Without a Trace (31 page)

Nina’s fingers trembled as she clicked to start the next film.

Fisksätra, 09.45.

She stared at the middle carriage as if hypnotized. The doors slid open. The dark-haired woman got out and walked quickly towards the exit. Her face wasn’t caught on camera.

Disappointment was growing.

Fisksätra.

The woman had travelled to Fisksätra, the most densely populated town in Sweden. How would she be able to find her there? A faceless woman with no name?

Nina clicked to close the media player on her computer, then stared at the blank screen.

Fisksätra was a residential area. People lived there. They didn’t go there to shop or have coffee.

So the little woman lived there, the little woman who had sounded the alarm on a mobile phone registered to Nora Lerberg.

Nina felt her shoulders tense. If she was lucky, the flats there would all be rented out by the same landlord or housing association. If she was unlucky, they’d been sold off and there would be hundreds of little housing associations, with no shared database.

She went online to see what the situation was.

All the apartment blocks in Fisksätra were rented, and they all seemed to be owned by the same landlord, a company called Stena Properties.

She breathed out and called the main exchange, explained who she was, and asked to speak to someone responsible for rentals and contracts.

‘What area?’ the cheery receptionist asked.

Stena was evidently a large company. Nina clarified what she wanted.

‘We’ll call you back at National Crime. That way we can verify your identity before divulging any information.’

Good, Nina thought.

One minute later her phone rang. The person responsible for the rental of flats in Fisksätra was a man with a pronounced Stockholm accent. ‘No, we don’t have a Nora Lerberg among our tenants,’ he said. ‘Sorry, love.’

Nina took a silent breath. Her luck seemed to have run out. Already? There had to be another way forward, another opening.

‘Maria,’ she said. ‘Have you got a tenant by the name of Maria Andersson?’

‘What year was she born?’

‘Twenty-six.’

The man whistled to himself as he tapped at his computer.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘A Maria Andersson, born on the ninth of September, could that be the one?’

Nina closed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s her. What’s the address of the flat she’s renting?’

‘Braxengatan twenty-two, fourth floor.’

‘How long has she had it?’

The man whistled some more. ‘Since July last year.’

Not quite a year.

Nina thanked him for his help and hung up. A moment later her phone rang again – had he forgotten something?

‘
Señorita Hoffman? Hola. Buenos días, qué tal? Todo está bien con usted allí en el frío?
’

The Spanish policeman sounded as if they’d known each other all their lives, and Nina’s chest filled with warmth. ‘
Sí, señor
,’ she said, smiling at the phone. ‘And all the better for hearing your voice.’

The man laughed. ‘I’ve got some information for you,’ he said. ‘The man you asked about, Karl Gustav Evertere Ekblad, is listed as sole proprietor of the five companies you mentioned.’

Nina swallowed her disappointment. She had been hoping for a minority shareholder somewhere on the periphery.

‘But it isn’t Karl Gustav – how did you pronounce that name?’

‘Evert,’ Nina said.

‘It isn’t him who runs the companies, though. Someone else has been authorized to access all the accounts, and looks after the invoices and transactions. Her name is Nora Maria Lerberg.’

Yes! It was her, Nora. No Andersson this time: she’d had the companies in Spain before she adopted her maiden name. Five Spanish companies, for which she paid Kag, an alcoholic from Orminge, to act as a front. Kag was the face of Nora’s businesses, and for his trouble received money for drink, rent and thin-bread rolls. Nora was able to launder her money without anyone knowing.

‘Do you have an address for the authorized signatory?’

‘Yes, she’s a
residente
here, and is listed at the same address as the proprietor.’

He gave her the name of a street in Nueva Andalucía, the district where all the companies were registered, and promised to send her an email containing all the details and extracts from official databases.

‘Do you go on holiday, Señorita Hoffman?’ the policeman asked. ‘Have you ever thought about paying us a visit down here in the sun? It’s very warm and sunny here, twenty-six degrees in the shade.’

Nina thanked him, hung up, and put her hand down gently on Isak’s drawing.

