only reply one way: ‘Of course not.’

She promised to get back to him to find out how the internal investigation was progressing.

After that she got up, finding that the muscles in her legs were completely stiff, and she had cramp in the back of her thigh. The lump in her chest twisted and tore at her, its metallic sharpness had spread through her body and was threatening to paralyse her.

She slapped her legs with her fists until they obeyed her again, then heated up a mug of coffee in the microwave and made the third call, to the head of International Finance. She asked what the Federation thought of right-wing extremism among its employees. She had received information that one of their employees had previously been active in an extremist group, and that the employee’s cousin had been convicted of incitement to racial hatred, and she was wondering how appropriate it was that this person was now involved in the project looking into threats, among them threats from the extreme right, against our political representatives.

The head of International Finance was unfortunately unable to comment on that at the moment, but he promised that the matter would be investigated and if she called him on Monday or Tuesday she could probably get some sort of comment.

Afterwards she slumped on the kitchen chair, feeling the floor sway, her head and limbs numb.

She had jumped.

Now she just had to land on her feet.

Thomas reached for the coffee-pot and found it was empty. He felt himself getting annoyed, his jaw clenching. He sighed quietly and glanced at his wife on the other side of the kitchen table. She was on her fourth mug, had drunk the whole pot, which he had made, before he had managed to get a single cup. She didn’t notice his frustration, was deeply immersed in an essay by a professor of Islamic studies on the question of exactly who could be regarded as an Iraqi. She had pulled her hair into a messy knot on top of her head, idly brushing aside a stray lock that had fallen in front of her eyes. Her dressing gown was loosely tied; he could see her smooth skin beneath the towelling.

He looked away and stood up.

‘Do you want more coffee?’ he said sarcastically.

‘No, not for me, thanks.’

She didn’t look up, paid him no attention.

I may as well be part of the furniture , he thought. A means of her living comfortably and writing whatever damn articles she feels like .

He composed himself and filled the little pan with more water. At home in Vaxholm they had always had an electric kettle, both at his parents’ and during his marriage to Eleonor, but Annika thought that was unnecessary.

‘Just another machine. We’ve got so little space as it is. Besides, it’s quicker to boil water on the gas stove than in a kettle.’

She was right about that, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that his space was shrinking. She took up so much bloody space. The more she took, the less there was left over for him.

Before the business with the Bomber he hadn’t seen it so clearly. Back then, everything happened slowly, his space was stolen a piece at a time without him noticing. The children arrived and she got the editor’s job and of course he did his bit, but then everything went back to normal while she was at home and could look after the apartment and the kids. And now he was suddenly expected to retreat to his little corner and hand over his life to her.