Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

The archivist laughed happily. Annika struggled against nausea.

‘Poor Yngve,’ the man went on. ‘Göran wanted me to look after him, but what’s a chap to do? To help an addict you have to change the whole apparatus of oppression, and I haven’t been able to do that. Unfortunately I have to admit that Yngve no longer has any hold on reality, it’s truly tragic. I have failed in my duty…’

A moment later she heard something heavy and rhythmic behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and found herself staring into the headlight of a huge diesel locomotive coming down the track.

‘Straight on,’ Hans Blomberg said.

Annika obeyed, peering at the great engine as it slowly rumbled past her towards the ironworks with its endless train of fully laden ore-trucks behind it.

Her heart was thudding. She tried to see herself from the train-driver’s perspective. She was dressed in black against a dark background of scrub, only lit by the cold moonlight.

She forced her heart to slow down; tried to see how long the train was without twisting her head, but couldn’t see the end of it.

They walked under the viaduct, the train thundered past, dunkdunk dunkdunk dunkdunk , wagon after wagon after wagon, casting black shadows from the railway track.

Then the last one disappeared, the end of a long tail heading towards the fiery heat of the blast-furnace.

Annika swallowed hard and found that her hands were shaking.

They reached the transformer box where Göran Nilsson had hidden his duffel bag. She glanced at the box; it was closed, sealed up.

‘Down to the left here,’ Hans Blomberg said, pushing her towards the gap in the undergrowth.

She slipped and was on the verge of falling down the slope, but grabbed hold of some branches and managed to stay upright.

‘Take it easy,’ she said lamely and walked towards the brick building.

The windows were sealed with metal shutters, a half-collapsed flight of wooden steps led up to the door, which was slightly open. Annika stopped, but Blomberg shoved her in the back.

‘Go on, in you go. It’s just an old compressor shed.’

She took hold of the door and pulled it open, noting that its lock consisted of two welded metal hasps, one with a rusty old padlock hanging from it. The same terrible stench that she had smelled behind the pine trees poured out through the door.

Ragnwald was in there.

She stepped into the solid darkness, blinking, hearing people breathing. It was icy cold inside; paradoxically it felt even colder than outside.

‘Who are you?’ Karina Björnlund said from the far left corner.

‘We have an important guest,’ Hans Blomberg said, shoving Annika further into the room, then stepping inside.

The Minister of Culture ignited her cigarette lighter. A weak flame illuminated the shed, the shadows cast across her nose and eyes made her look monstrous. Yngve the alcoholic was next to her, Göran Nilsson leaning against the wall to the right. On the wall beside him hung a picture of Chairman Mao.

Annika could feel panic rising at the sight of the murderer, the characteristic itch in her fingers, giddiness and numbness.

Calm down , she thought. Don’t hyperventilate. Hold your breath .

Karina Björnlund bent down and lit a small candle at her feet, put the lighter down, then stood up holding the candle.

‘What’s this?’ she said, looking at Hans Blomberg. ‘Why have you brought her here?’

She put the candle on a piece of rusty machinery that may have been the old compressor. Their breath hung like clouds around each of them.

I’m not alone , Annika thought. This isn’t the same as the tunnel .

‘May I present Miss Annika Bengtzon,’ Hans Blomberg said, ‘snooping reporter from the Evening Post .’

Karina Björnlund started and stepped back a step.

‘Are you mad?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Bringing a journalist here? Don’t you understand what you’re exposing me to?’

Göran Nilsson looked at them, his eyes cloudy and tired.

‘This isn’t for outsiders,’ he said, surprisingly sharply. ‘Panther, what on earth are you thinking?’

Hans Blomberg, the Black Panther, pulled the door firmly shut behind him and smiled.

‘Miss Bengtzon already knows about us,’ he said. ‘She was standing outside, so I couldn’t let her run around telling anyone.’

Karina Björnlund stepped closer to Blomberg.

‘It’s all ruined now,’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘Everything I’ve worked for all these years. Damn you all.’

She picked up her bag and turned towards the door, and Göran Nilsson stepped into the small circle of light. Annika could see no sign of a weapon. The man’s face was sunken and drawn, he looked weak and ill.

Yet Karina Björnlund still stopped mid-pace, frightened and uncertain.

‘Wait,’ he said to the minister, then turned to Blomberg. ‘Do you accept responsibility for her? Do you guarantee the safety of the group?’

Annika stared at the killer, noting his shabby appearance and slow sentences, as if he had to search for the words before he found them.

‘No problem,’ the archivist said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take care of her afterwards.’

Annika felt her feet turn to lead; her body grew heavy and turned to stone. Inside her she heard a pleading, whimpering sound grow, but it never reached her throat.

The Yellow Dragon looked straight at Annika, she daren’t even breathe.

‘Stand in the corner,’ he said, pointing.

‘We can’t have a reporter here, surely you can understand that,’ Karina Björnlund said animatedly. ‘I won’t agree to that.’

The Dragon raised a hand. ‘That’s enough now,’ he said. ‘Our group commander bears the responsibility.’

He put his hands in his pockets.

The gun , Annika thought.

‘It’s very cold today,’ he said. ‘I shall be brief.’

Yngve the alcoholic stepped forward. ‘Great,’ he said, ‘but has anyone got something to drink?’

Hans Blomberg undid the top button of his jacket, and from his inside pocket he pulled out a bottle of Absolut. Yngve’s eyes lit up, his lips parting in rapture, and he took the bottle as gently as if it were a baby.

‘I thought we might have a little celebration,’ Hans Blomberg said, nodding encouragingly.

Yngve unscrewed the cap with tears in his eyes. Annika looked down at the floor and wriggled her toes to stop them from going stiff.

What were they going to do with her?

It’s not like the tunnel, it’s not like the tunnel .

Karina Björnlund put her bag down on the floor again.

‘I don’t understand what we’re doing here,’ she said.

‘Your power has made you impatient,’ Göran Nilsson said, looking at the minister with his dragon’s eyes, pausing until he had everyone’s full attention. Then he tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

‘I am very aware that some of you were surprised to get my call,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time since I gathered you together like this, and I appreciate that it aroused mixed feelings. But there’s no need for you to be scared.’

He looked straight at the Minister of Culture.

‘I’m not here to harm you,’ he said. ‘I’m here to thank you. You became the only family I had, and I say that without any sentimentality.’

‘So why did you kill Margit, then?’ Karina Björnlund said, her voice tight with fear.

Göran Nilsson shook his head, his stinking yellow dragon head, his divine, revolting ruler’s head.

‘You’re not listening,’ he said. ‘You’re just talking. You weren’t like this before. Power really has changed you.’