About the Book
The most famous police officer in Sweden is found murdered in his bed. His four-year-old son is missing. His wife is suspected of killing both of them. No one believes her when she says she is innocent.
No one except for news reporter Annika Bengtzon. Her personal life in turmoil, she turns all her energies to her work, investigating the life of the murdered man.
But if his wife is innocent, where is their son? And will the truth be uncovered in time to find him … before it’s too late?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Part 1: June
Thursday, 3 June
Friday, 4 June
Saturday, 5 June
Sunday, 6 June
Monday, 7 June
Part 2: November
Monday, 15 November
Tuesday, 16 November
Part 3: December
Wednesday, 1 December
Thursday, 2 December
Friday, 3 December
Saturday, 4 December
Epilogue
Author’s Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Liza Marklund
Copyright
LIFETIME
Liza Marklund
Part 1
JUNE
Thursday, 3 June
1
The call went out at 03.21. It was sent to all patrol cars in the centre of Stockholm, and was short and to the point: ‘Control to all units, report of shots fired on Bondegatan.’
No more details. No house number, no information about casualties or who had made the call.
Even so, Nina’s stomach clenched.
Bondegatan’s a long street: there must be a thousand people living there.
As Andersson, in the passenger seat, reached for the radio she grabbed it, pressing the transmit button on its left-hand side while steering with the other hand.
‘1617 here,’ she answered. ‘We’re one block away. Have you got a house number?’
Andersson let out a theatrical sigh and looked demonstratively out of the car window. Nina glanced at him as they rolled towards Bondegatan. Okay, sulk if you want to.
‘Control to 1617,’ the operator said. ‘You’re the closest unit. Is that you, Hoffman, over?’
The number of the patrol car was linked to the number on her police badge. Before each shift started you fed the car’s registration and your badge number into the Central Operations Planning System, handily abbreviated to COPS, so that the operator in the communication centre always knew who was in which vehicle.
‘Affirmative,’ she said. ‘Turning into Bondegatan now.’
‘How does it look, over?’
She stopped the car and looked up at the heavy stone buildings on either side of the street. The dawn light hadn’t reached between them yet, and she squinted as she tried to make out shapes in the gloom. There were lights on in one top-floor flat on the right-hand side, but otherwise everything was dark. It was evidently a street-cleaning night, no parking allowed, which made it look particularly empty and abandoned. One rusty Peugeot stood alone, a parking ticket on its windscreen. ‘No activity, as far as I can tell. What number was it, over?’
The operator gave her the address and she went completely cold: That’s Julia’s place. That’s where Julia and David live.
‘Take a look, 1617. Approach with caution.’
She wound down all the car’s windows to make it easier to hear any sounds from the street, put the car into gear, turned off the headlights and drove slowly down the familiar street, no flashing lights, no siren. Andersson had perked up and was leaning forward intently.
‘Do you reckon it’s anything, then?’ he asked.
I hope to God it isn’t.
She stopped outside the flat and switched off the engine, then leaned forward to peer up at the grey cement façade. There was a light on in a second-floor window.
‘We’ll have to assume the situation is dangerous,’ she said tersely, and grabbed the radio again. ‘1617 here, we’re in position, and it looks like there are people awake in the building. Should we wait for 9070, over?’ That was the operational command vehicle.
‘9070 is still in Djursholm,’ the operator said.
‘Are there any other cars in the area? Or the armed-response unit, over?’ she asked.
‘We’re switching frequency,’ the operator said. ‘All concerned, switching to zero six.’
Silence spread through the car. Nina’s bulletproof vest was rubbing the base of her spine. Andersson shuffled restlessly in his seat and peered up at the building. ‘This could easily be a false alarm,’ he said.
Dear God, please let it be a false alarm.
The radio crackled.
‘Okay, has everyone switched? 1617, come in?’
She pressed the transmit button again, her mouth dry. ‘Zero six, we’re here, over.’
The others responded, two patrols from the city centre and one from the county force.
‘The armed-response unit isn’t available,’ the operator said. ‘9070 is on its way. Hoffman, you’re in charge until the command unit gets there. We need a considered response. Hold some units back. We’ll form a ring around the location, get cars in place. All units to approach in silence.’
At that moment a patrol car swung into Bondegatan from the other direction. It stopped a block away, the headlights going out as the engine was switched off.
Nina opened the car door and stepped out, her footsteps echoing in the street. She pressed her earpiece into her left ear as she opened the boot. ‘Shield and baton,’ she whispered to Andersson, as she tuned in to frequency zero six on the handheld radio.
At the next block she saw two policemen get out of their car. ‘1980, is that you over there?’ she said quietly, into the microphone on her right shoulder.
‘Affirmative,’ an officer replied, raising his hand.
‘You’re coming in with us,’ she said.
She ordered the other patrols to take up positions at opposite corners of a square, to ensure they had all lines of sight covered, one at the corner of Skånegatan and Södermannagatan, the other on Östgötagatan.
