Read Red Wolf: A Novel Online

Authors: Liza Marklund

Tags: #Fiction:Suspense

Red Wolf: A Novel

RED WOLF

Liza Marklund

Translated by Neil Smith

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781407093987

www.randomhouse.co.uk

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk

RED WOLF
A CORGI BOOK: 9780552162319

Originally published by Piratförlaget in 2003 as
Den Röda Vargen
First publication in Great Britain Corgi edition published 2010

Copyright © Liza Marklund 2003 English translation copyright © Neil Smith 2010

Liza Marklund has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organization. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at
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Typeset in 11/13pt Sabon by
Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon.
Printed in the UK by
CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

About the Author

Map of Sweden

Prologue

Tuesday 10 November

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Wednesday 11 November

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Thursday 12 November

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Friday 13 November

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Saturday 14 November

Chapter 15

Monday 16 November

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Tuesday 17 November

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Wednesday 18 November

Chapter 26

Thursday 19 November

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Friday 20 November

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Sunday 22 November

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Monday 23 November

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Tuesday 24 November

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

A Word from the Author

Author’s Acknowledgements

Facts about Liza Marklund

The Bomber
– opening chapters

Prologue

Saturday 18 December

Liza Marklund
is an author, publisher, journalist, columnist, and goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. Her crime novels featuring the relentless reporter Annika Bengtzon instantly became an international hit, and Marklund’s books have sold 12 million copies in 30 languages. Her novels have all been number one bestsellers in all five Nordic countries, and she has been awarded numerous prizes, including a nomination for the Glass Key for best Scandinavian crime novel.

The Annika Bengtzon series is currently being adapted into film. She has cowritten a novel with James Patterson,
The Postcard Killers
, which is available now.

Neil Smith
studied Scandinavian Studies at University College London, and lived in Stockholm for several years. He is deputy editor of Swedish Book Review. He now lives in Norfolk.

www.rbooks.co.uk

Prologue

He had never been able to stand the sight of blood. There was something about the consistency, thick and viscous. He knew it was irrational, especially for someone like him. Recently this revulsion had taken over his dreams, presenting itself in ways he couldn’t control.

He looked down at his hands and saw they were covered in dark-red human blood. It was dripping onto his trousers, still warm and sticky. The smell hit his nose. He jerked back in panic and tried to shake it off—

‘Hey, we’re here.’

The voice interrupted his sleep. The blood suddenly vanished, but the intense feeling of nausea remained. Sharp, cold air rushed in through the door of the bus. The driver hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to escape it.

‘Unless you want to come down to the garage?’

All the other passengers had got off the airport bus. He stood up with an effort, bent over with pain. He picked up his duffel bag from the seat, muttering, ‘
Merci beaucoup
.’

The jolt as his feet hit the ground made him groan. He leaned against the frosted side-panelling of the bus for a moment, rubbing his forehead.

A woman in a crocheted hat was making her way to
the local bus-stop a bit further on. She stopped next to his duffel bag; there was genuine concern in her eyes as she leaned towards him.

‘Are you all right? Do you need help?’

He reacted strongly and immediately, waving his hand in her face. ‘
Laissez-moi tranquille!
’ He spoke far too loudly, panting from the effort.

The woman didn’t move, just blinked a few times, open-mouthed.


Êtes-vous sourde? Je vous ai dit: laissez-moi tranquille
.’

Her face crumbled at his aggression and she backed away. He watched her go, heavy and thickset, plodding towards the number three with her bulging carrier bags.

I wonder if this is how I sound when I speak Swedish
, he thought. Then he realized that his thoughts were actually formulating themselves in his mother tongue.

Indépendence
, he thought, forcing his brain back into French.
Je suis mon propre maître
.

The woman glared at him one last time before getting on the bus.

He stood there in the diesel fumes as the buses slid away and the street emptied of people; listening to the silence of the cold, absorbing the shadowless light.

Nowhere on earth was outer space as close as it was at the Polar Circle. When he was growing up he took the isolation for granted, not realizing the implications of living on the roof of the world. But he could see the buildings, the frozen conifers now, as clearly as if they were engraved on the streets: isolation and exposure, endless distance. So familiar, and yet so alien.

This is a harsh place
, he thought, in Swedish once more.
A town that’s frozen solid. Just like me
.

He carefully lifted the strap of the bag over his
shoulder and chest and started to walk towards the City Hotel. The exterior, from the turn of the last century, was just as he remembered, but he had no way of knowing whether the interior had changed. During his time in Luleå he had never had any reason to enter such an opulent building.

The receptionist welcomed the old Frenchman with a distracted politeness. She checked him into a room on the second floor, told him when breakfast was served, gave him the key, and promptly forgot all about him.

You’re least visible in a sea of people
, he thought, thanking her in broken English and heading off to the lifts.

The room had an air of trying too hard. The cool tiling and replicas of fashionable furniture suggested luxury and tradition, but behind the façade he could see dirty windows and grubby fibreglass walls.

He sat on the bed for a moment, looking out at the twilight. Or was it still dawn?

The sea view that the website boasted about consisted of grey water, some wooden buildings next to a harbour, a neon sign and a large black felt-roof.

He was on the verge of falling asleep and shook himself to clear his head, noticing the smell that emanated from him. He stood up and opened his bag, then went over to the desk where he lined up his medicines, starting with the painkillers. Then he lay down on the bed as the nausea gradually eased.

So, he was finally here.

La mort est ici
.

Death is here.

Tuesday 10 November
1

Annika Bengtzon stopped at the entrance to the newsroom, blinking against the sharp white neon lighting. The noise crashed against her: chattering printers, whirring scanners, the tapping of nails against keyboards; people feeding machines endlessly with text, images, letters and commands.

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