Last Will (48 page)

He slumped into his chair and put his feet up on the desk.

“I know,” he said, “I saw it.
The Kitten
, what sort of alias is that? How long have you been sitting on that story?”

“I’m not talking about the Kitten. I’ve just stumbled across a body, but this time I’m not going to keep quiet.”

He blinked several times against the lamp in the ceiling.

“What?” he said.

“The professor who was questioned about the murder of Ernst Ericsson is dead,” she said.

“Who?” Schyman said.

“Another professor from the Karolinska Institute. I found him. He’d been nailed up in his own sauna, a nine-inch nail through one eye and another through the throat.”

He stared at the lamp until he was forced to close his eyes. Flecks of light danced in front of his eyes.

“Nailed up … ?”

“He was dead when it happened, strangled. Ernst Ericsson’s corpse was mutilated the same way.”

She sounded wound up beyond any acceptable safety limits.

“I’m not allowed to write anything myself,” she said, “except for maybe an overview. Someone else will have to deal with the news angle.”

“Are you allowed to talk about it? They haven’t imposed another ban on disclosure?”

“They’re trying to, but I’m not going to let them. I’ve kept quiet for long enough. Someone who understands the meaning of the disclosure ban will have to interview me; then it’ll be up to you to decide if we publish it. Is Berit there, or Patrik?”

“They’re working flat out on the extradition from Bromma—we’ve got to run with that tomorrow.”

“Is there anyone else there who knows what rules we’re trying to get around?”

He sat down again and leaned his head on his hand.

“Jansson, but he’s putting the paper together.”

She fell silent.

“I see,” she said. “So I just go home and give up on the whole thing?”

“Me,” he said. “I can do it. Come up to the newsroom and I’ll interview you.”

She said nothing for a few moments.

“What,
Interview by Anders Schyman
?” she said skeptically.

“Do you suppose I’ve never had to knock something together in the past?” he said.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2

Annika thought she was going to die when the alarm clock rang. Her whole body ached with tiredness; it felt like she hadn’t slept in years.

She rolled over onto her back, glancing cautiously at the other side of the bed. There was someone there, a warm body, only it wasn’t Thomas but Ellen. Her tousled hair was spread out across the white pillow. Annika leaned over and pulled the covers away from her face. The girls eyelashes were flickering, a sure sign that she was dreaming.

My darling, she thought, stroking her daughter’s hair gently.

Then she lay back and listened hard for sounds from the kitchen.

No sound of running taps. No rustling newspaper. No chink of crockery.

I hope he’s gone, she thought.

Which would mean she had managed to postpone the confrontation for a while longer.

She hadn’t called at the previous evening, and nor had Thomas. When she got home he was already asleep, and she had managed to creep into bed beside him and Ellen without him waking up.

And now he had gone without waking her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Ellen shifted uneasily, then stretched out in a slow, leisurely gesture that reminded Annika of Whiskas, her old cat, now long since dead.

I have to get up now, she thought. I have to make breakfast and drive the children to nursery school.

Kalle would have to go back to kindergarten today.

Her stomach knotted when she thought about how vulnerable he was.

If only she could do something.

If only she had some sort of power.

But I have, she thought.

She stared up at the ceiling, letting her thoughts settle.

There were ways and means of getting power, if you didn’t already have it. It was easy, in fact—she had spent her whole life working with it. Power didn’t come for free; it always had a price, but in this case she was prepared to pay.

I have a choice, she thought. I can do it, if I want …

She rolled over to Thomas’s side of the bed and cuddled up to her daughter.

“Ellen,” she whispered. “It’s time to get up now.”

She stroked the child’s hair until she opened her eyes, looking around blindly for a moment until she caught sight of Annika.

Then the smile—oh, that smile—radiating complete confidence and unconditional love, and then the sleepy voice.

“Mommy!”

Sleep-moistened arms around her neck, the sweet smell of a child’s skin and cotton pajamas. Annika rocked the little bundle in her arms and wanted never to have to get up.

“Are we going to nursery school today, Mommy?”

“Yes,” Annika whispered, “today’s a nursery school day.”

The girl wriggled out of her arms and jumped up in the bed, bouncing happily on the absurdly expensive mattress.

“I’m going to finish my bag today,” she said with her hair flying about. “I’m making a bag, Mommy, with red pockets and lots of buttons.”

“That sounds just lovely,” Annika said.

She pulled up outside the nursery. It was just before nine o’clock and the playground was full of children. She stopped and stared intently at the crowd, looking for two solidly built little boys with expensive haircuts and sneakers.

There. There they were. They were standing by the fence kicking a tricycle.

“Come on,” Annika said, switching the engine off. “It’ll soon be time for assembly.”

Ellen took her own seat belt off and jumped out, but Kalle hung back. His fingers went to the large bandage on his forehead.

“Can I take this off, Mommy?”

“Absolutely not,” Annika said. “You might get dirt in the cut. You have to promise me that you’re going to leave it on, okay?”

The boy nodded.

“But what if they’re mean again?” he said.

Annika bent down toward him.

“Kalle,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I promise you this. Alex and Ben will never be nasty to you again. I’m going to make sure of that.”

He sighed and nodded, then climbed out of the car.

“Hi Kalle,” Lotta called from the entrance. “Can you come and help me with assembly today? You can hand out the books!”

A smile slipped out, and he let go of Annika’s hand and ran off.

Soon they would be going in; she only had a minute or so.

Annika felt her pulse race until it filled her head. She made her way through the crowd of children as her field of vision shrank. It got narrower and narrower until it became a tunnel, with just two small figures at the end, two six-year-olds who were kicking a tricycle at the far end of the fence.

