She was having trouble breathing, and returned to the text.
N: She wants him back badly. She’s sad and upset because he’s gone. And the children are missing their father. In my opinion, she is absolutely prepared to pay a ransom, as much as she can, but she has very limited resources.
K (
snorting
): That’s not my problem. Have you spoken to the police?
N: No. You know we’re not talking to them. I understand your dilemma, but perhaps you can understand hers as well. She doesn’t have forty million dollars. There’s no way she could get hold of that sort of money.
K (
agitated
): Either she gets hold of the money or the infidel dies. Her choice.
N: You know better than that. If you don’t lower the ransom, you won’t get any money at all. We want to come to an agreement. We want to resolve this. We’re prepared to do as you ask, but you have to drop the demand for forty million dollars.
(
Silence
.)
K (
very calm
): How much is she prepared to pay?
N: Like I said, she’s a woman with an ordinary job, without any assets …
K: How much has she got in the bank?
N: Not that much, but she’s prepared to give you all she’s got. She hasn’t been very successful, if I can put it like that.
K: Can’t she borrow more?
N: With what security? You know how the capitalist banking system works. She has no house, no shares, no nice car. She’s an ordinary Swedish woman who goes out to work. She’s working class – they both are.
K: Can’t the Swedish government pay? He works for the Swedish government.
N (
derisive snort
): Yes, as a committee secretary. You should know that the Swedish government doesn’t care about its citizens, whether they work for it or vote for it. The men in power care only about themselves, their own power and their own money.
K: It’s the same everywhere. Those bastards rape their people the whole time.
N: Governments don’t care if people die.
K: Piss on their graves.
N: True.
(
Silence.
)
K: How much has she got? A couple of million?
N: Dollars? Dear God, no, much less.
K: The infidel says she’s got a couple of million.
N: Swedish kronor, yes. That’s completely different. It’s more than Kenyan shillings, but it’s not dollars.
(
Short silence.
)
K: What sort of fire was it?
N: That she got the money for? They had a small house and she got the money from the insurance when it burned down. It’s not much, but it’s all she’s got. And, like I say, it’s really not much …
(
Silence.
)
K: We’ll be in touch.
(
Call ends
.)
She lowered the printout to her lap, feeling sick. She didn’t know where to look. She felt as if he’d sold her out, humiliated and belittled her, like he’d betrayed his boss and his government, actually the whole of Sweden. He had lined up alongside the bastards and made her out to be old and ugly with no assets and no way of getting any, a real loser who could do nothing but sit and whine and hope the bastards would show a bit of human mercy, which wasn’t particularly likely.
‘Remember the purpose of the conversation,’ Halenius said. ‘You know what we’re trying to do.’
She couldn’t look up, and felt her hands start to shake. The printout slipped on to the pile of newspapers. He got up from his chair and sat beside her on the bed, put his arm round her and pulled her to him. Her body became a coiled spring and she hit him in the side, hard. ‘How the hell could you?’ she said, in a thin voice, and felt the dam burst. Tears fell and she tried to push him away. He held her tight.
‘Annika,’ he said. ‘Annika, listen to me, listen …’
She sniffed into his shoulder.
‘It’s all lies,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean a word of it, you know that. Annika, look at me …’
She burrowed her face into his armpit. He smelt of washing powder and deodorant.
‘It’s all just strategy,’ he said. ‘I’d say whatever it took to help you.’
She took several breaths through her mouth. ‘Why did you show me the transcript?’ she asked, the words muffled by his shirt.
‘I’m here on your behalf,’ he said. ‘It’s important that you know what I’m doing, what I’m saying. This is what it sounds like. Annika …’
He pulled back and she peered up at him. He brushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled. ‘Hello,’ he said.
She shut her eyes and couldn’t help laughing. He let go of her shoulders and moved away. Everything became bright and cold around her.
‘I hate this,’ she said.
He moved to the computer, sat down at the screen and read. The silence in the room grew, eventually becoming too much for her. She picked up the bundle of papers from the floor and got up. ‘I’m going to catch up on what’s been happening in the world,’ she said, and left the room.