Andersson was rummaging around among the bandages, fire extinguishers, shovels, flares, lamps, antiseptic gel, cordon tape, warning triangles, paperwork and other clutter that was stuffed into the boot.
‘1617 to Control,’ she said. ‘Do you have a name for the person who called in, over?’
A short silence.
‘Erlandsson, Gunnar, second floor.’
She noted a light in a kitchen on the second floor. ‘He’s still up. We’re going in.’
The other officers came over, introducing themselves as Sundström and Landén. She nodded curtly and tapped in the entry-code on the keypad beside the door to the apartments. None of the others reacted to the fact that she knew it. She stepped through the door, turning down the volume on the radio to barely audible. Her colleagues filed in silently behind her. Andersson, the last to enter, wedged the door open so that they could retreat to the street quickly if need be.
The stairwell was dark, deserted. The only source of light came from the lift, seeping through the oblong glass window in the metal door.
‘Is there a courtyard?’ Landén muttered.
‘Behind the lift,’ Nina whispered. ‘The door on the right leads to the cellar.’
Landén and Sundström each checked a door; both were locked.
‘Open the lift door,’ she said to Andersson.
He wedged it wide so no one would be able to use it, then stopped by the stairs and awaited her order.
She could feel panic thudding at the back of her head, and calmed herself with words from
the police rulebook: Make an initial evaluation of the position. Secure the stairwell. Speak to the man who made the call and find out where the suspected shooting occurred.
‘Okay, let’s take a look,’ she said, and headed quickly up the stairs, floor by floor. Andersson followed her, keeping one flight below her.
The stairwell was gloomy. Her movements were making her clothes rustle in the silence. There was a smell of cleaning fluid. Behind the closed doors she could sense the presence of other people without hearing voices – a bed creaking, a tap running.
There’s nothing here, no danger, everything’s fine.
Finally, slightly out of breath, she reached the flats on the top floor. It was different from the others, with a marble floor and specially designed security doors. She knew that the housing association had renovated the attic space as luxury apartments in the late 1980s, just in time for the crash in property prices. The flats had stood empty for several years, almost bankrupting the association. Today, of course, they were ridiculously expensive, but she remembered Julia telling her that David was still angry about the previous committee’s poor judgement.
Andersson came up behind her, panting heavily. ‘Looks like a false alarm.’
Nina sensed his disappointment as he wiped his forehead. ‘Let’s hear what the man who called in has to say,’ she replied, and went back downstairs.
Sundström and Landén were waiting on the second floor, beside a door marked ‘Erlandsson, G. & A.’.
Nina stepped up to the door and knocked quietly.
No response.
Andersson shifted his feet impatiently behind her.
She knocked again, considerably louder.
A man in a blue and white striped towelling dressing-gown appeared at the crack behind a heavy safety chain.
‘Gunnar Erlandsson? Police,’ Nina said, holding up her badge. ‘You called about some suspicious noises? Can we come in?’
The man closed the door, fumbled with the chain, then opened it again.
‘Come in,’ he whispered. ‘Would you like some coffee? And there’s some of my wife’s Swiss roll, with homemade rhubarb jam. She’s dozing at the moment – she has trouble getting to sleep and took a pill …’
Nina stepped into the hall. The layout of the flat was exactly like David and Julia’s, but this one was considerably tidier. ‘Please, don’t go to any trouble for us,’ she said.
She noted that Gunnar Erlandsson had been addressing Landén, the largest of the men. Now he was glancing uncertainly from one to another.
‘Gunnar,’ Nina said, taking his upper arm, ‘can we sit down and go through what you heard?’
The man stiffened. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course.’
He led them into a pedantically neat living room with brown leather sofas and a thick rug on the floor. Out of habit he settled into an armchair facing the television, and Nina sat on the coffee-table in front of him. ‘Tell me what happened, Gunnar.’
He swallowed, his eyes still flitting between the officers.
‘I woke up,’ he said. ‘A noise woke me up, a bang. It sounded like a shot.’
‘What made you think it was a shot?’
‘I was lying in bed, and at first I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, but then I heard it again.’ He pulled out a pair of glasses and started polishing them nervously.
‘Do you hunt?’ Nina asked.
Gunnar Erlandsson stared at her in horror. ‘Good grief, no,’ he said. ‘Murdering innocent animals? That’s barbaric.’
‘If you’re not familiar with firearms,’ Nina said, ‘what made you think you heard a shot? Could it have been a car backfiring, or some other sudden noise out in the street?’
He blinked several times and looked up at Landén. ‘It didn’t come from outside,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling. ‘It came from the Lindholms’. I’d swear that’s where it came from.’
Nina felt the room lurch and stood up quickly, clenching her teeth to stop herself screaming. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll be back later to take a formal statement.’
The man said something else about coffee, but she went out into the stairwell and up the stairs to the floor above, two steps at a time, to David and Julia’s door.
She gestured to Sundström and Landén that they should cover the stairs in both directions, and that Andersson should approach the door with her. They took up position on either side of the door, leaving any line of fire clear.
