Authors: Liza Marklund
‘And the bad points?’
Nina reflected for a moment. ‘The tyranny of welfare,’ she said. ‘The constant need for more without having to do more to get it. Small-minded whining about any change or development, and a deep-seated conviction that we’re the best in the world at absolutely everything.’
The commissioner laughed. ‘I’ve had a long conversation with Javier Lopez, my colleague in Albuñol
,
’ he said.
Nina waited for him to go on.
‘It’s funny the way some events stay with you,’ the commissioner said. ‘Lopez still remembers the accident when a Swedish man got himself killed nearly twenty years ago. It happened during his first year in the force, so that may go some way to explaining it.’
Nina’s hands were clenched in her lap, anticipation growing in her stomach.
‘Lopez pulled out the old file, just to make sure, and it confirmed what he remembered.’
Commissioner Elorza ran his fingers over his notes. ‘It was a Wednesday night at the start of February and it had been raining earlier in the evening. That makes the roads up in the mountains slippery, and with bad tyres it’s easy to find yourself aquaplaning. The car containing Señor Berglund drove straight into a ravine above Albondón. It caught fire on impact and was burned beyond recognition.’
Nina tried to imagine the scene in her mind’s eye. ‘Beyond recognition? In spite of the rain and the wet ground?’
‘That’s how it was described to me.’
‘So how did they know it was Arne Berglund’s car? And that he was driving it?’
‘The number plate was still readable. The car, a Volvo 164, was registered in Arne Berglund’s name. An overnight bag was thrown out of the car when it crashed, and contained Arne Berglund’s wallet. The body that was found strapped in the driver’s seat was a man of Berglund’s size and age. A watch and a necklace that were burned on to the corpse were identified as belonging to Arne Berglund.’
‘By whom?’
Commissioner Elorza looked down at his notes. ‘The victim’s brother, Ivar Berglund.’
Nina clenched her fists tighter.
‘Arne Berglund was registered as a resident of Marbella,’
the commissioner continued. ‘He owned a small house there and ran a business trading in timber.’
‘What happened to the house and the business?’ Nina asked.
Axier Elorza looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I had a feeling you might ask that. They were both bequeathed to his brother, who went on running the business from Sweden, albeit on a smaller scale. The house still belongs to the brother.’
Adrenalin was coursing through her. ‘It may not have been the brother who identified the dead body,’ Nina said. ‘What if he did it himself? He identified himself. He didn’t die in that accident. Someone else did. I don’t know how they did it, but it wasn’t Arne Berglund who was burned beyond recognition in that car crash.’
‘That will be hard to prove. The body was cremated.’
Nina had to force herself to remain seated. ‘It’s not the dead body we should be focusing on,’ she said, ‘but the living man.’
‘You seem very sure about this.’
She straightened in her chair. ‘I’m not certain, but it’s a possibility that ought to be investigated. The men are identical twins. They could have carried on living two lives, in Sweden and in Spain, under the pretence that they were the same person. As long as they were never seen together, they were safe.’
Commissioner Elorza nodded thoughtfully, with a degree of amusement. ‘Today one brother is in custody
in Sweden, charged with murder. Which of them is it? And where might the other be?’
‘I don’t know which of the brothers is which,’ she said. ‘For the time being it doesn’t really matter, because if I’m right, they’re both guilty. The one who’s free must have been lying very low for more than a year, so they must have access to homes or refuges that we don’t know about.’
‘Here, or in Sweden, or somewhere else on the planet?’
Nina took a deep breath. ‘One last question,’ she said. ‘You didn’t happen to get the address of the house in Marbella?’
Commissioner Elorza smiled.
Disappointment burned in Anders Schyman. He had intimated to the chairman that something big was in the works, that he could see an appeal to the Supreme Court. But Bengtzon’s terse text message after her meeting in the Bunker –
No interview today, Holmerud obstructive. Still possible, details this afternoon
– had led him to draw the wrong conclusion. He had believed that the interview would take place the following day, that something had to be negotiated higher up the food chain. He certainly hadn’t been expecting this.
Albert Wennergren put the printout of Bengtzon’s notes on the desk. ‘Well, well,’ he said sardonically.