The murdered women in the Stockholm suburbs filled the daily papers, and now the violence was important, down to the smallest detail. Linnea Sendman’s killer had been lying in wait for her behind a fir next to the path at the back of the nursery school, she read. The victim had probably been chased up the slope and stabbed in the neck with excessive force. Her spinal column had been severed at the second vertebra.
Annika tried to envisage the scene, but failed: her own memories kept taking over – the boot sticking into the air.
Sandra Eriksson, fifty-four, from Nacka, was running away across a car park when she had been stabbed from behind, the knife going straight into her heart. She was dead in a matter of seconds. She had four children, the youngest a daughter of thirteen.
Eva Nilsson Bredberg, thirty-seven, from Hässelby, had been stabbed fourteen times, most of the blows going all the way through her body. The murder weapon was described as long and powerful. The victim had probably tried to run into her house, but fell and was stabbed from behind on the street outside.
Just to be on the safe side, the similarities were listed in the articles and fact-boxes: murder weapons, modus operandi, the proximity to children and playgrounds, and the fact that there were no witnesses in any of the cases. It wasn’t stated in so many words, but intelligent readers would understand that the police were hunting a particularly cunning and emotionless perpetrator.
Annika got her mobile phone and went into the children’s room, closing the door behind her. She dialled Berit’s direct line at work.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Berit said, in reply to Annika’s question about what was going on in the world. ‘I’ve spent half the day on a ridiculous story from mediatime.se, claiming that the minister of finance had a luxury renovation done on a luxury flat, using black-market labour.’
‘Sounds like a brilliant story,’ Annika said.
‘In an ideal world,’ Berit said. ‘Now they’ve put me back on your serial killer.’
‘Sorry,’ Annika said. ‘That’s why I’m calling. You don’t happen to have the official addresses of the five murdered women?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the scenes of the murders that are the problem,’ Annika said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘The women in Sätra, Hässelby and Axelsberg were killed outside their homes. But what about Nacka and Täby? Did those murders take place close to the victims’ homes?’
Berit rustled some papers.
‘In the Nacka case, she died pretty much outside her front door. But it doesn’t work with the girl in Täby.’
Annika took a deep breath. The safest place for a man to murder his partner was indoors. It was easier to get at her, and there was less chance of being seen. But if the man no longer had access to the woman inside the home, he might have to do it outside.
That was what Sven, Annika’s ex, had tried to do all those years ago. Annika was no longer letting him into her flat, so he had waited for her in the woods. He had chased her all the way to the old works in Hälleforsnäs, into the blast furnace where he had caught up with her – and her cat, poor little Whiskas, had got in the way … She remembered his sandy fur, his little miaow and his soft purr.
‘The further away from her home she dies,’ Annika said, ‘the further away she seems to be, in terms of their relationship, from the perpetrator …’
‘I know,’ Berit said. ‘I’ve looked at the statistics. There are, admittedly, a few factors which, in purely scientific terms, support the theory that we’re dealing with a crazy serial killer. But, as you say, the overwhelming weight of evidence on the subject suggests that these are instances of violence within relationships.’
‘Mikael Rying’s report?’
‘
The Development of Fatal Attacks Against Women Within Close Relationships
,’ Berit confirmed. ‘The statistics are a few years old now, but they’re beyond dispute. From 1990 onwards, female victims knew their killer in ninety-four per cent of all solved cases.’
Annika’s mobile bleeped: a text. She ignored it and leaned back on Ellen’s bed, tucking her feet beneath her. She knew those statistics by heart. In almost half of the cases, the murderer was the victim’s former husband or partner. She had spent years covering this sort of issue, often to the groans and rolled eyes of the newspaper’s management. Knives were used as the murder weapon in 38 per cent of cases, followed by strangulation, firearms, axes and other bludgeoning instruments, violent abuse, such as kicks or punches, and finally more obscure methods such as electric shocks and bolt-guns.
‘The victims of crazy killers fall into three categories,’ Berit said. ‘Mass murder, sexual killings, and murder as a consequence of another type of crime, most commonly robbery.’
