Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

Margit had the same shoe size as the prints found at the site. Thord Axelsson’s story included enough detail to make her believe the basic chain of events, even if she would have to check the theoretical possibilities with the press officer at the base. So why should she doubt how many people were involved?

Karina Björnlund wasn’t there.

She was innocent, at least as far as the act itself was concerned. Of course she could have been involved in the planning, maybe even assisted in other ways. And, apart from anything else, she must have known about it.

How can you be sure of that? Annika asked herself. If Thord is telling the truth, she may well have been ignorant of the attack. She had split up with Göran and wanted out of the group.

But in that case how could she be open to blackmail? Why was she allowing Herman Wennergren to scare her into changing government legislation?

And why had she put a marriage announcement in the local paper if she had broken up with him?

Maybe Karina herself hadn’t put the announcement in, she suddenly thought. Maybe the announcement was part of the jilted man’s strategy either to cause trouble or to get her back.

Annika rubbed her forehead, feeling suddenly thirsty, her lips dry. A few frozen houses from the thirties huddled in the twilight, plumes of smoke rising straight up from their chimneys, the wind had given up, the cold was clear as glass.

I have to talk to Karina Björnlund , she thought. I have to set things up so that she doesn’t get away. She won’t wriggle out of this, lying and protecting herself at any cost .

She pulled her mobile from the bag, and found she had no reception. She couldn’t be bothered to get cross, just carried on towards Luleå, looking forward to being back in civilization again.

At the turning to Gäddvik she picked up her mobile again, shut her eyes and replayed the scene in her head: the Post-it note on the registrar’s computer screen, the Minister of Culture’s mobile number. The number of the devil, twice, and then a zero.

She keyed in 070-666 66 60, stared at the number on the screen for a moment, then realized with a start that she was on the point of ignoring a right-hand bend.

What was she going to say?

Karina Björnlund will listen , she thought. It was just a question of getting hold of her.

She pressed the call button, feeling the warmth of the mobile in her hand, and pressed in the earpiece as she slowed the car’s speed.

‘Hello?’

Annika braked in surprise, the first ring had hardly started before a woman’s voice answered.

‘Karina Björnlund?’ she said, pulling up at the side of the road and pressing the earpiece further in; there was a rushing, humming sound in the background.

‘Yes?’

‘My name’s Annika Bengtzon, I work for the Evening Post -’

‘How did you get this number?’

Annika stared at the red-painted wall of a Norrbotten farmhouse and adopted a neutral tone of voice.

‘I was wondering if the Red Wolf had met the Yellow Dragon recently?’ she said, and listened intently to the noise on the line, voices talking, a metallic clattering in the background, a tannoy announcing something, then a second later the line went dead.

Annika looked at the display. She pressed redial and got an impersonal electronic answering service, and ended the call without speaking.

Where had Karina Björnlund been when she took the call? What was the metallic voice saying over the tannoy in the background?

She shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

‘Last call for SK009 to Stockholm, gate number five’?

A flight announcement, that much was certain. But SK? Didn’t that mean an SAS flight?

She called directory inquiries and asked to be put through to the Scandinavian Airlines System for business customers, and waited in a queue for thirty seconds until the call was picked up.

‘SK009 is the afternoon flight from Kallax to Arlanda,’ the sales assistant at SAS told her.

Annika felt the adrenalin pumping.

Karina Björnlund was at the airport just five kilometres away and either was on her way back down to Stockholm or had just arrived and was collecting her bags. She considered booking her return flight to Stockholm but decided to wait, said thank you and ended the call.

Then she drove towards the roundabout, turned right and glided along frozen roads towards Kallax Airport.

Because of the taxi strike, anyone who didn’t have their own car was forced to take the bus from the airport into Luleå. Annika could see the queue trail back outside the terminal, huddled figures fighting against the cold and their own luggage. She was about to drive past the airport bus towards the hire-car parking lot when she caught sight of Karina Björnlund.

The minister was at the back of the queue, patiently waiting her turn.

Thoughts ricocheted round Annika’s head. What was Björnlund doing here?

She pulled up by the kerb, putting the car in neutral and pulling on the handbrake, stared at the minister and picked up her mobile again. She dialled the department and asked to speak to the minister’s press secretary. She was told that Karina Björnlund had taken the day off.

‘I have a question about the proposal being presented tomorrow,’ Annika said, her eyes glued to the woman at the end of the queue. ‘I have to talk to her today.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible,’ the press secretary said amiably. ‘Karina’s away and won’t be back until late this evening.’

‘Isn’t it a bit odd for a minister to take time off the day before a major proposal is presented to parliament?’ Annika said slowly, staring at Karina Björnlund’s dark fur-coat.

The press secretary hesitated. ‘It’s a private matter,’ she said quietly. ‘Karina was called to an urgent meeting that couldn’t be postponed. It’s very unfortunate timing, I have to agree with you. Karina was very upset that she had to go.’

‘But she’ll be home this evening?’

‘That’s what she was hoping.’

What sort of meeting would make a minister abandon their work? A sick relative, a partner or child or parent? A meeting in Luleå, something she couldn’t avoid, something that took priority over everything else.

The Red Wolf.

The meeting to celebrate the return of the Dragon.

Annika’s fingers started to tingle, and sweat broke out along her back.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and ended the call.

She drove past the bus, and watched in the rear-view mirror as the minister climbed on, then let the bus pass her and stayed a hundred metres behind it. Just before the Bergnäs bridge she decided it was time to get closer.

You’re sitting in there , Annika thought, staring at the vehicle’s filthy back window. You’re on your way somewhere that you don’t want to be seen, but I’m here .

And the angels starting singing gently to her, slowly and mournfully.

‘Oh, shut up!’ Annika yelled, hitting her head with the palm of her hand, and the voices disappeared.

She followed the bus over the bridge and entered the frozen city, driving past panelled houses and banks of snow and frozen cars, and turned off at a junction by a petrol station.

The airport bus stopped just across the street from the City Hotel’s heavy façade. She braked and leaned forward to watch the passengers getting off. Her breath misted the widescreen, and she wiped it with her sleeve.

Karina Björnlund was the second last off. The Minister of Culture stepped carefully out of the bus with a black leather bag in her hand. Annika could feel herself on the verge of hyperventilating.

A bag to breathe into , she thought, realizing that she didn’t have one. Instead she held her breath and counted to ten three times, and her heartbeat slowed down.