Finally they were standing in front of her, right at her feet, but they still hadn’t noticed her; they were still yelling and shouting as they kicked the little tricycle, and she leaned down toward them.

“Benjamin,” she said quietly, taking a firm grasp on one of the boy’s arms.

The child looked up at her in surprise, stopping midyell. She put her face just a couple of centimeters from his and saw the surprise in his eyes turn into a vague unease.

“Benjamin,” she said. “Have you been mean to Kalle?”

The boy’s jaw fell open and his tongue stuck out slightly.

“I want you to know something,” Annika whispered, her heart thudding so hard that she could hardly hear her own words. “If you are ever mean to Kalle again, and I mean
ever
, I’ll kill you. Got it?”

The boy’s eyes grew big as saucers and gradually filled with realization and terror.

She let him go and grabbed hold of the other child.

“Alexander,” she whispered, her breath enveloping his face. “If you’re ever mean to Kalle again, I’ll come and find you in the night and kill you. Understand?”

The boy started to tremble, and he stared at her in horror. She let him go and looked at them both.

“And you know what?” she said quietly. “That doesn’t just go for Kalle, but all the other children as well.”

Then she stood up, turned her back on them, and walked away. She made her way through the sea of children toward her car at the end of the tunnel.

She drove into the city with a peculiar feeling that she was piloting a plane, not driving a car. The wheels didn’t seem to be touching the ground; she was steering through clouds and sky.

Was it stupid,
was it stupid, was it stupid?

Who cares, she thought, feeling the wheels touch the ground. I’d do it all over again if I had to.

The sky was the color of smoke, and rain was hanging in the air as she parked.

She made her way up to the newsroom, and was once again struck by the cramped but oddly deserted space.

Berit was already there; she was sitting writing at her desk with her reading glasses on.

“Follow-up?” Annika asked.

“Who knew what?” Berit asked rhetorically. “Who gave permission for what? Who sanctioned the abuse? Who negotiated with the Jordanian government? I’m not going to leave any stone unturned in this horrible mess. How are you getting on?”

Annika sank onto Patrik’s chair.

“Something must have happened on Saturday,” she said. “Some sort of Nobel group had a meeting, then there was a seminar, and then a bit of a drinks party, and sometime during that afternoon something must have happened that triggered the murders of Ernst Ericsson and Lars-Henry Svensson.”

“Can you all listen, please!” Spike yelled from the news desk. Annika and Berit straightened up and looked over at him.

Schyman clambered onto the news desk, just like in the old days, standing there barefoot, legs apart in the middle of the desk the way people used to when the evening papers appeared in the afternoon and everyone used to spend all their time writing, editing, and taking pictures for a print newspaper whose earliest edition went to press at 4:45
AM
somewhere in the basement. In other words, he was behaving the way editors used to.

It didn’t have quite the same effect now.

Schyman was standing on top of a much smaller desk, and there were far fewer, and far less enthusiastic, staff standing around to see him do it.

The editor in chief held a copy of that day’s paper above his head, turning to show it in every direction.

“This,” he said, “is the best edition in the history of this newspaper. Never before has every single news page been full of global scoops. We’re being cited by AP, AFP, Reuters, and CNN.”

The staff glanced at each other, slightly embarrassed. Most of them didn’t work on the dusty old print edition at all, but on the online version, local television, commercial radio, or on some shiny supplement. Many of them didn’t even read the actual newspaper.

“Berit’s revelation that a foreign power has been permitted to operate on Swedish soil is being followed up here today,” Schyman said triumphantly from his lofty position. “You can already see how everyone else is jumping on the story. We’re also going further with Annika’s detailed story of the Nobel murders. Today we’ve got the revelation of who carried out the murders, and the fact that they’re still going on. This is a great day for all of us. Now let’s get back to work!”

In the past a speech like that would have been greeted by shouting and applause.

Now people were just standing around confused, looking awkwardly at each other before scuttling away.

Annika and Berit were sitting, arms crossed, looking worried.

“He hasn’t really changed with the times,” Berit said. “Sometimes I wonder if he knows what he’s doing at all.”

“I think he’s starting to get it,” Annika said. “He has to make it work again, what he just tried. He has to get everyone working here to pull in the same direction. He has to shift the focus back onto real journalism again.”

“What, you mean the important thing is what we say, not what sort of broadband we use?” Berit wondered.

“More or less,” Annika said. “By the way, do you know what I did this morning? I scared the shit out of some kids who’ve been bullying Kalle.”

“Uh oh,” Berit said. “That’ll come back to haunt you.”

Annika sighed.

“I really don’t care if it does, as long as Kalle doesn’t suffer. So who do you think knew what about the Bandhagen extradition?”

Berit put her glasses back on and reached for a sheaf of papers.

“Okay, this is how it looks: the government authorized the extradition itself. They used one of the paragraphs dealing with terrorism, the law about the control of foreign nationals, the one they always fall back on when they don’t want anyone to see what they’re doing. You know, safety of the realm and all that, with the government as the highest authority.”

“And that’s recent legislation?”

“No, it’s been around for more than thirty years, and has been used roughly thirty times, so they’re not exactly wearing it out. But every time it makes you just a little bit suspicious, because they very rarely reveal what was actually behind the decision. If the cases aren’t deemed to be
particularly urgent
, the government is supposed to ask for a report from the Migration Office, and then the process is supposed to be authorized by a district court. But for some reason these cases are almost always
particularly urgent
…”