‘Which doesn’t fit these cases,’ Annika said.
She picked up a copy of the prestigious morning paper and studied the photographs of the five murdered women: Sandra, Nalina, Eva, Linnea and Lena, ordinary women wearing makeup with their hair in a variety of styles; they had probably battled with different diets to keep their weight down, and stressed about children or relationships spinning out of control.
Could they have been the victims of a crazed killer? What if she’d actually got it right with her teasing comment to Patrik?
‘What are you going to write?’ Annika asked.
Berit sighed. ‘I’ve been ordered to interview the women’s former husbands, apart from the one in custody, with the angle that at last the police are focusing on the real killer.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ Annika said.
‘Not at all. So far I’ve spoken to Nacka and Hässelby, and they were both remarkably talkative.’
‘Why aren’t I surprised?’ Annika said.
‘They don’t mince their words about what whores their wives were. Obviously, they’re both distraught about what’s happened, but considering the way their women behaved, it really isn’t surprising.’
‘And all that stuff about their wives being beaten and threatened before was lies,’ Annika said.
‘Exactly. The husband who was convicted of abuse was entirely innocent, and if he did happen to hit her a few times, it really wasn’t as bad as she made out.’
‘In fact it was probably her fault,’ Annika said.
Her mobile bleeped again: another text. The light was fading outside, either because the clouds were getting thicker or because the day was drawing to a close. She wasn’t sure which.
‘The question is, what can I write? I can’t just let these men make speeches about how innocent they are. I’d have to go into all the background, and there isn’t space for that.’
‘The biggest problem in any murder case,’ Annika said, ‘is that we only have access to one side of the story.’
‘I’ll have to trust the readers to draw their own conclusions,’ Berit said.
‘Most will believe the men,’ Annika said, opening the paper. ‘How many of them have been charged with anything, did you say?’
‘Only Barham Sayfour, Nalina Barzani’s cousin. If he’s released he’ll be deported, because now his reason to stay has vanished.’
‘Oops,’ Annika said. ‘Didn’t think of that.’
Annika’s mobile buzzed: call waiting.
‘Someone’s trying to ring me,’ Annika said. ‘I’d better answer.’
‘And I need to do some writing,’ Berit said. ‘Get back up on the tightrope.’
She clicked to get rid of Berit, then took the other call. It was Anne Snapphane.
‘I’m standing outside your building. Can I come up?’
Anne sparkled and twinkled as she stepped into the hall, with her glittery top, fake diamond bracelet and loads of shiny hairspray. ‘It worked!’ she said triumphantly, giving Annika a hug. ‘At last, it worked!’
Annika hugged her back and smiled. ‘Congratulations. What worked?’
‘I could really do with a stiff drink now, but I’ll have a cup of coffee.’ She had been a recovering alcoholic for years.
Annika went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘I’ve just sent in the first invoice for my new interview series, so I’ll be able to buy you a proper coffee-machine,’ Anne said, as she sat down at the kitchen table.
Annika looked at her in surprise.
‘They accepted my pitch.’
Annika searched her memory frantically. Had Anne mentioned this before?
Her friend threw her arms out. ‘You’ve got a memory like a sieve. Media Time! You promised you’d help me. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’
‘Of course not,’ Annika said, spooning instant coffee into the mugs.
Anne picked up her handbag, a multi-coloured affair with gold studs and an expensive-looking logo, then fished out a mirror and her lip-gloss. Annika poured boiling water into the mugs and put them on the table.
‘The bosses at Media Time were really keen. They want me to get going straight away. Is that okay with you?’
Annika smiled at her and got the milk out of the fridge. ‘Sounds great. What sort of company is it?’
‘A modern media stable. They’ve got a digital television channel that broadcasts on the internet, a digital radio station for music and news, and an online news agency.’
Annika stopped in the middle of the floor with the milk in her hand. ‘Mediatime.se?’
‘They really have been a breath of fresh air for journalism. They dare to publish things that no one else will touch.’