Schyman chose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘You sound surprised.’
The chairman of the board smiled. ‘Positively surprised,’ he said. ‘First you got him convicted as a serial
killer, and now you’re going to get him released. That’s what I call proactive journalism.’
Schyman looked at his boss, with his supercilious attitude, his designer sweater and hand-stitched leather shoes. Proactive journalism had paid for it all. ‘We need to check the terrain carefully, see what interest there is in the rest of the media,’ he said. ‘We have to build alliances and synchronize publication. It could get a bit complicated.’
Wennergren nodded thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how long the others are going to struggle on with their print editions,’ he said. ‘We live in interesting times.’
Anders Schyman had nothing to add on that point, so he kept his mouth shut. Wennergren picked up the printout again. ‘I’d like to talk to the reporter, find out what Holmerud said. Word for word.’
Schyman looked out at the newsroom. Annika Bengtzon was packing away her laptop. A brightly coloured picture of an old man was propped against the wall near to her desk, and he wondered what it was doing there. ‘You’ll have to hurry,’ he said. ‘She’s getting ready to go home.’
Wennergren got to his feet, opened the glass door and headed out into the newsroom. He said something to Annika, who looked up in surprise, then they headed for Schyman’s glass box.
‘He said exactly what I wrote in my notes,’ the reporter said, as she walked into the room and Wennergren closed the door. ‘He’s bored with being locked up and wants to
get out. Men who kill women don’t have an easy time of it in prison, so maybe his friends are being nasty to him at mealtimes.’
‘This is interesting,’ Wennergren said, waving the printout. ‘I’m on the board of the family’s television channel and publishing company. I could stir up my contacts and we could make common cause with this, the same reporter presenting a series of articles, a television documentary and a book-length study. There’s a lot of profit to be made from that sort of blanket coverage.’
‘What a great idea,’ Annika Bengtzon said. ‘But why restrict our synchronization to Gustaf Holmerud? If we collaborate closely enough, we’d need only a single journalist in the whole of Sweden.’
Schyman’s heart sank, but Wennergren laughed.
‘Sit down,’ the chairman said, dragging another chair over to the desk.
Bengtzon did so. She looked hollow-eyed and tired, on the brink of exhaustion. Her fingernails sparkled in a range of neon colours – they looked very odd, Schyman thought. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Not great,’ she said. ‘My sister’s disappeared.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything for us?’ he asked.
‘Hopefully not,’ she said, and looked down at her nails.
‘What sort of impression did you get of Gustaf Holmerud?’ Wennergren asked, evidently untroubled by missing sisters.
‘He’s resourceful and manipulative,’ Annika said. ‘He
appears to have gathered information on the reporters who’ve written about him – he mentioned personal details about me, Berit, Patrik and Bosse from the other evening paper. And I don’t think he’s innocent of all the crimes. I’ve done some research into the first murder he was suspected of committing, and I think he’s guilty of that one.’
‘So you don’t think we should do this?’ Schyman asked.
She bit her lip. ‘I think we should, actually. For one important reason – to get justice for the murdered women. Four murderers are at liberty as a result of Holmerud taking their crimes on himself. That’s why I don’t think we should dismiss him out of hand, and certainly not as things stand.’
‘But you don’t want to do it?’ Schyman asked.
‘He’s not going to accept me. He wants someone prestigious, someone with more authority.’
Wennergren nodded. ‘Naturally he wants this gambit to make an impression. He wants someone who’s going to be seen and heard in the public debate.’
‘But you know all about the case now,’ Schyman said to Annika. ‘Couldn’t you start by pulling together all the research on the subject, conducting background interviews, figuring out how this synchronization might work?’
‘So that someone else can scoop up the National Award for Journalism?’ She put her hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘What’s that picture you’ve got over there?’ Schyman said, nodding towards her desk.
‘He’s a German artist, who claims that women can’t paint.’ She walked out, closing the door behind her.
Wennergren watched her thoughtfully as she walked towards the exit with a hideous bag over her shoulder. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It would be very good indeed if we could organize an appeal to the Supreme Court. Hold our banner high, right to the end. What do you think? Will we have time?’