Berit Hamrin was heading towards her usual seat with her suitcase rolling behind her. Annika leaped to her feet and gave her a hug. ‘How was Oslo?’

‘Expensive.’

Valter stood up, looking slightly lost. ‘Valter Wennergren, trainee,’ he said, shaking Berit’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m in your place. I’ll move at once.’

‘No, stay where you are,’ Berit said, taking her coat off. ‘I can squat at the end of the table for the time being. What’s going on here, then?’ She nodded towards the newsdesk, where the web-TV team had set up their studio camera, a microphone on a boom, and a large lamp. Bulky cables snaked across half of the room and people kept tripping over them.

‘Schyman’s about to address the nation,’ Annika said.

‘About time,’ Berit said.

At that moment Schyman strode out of his room with a determined expression. He nodded to Berit. ‘We can talk about Norway this afternoon,’ he said, as he passed them.

‘So he’s not thinking of resigning before lunch, then,’ Annika said quietly.

The editor-in-chief installed himself in front of the camera. Annika was glad he hadn’t decided to stand on the desk. He exchanged a few words with the online editor, then raised his eyes to look out across the newsroom.

‘OK, everyone,’ he said, in a loud, firm voice. ‘If I could just have your attention for a few minutes?’

They fell silent, moving slowly and hesitantly towards the desk, as if the television lamp were dangerous or infectious. Annika, Valter and Berit moved a few steps closer, but stopped at a suitable distance.

‘As you are all aware,’ Schyman began, ‘I am currently the subject of a great deal of scrutiny on the internet and in various other media as a result of a television documentary I made eighteen years ago. There’s nothing odd about that. We scrutinize each other’s work far too infrequently in this business, and when it does happen, it is often poorly and uncritically done.’

Annika realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled and forced her shoulders to relax from their hunched posture. Schyman seemed as cool as a cucumber.

‘For me, this scrutiny has led to a great deal of self-criticism and reflection,’ he went on. ‘There are things I could have done differently when I made the programme. But, above all, the criticism has made me think about the way I work now, and how my colleagues and competitors reason when they make decisions about whether or not to publish a story.’

‘You can tell he used to be a television presenter,’ Berit muttered.

Schyman looked out over the newsroom as he spoke, ignoring the television camera and addressing himself to the people in the room, even if it was abundantly clear that he was focused on the camera the whole time. This speech wasn’t aimed primarily at his colleagues on the
Evening Post
, but at the rest of the industry.

‘It’s a good thing that the rest of the media, in large part, have maintained their sceptical, neutral attitude towards information found on the internet,’ he said.

‘They’ve hardly done that, though,’ Valter whispered.

‘Definitely not,’ Annika whispered back. ‘But he can’t have a go at the rest of the media because they’d get defensive and stop listening to what he’s saying. He can’t afford to rub them up the wrong way.’

‘The internet is an excellent forum for debate and democracy and freedom of speech,’ Schyman said. ‘But the decision about whether or not to publish any material becomes bigger and more important the more players there are in the arena. There is every reason for me and others to ask ourselves if we are really taking that responsibility seriously.’

‘Where’s he going with this?’ Valter asked.

‘Trying to shift the focus of the debate, I assume,’ Berit whispered.

‘So, as recently as this morning, I have spoken to representatives of the Ministry of Justice about reinforcing the responsibilities inherent in publishing. Power, even power held by the public, has to come with responsibility. We have to be held accountable for anything expressed in the public arena. Individuals need to be protected from threats and slander. Not primarily the editors of large newspapers, but young people on Facebook, Twitter and other social media, female commentators, sports presenters, bloggers of every gender and ethnicity … This is a vitally important democratic issue.’

Annika shifted her weight to the other foot. When was he going to get to the point? He couldn’t carry on like this much longer, or people would stop listening.

‘If I might return to my own situation, I can see that the blogger, the Light of Truth, has put a great deal of work into the rhetoric of denouncing me and the opinions I expressed in an almost twenty-year-old television programme,’ Schyman went on, sounding almost amused. ‘However, he hasn’t been quite as skilful when it comes to his journalism. Later this afternoon, on the
Evening Post
website, we will be releasing a number of previously unknown details that have arisen in the case of Viola Söderland’s disappearance. We will also publish interviews with a number of people who were close to Viola Söderland. This involves no risk either to me personally or the
Evening Post
newspaper. We shall take responsibility for what we publish – about that there is no doubt whatsoever.’