Nina tested the door. Locked. She knew it closed automatically if it wasn’t held open. She fumbled for the ASP baton in her belt, then opened it with a light flick of the wrist. She pushed it gently through the letterbox and peered in cautiously.
The light was on in the hall. The air from the flat smelt of newspaper print. She could see the morning paper on the mat. She laid the baton horizontally so that it held the letterbox open. Then she pulled out her pistol and made sure there was a bullet in the chamber, then gestured to the others to be on the alert. She nodded towards the doorbell: she was about to make their presence known.
Pointing her weapon at the floor, she pressed the button and heard the bell ring inside the flat. ‘Police!’ she called. ‘Open up!’
She listened intently for any sound from the letterbox.
No response.
‘Julia!’ she called, quieter now. ‘Julia, it’s me, Nina. Open up. David?’
Her vest was tight across her chest, making it hard to breathe. She could feel the sweat breaking out on her forehead.
‘Is that … Lindholm?’ Andersson said. ‘Officer David Lindholm? You know his wife?’
Nina holstered her gun, pulled out her personal mobile from the inside pocket of her jacket and dialled the familiar number.
Andersson took a step closer to her. ‘Listen,’ he said, standing far too close to her. She resisted the impulse to back away. ‘If you have a personal connection to anyone in there, you shouldn’t …’
She stared blankly at him as the phone started to ring on the other side of the door, a long, lonely sound.
Andersson took a step back. The ringing stopped abruptly and the answer-machine clicked in. Nina ended the call and dialled another number. A cheerful tune struck up just inside the door. Julia’s mobile must be on the hall floor, probably in her handbag.
She’s at home, Nina thought. She never goes out without her bag.
‘Julia,’ she said, as the mobile’s voicemail clicked in. ‘Julia, are you there?’
The silence echoed. Nina took several steps back, pressed the transmitter on her radio and spoke quietly into it. ‘1617 here. We’ve spoken to the informant, who heard what he thought were shots, probably from the flat above. We’ve made our presence known but there’s been no response from inside the flat. What do you advise, over?’
There was a short pause before the answer reached her earpiece.
‘The armed-response unit is still unavailable. Your call. Over and out.’
She let go of the radio.
‘Okay,’ she said quietly, looking at Andersson and the other two officers on the stairs. ‘We’ll force the door. Have we got a crowbar in 1617?’
‘We’ve got one in our vehicle,’ Landén said. Nina nodded towards the stairs and he hurried off.
Andersson began, ‘Do you think it’s appropriate for you to be leading the operation if—’
‘What’s the alternative?’ Nina cut him off, more harshly than she intended. ‘Handing over command to you?’
Andersson gulped. ‘Wasn’t there something funny about Julia Lindholm?’ he said. ‘Wasn’t she involved in some scandal?’
Ignoring him, Nina took out her mobile and called Julia’s number once more. Still no response.
Landén returned with the equipment in his arms: a length of metal almost a metre long, basically a reinforced crowbar. ‘Can we really do this?’ he said breathlessly, as he passed it to her.
‘Any delay could just make things worse,’ Nina said.
Paragraph twenty-one of police legislation: The police have the right to gain entry to a property, room or other location if there is reason to believe that someone inside may have died, be unconscious or otherwise incapable of summoning assistance …
She passed the crowbar to Andersson and clicked off the safety catch of her pistol, nodding to the others to take up their positions.
As Andersson inserted the end of the crowbar beside the door-frame, she put her foot down close to the door so that it wouldn’t fly open and injure him, in the event that someone inside tried to force their way out.
After three carefully judged attempts, the door gave way and the lock broke. The air that streamed out into the stairwell carried with it the faint smell of cooking.
Nina listened intently for any sound in the flat. She shut her eyes and concentrated. Then she jerked her head quickly to the left, taking a first glance at the hall: empty. Another glance, this time towards the kitchen: empty. A third, towards the bedroom: empty.
‘I’m going in,’ she said, pressing her back against the door frame, and turning towards Andersson. ‘Cover me. Police!’ she called again.
No response.
Her body tense, she slid round the door frame, kicking the newspaper aside and stepping silently into the hall. The lamp hanging from the ceiling was swaying slightly, presumably from the draught. Julia’s bag was indeed lying on the floor to the left of the door. Alexander’s jacket was next to it. David and Julia’s coats were hanging from hooks on the rack to the right.
She stared straight ahead, towards the kitchen, hearing Andersson’s breathing behind her.
‘Check the nursery,’ she said, gesturing with her gun towards the first open door on the left, without taking her eyes from the kitchen.
Her colleague slid in – Nina could hear the fabric of his trousers rustling.
‘Nursery clear,’ he said, a few seconds later.
‘Check the wardrobes,’ Nina said. ‘Close the door behind you when you’re done.’ She took a few steps forward and took a quick look in the kitchen. The table was bare, but there were plates with the remains of spaghetti bolognese on the worktop.
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