‘That depends on when we close down,’ Schyman said.
‘Come up with some thoughts about that too, will you?’ Wennergren said, and gathered his things together.
The children went to bed late, kept awake by the early-summer light outside the window and anticipation of the following day’s celebrations to mark the end of the school year.
Once they had finally fallen sleep, Annika walked from room to room in the apartment, listening out for the lift and Jimmy. His flight from Brussels had been delayed because of a thunderstorm.
Contradictory images of Birgitta were gnawing at her: talented, abused, loved, alcoholic . . .
On impulse, Annika went to the wardrobe and dug out the box containing old letters and newspaper cuttings, and there it was: the shoebox of childhood photographs. She sat down in the living room with it. Her mother had always meant to put them in a nice photograph album, to
paint a rosy picture of the past, but had never got round to it.
In the fading light from the window she leafed through the photos: endless summer evenings, Christmas Eves, birthdays. Birgitta always smiling at the camera, and the young Annika looking away. There was the picture from the beach at Tallsjön, the ice-creams and the blue rug, the towels, herself in profile, Birgitta smiling . . . Birgitta as a child was very like someone else. She reminded Annika of someone she had met very recently.
Destiny, of course.
She lowered the pictures to her lap and let the tears come.
What if Birgitta never came back, if something really had happened to her? What would become of her little daughter?
The lock in the front door rattled, and she wiped her cheeks.
‘Hello,’ Jimmy said quietly, as he put his overnight bag and briefcase on the hall floor. ‘Why are you sitting here in the dark?’
She smiled at him, even though he probably couldn’t see it. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ she said.
Jimmy walked into the room, sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her. ‘Are all the little ones asleep?’
‘Only just. They’re really wound up about the last day of school.’
‘I can take them – you’re seeing the psychologist first thing tomorrow, aren’t you?’
She sat up, pulled him towards her and kissed him hard.
‘How are you?’ Jimmy whispered.
‘Not too great,’ she said.
He held her tight, gently rocking her. She let the last of the tears fall and subside. His arms were solid; he smelt of skin and warmth.
‘How did you get on?’ she asked.
Jimmy sighed and loosened his grip. ‘Brussels was okay, but I’m having a massive problem with Thomas.’
She looked up at him.
‘I don’t understand what the hell he’s playing at,’ Jimmy said. ‘He’s obstructing the conclusion of the inquiry, insisting on pushing through a change to the law that guarantees online anonymity for the very worst internet nutters for ever. I was forced to stop him presenting his proposals at tomorrow’s cabinet meeting.’
‘He won’t have been happy about that,’ Annika said.
‘You’re absolutely right. He looked like I’d just chopped his other hand off. Anyway, tell me, have you heard anything from your sister?’
Annika swallowed. ‘It turns out she actually went missing nearly three weeks ago. The manager of the shop she worked in withdrew a promise of a permanent job, so she went to a bar and got drunk. When she got home she had a row with Steven and stormed out, and he hasn’t spoken to her since, but they’ve exchanged texts. She’s ashamed and says she wants to be left alone, but she’s been trying to get hold of me.’
Jimmy whistled.
‘She was in Hälleforsnäs last week,’ Annika went on. ‘I bumped into Roland Larsson, and he saw her in a car in Malmköping. She was looking for somewhere to rent for the summer, possibly her old art teacher’s little cottage. Maybe she was thinking of moving home.’ She gulped. ‘And she phoned Harpsund and asked if she could rent Lyckebo.’
He blew into her hair. ‘Where did you see Roland?’
‘In the café of the discount store in Hälleforsnäs.’
‘Was he eating something likely to raise his blood pressure?’
Annika wrapped her arms round his neck, picturing Roland’s round face. ‘He seemed happy with life, wants us to go swimming with him and Sylvia in Mellösa.’
Jimmy kissed her neck. ‘You know you were his fantasy girl when we were teenagers?’ he said.
‘What about Birgitta?’ she said. ‘She was much prettier than me.’
‘You were sexier,’ Jimmy whispered.
They kissed each other again, more intensely this time . . .