He said this in a way that let the assembled staff breathe out, without knowing why.

‘One question,’ the union representative called. He had once been one of the morning-shift editors, but had been struck by writer’s block and now worked full-time as union rep. ‘Gustaf Holmerud has claimed responsibility for Viola Söderland’s murder. That means you were wrong all along, doesn’t it?’

Schyman held his ground with a good-natured expression on his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I read that too. It is a fact that the
Evening Post
has led the way in the reporting of Gustaf Holmerud’s crimes and confession, and of course he has been convicted of no fewer than five murders, both in the Crown Court and the Court of Appeal. But we don’t stop our coverage of the case simply because the verdict has been pronounced. We are already investigating the background and circumstances surrounding these, in part, highly questionable judgments. You will be able to read much more about this in the
Evening Post
in the future.’

Annika saw how Sjölander flew up from his relaxed position by the sports desk – he had clearly known nothing about this.

The editor-in-chief got ready to leave the limelight.

‘One more question,’ the union rep shouted.

Schyman stopped and looked tolerantly at the man, who was obviously plucking up courage to say something.

‘Are you going to resign?’ he asked.

Schyman blinked as if the question were a joke. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why would I do that?’

Then he turned away, the light went out and the live broadcast was over. The editor-in-chief strode purposefully through the newsroom. Halfway to his glass box he turned to Annika, pointed at her, then at his office.

‘Oh, shit,’ Annika said. ‘What now?’

‘Close the door,’ Schyman said, when Annika walked into his room.

He sat behind his desk and studied some documents in front of him. She slid the door shut behind her and stood in the middle of the cramped floor space. ‘Nice speech,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’ll be enough?’

‘Not by a long shot,’ he said, ‘but it might do as a start. I’ve got a job for you.’

She sat down in the visitor’s chair. As long as whatever it was didn’t take all day – Birgitta was bringing Destiny over that evening: the little girl would be staying at theirs for the weekend. ‘Apart from finding Viola Söderland?’

‘Viola Söderland’s dead,’ Schyman said, without looking up. ‘At least she is if this fellow’s to be believed.’

He handed the documents to Annika. It was a printout of the police interview with Gustaf Holmerud in which he confessed to the murder of the billionairess, a document that most definitely wasn’t in the public domain.

‘Sjölander’s got some good sources,’ Annika murmured.

‘I want you to go through all the cases Holmerud was convicted of,’ Schyman said. ‘I want you to rip those verdicts to shreds.’

She looked up sharply. Schyman sighed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘I know. You never believed in him. You think those women were killed by their husbands or boyfriends. Well, now’s your chance to investigate it properly.’

‘So I’m supposed to act like some sort of Don Quixote, going on the attack against the entire justice system all on my own?’

Suddenly he looked very tired. ‘I was serious about us taking responsibility,’ he said. ‘Those verdicts were wrong. We pushed the police and the prosecutor into finding him guilty, and now I’ve got to try to put things right.’

The bitter light of hindsight, Annika thought, as she returned to the printout.

Holmerud had given a detailed account of how he had kidnapped and murdered Viola, strangling her and dumping her body in a lake he would never be able to find again.

‘Have you read the Light of Truth today?’ Schyman asked.

She shook her head.

‘Linette Pettersson and Sven-Olof Witterfeldt are demanding that I be tried for fraud. Their legal knowledge seems a little limited, to put it mildly. The blogger himself is claiming that the documentary caused Viola’s daughter, Linda, to have a miscarriage. I am, in other words, both a fraudster and a child-killer.’

‘You’ve got to sue him,’ Annika said. ‘He’s crossing all sorts of boundaries now.’

The editor-in-chief shrugged his shoulders. ‘Several things are slanderous, but that would only play into his hands. He wants a trial, an established platform, and I’m not going to give it to him.’