Lifetime

by Liza Marklund

  ‘Which would obviously place a severe strain on the prison service. But we can deal with that later. We have to start by going through what the direct consequences would be today, then look at how they would change over time, and how the range of sentencing is being applied.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Up to now, the government hasn’t increased any sentences, apart from some adjustment to the Sexual Offences Act, so in my opinion it’s high time they did.’

  He leaned back, his chair hitting the wall again.

  Thomas lifted one foot on to his knee and rubbed at a spot on his shoe to avoid having to look up and reveal that he was blushing. ‘So I’d do cost analysis of possible legislative proposals?’ he said. ‘And then carry on as usual?’

  ‘You’ll keep your office, and work as you’ve been doing up to now. I’ve already discussed this with Halenius, the under-secretary of state, and he’s given it the okay. Welcome to the team!’

  Per Cramne held out his hand again and Thomas took it with a grin. ‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.

  ‘This business of statistics,’ Cramne said, ‘it’s like herding cats.’ He got to his feet and gestured towards the door with one hand.

  Thomas got up clumsily and found that his legs were unsteady. ‘When do I start?’ he asked.

  Cramne raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, what the hell?’ he said. ‘There’s no point hanging about, is there? Get hold of someone at the National Council for Crime Prevention and ask them to put together an analysis of current sentences so we’ve got something to get our teeth into.’

  Thomas headed off towards his old office. It was only on the fourth, far below the real centres of power on six and seven. It was also cramped and dark and looked out on Fredsgatan, but at least it was in Rosenbad.

  He stopped in the doorway and gazed silently at the furnishings, took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He’d had so much sex that his crotch ached, he was living in a huge apartment on Östermalm, and he worked for the government.

  Fuck me, it doesn’t get better than this, he thought, stepping into the room and hanging his jacket on the back of the chair.

  The bus braked sharply, throwing Annika forward so that she banged her head on the seat in front. Confused, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. The bus had stopped at a red light just in front of Eastern Station.

  She jumped out, caught the Underground at Tekniska Högskolan and checked her watch. If everything went according to plan, she’d have time to go to the bank before she met Nina Hoffman. She got off at Slussen and headed along Götgatan until she came to a branch of her bank. She had to wait twenty minutes before she got to see a cashier. ‘I’ve got a problem,’ Annika said, putting the form she had filled in on the counter. ‘My house has burned down. I haven’t got an ID card, or any bank cards, because I didn’t manage to get anything out of the house. That’s why I need to withdraw money like this. I hope that’s okay.’

  The cashier looked at her from behind thick glasses with a neutral expression. ‘Obviously I can’t hand any money over to someone if the person in question can’t identify themselves.’

  Annika nodded emphatically. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I understand that. But I don’t have any identification documents because they all went up in the fire. I haven’t got any money either, which is why I need to withdraw some now.’

  The woman behind the counter was starting to look as if Annika smelt. ‘That’s out of the question,’ she said.

  ‘I know my account number,’ Annika said. ‘And I know exactly how much I’ve got in my current account. I’ve got a phone account too and I know all the codes.’ She held up her mobile and smiled.

  ‘Sorry,’ the cashier said. ‘I’ll have to ask you to step aside.’

  White-hot fury flashed up instantly. ‘Listen,’ Annika said, leaning towards the cashier. ‘Whose money is it, yours or mine?’

  The cashier raised her eyebrows and pressed to call the next customer in the queue. A man stood up and walked over to Annika, stopping demonstratively close to her.

  ‘I have almost three million kronor in various accounts in your damn bank,’ Annika said, far too loudly. ‘I want to withdraw every single öre and close every account.’

  The woman looked at her with unconcealed loathing. ‘You have to be able to give proof of your identity before you can close an account,’ she said, turning to the man who was muscling past Annika now.

  ‘But it’s my money!’ she shouted. She turned and walked quickly towards the door. From the corners of her eyes she could see the other customers staring at her with a mixture of fear and distaste. Close to tears, she tore the door open and started running down Folkungagatan towards Danvikstull.

  I’ve got to calm down, otherwise everyone will think I’ve robbed the bank.

  She slowed and forced herself into a normal walking speed.

  Five minutes later she reached the pizzeria.

  It took her a few moments to recognize Nina Hoffman. The police officer was sitting in a corner at the back of the restaurant, studying the menu intently. Out of uniform she looked like any other young Södermalm woman, jeans and jumper, her light brown hair loose.

  ‘Hello,’ Annika said breathlessly, holding out her hand. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late, I was trying to get some money out of my bank account, but I haven’t got any ID at the moment.’ She realized she was about to burst into tears again, and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice.’ She sat down at the table. ‘My house has burned down and I didn’t manage to get anything out with me.’

  There was a flicker in the police officer’s eyes. ‘In Djursholm? That was your house?’

  Annika nodded.

  Nina Hoffman looked at her carefully for a few seconds, then picked up the menu. ‘Do you eat pizza?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  They each ordered mineral water and a calzone.

  ‘It’s a while since we last met,’ Annika said, when the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen with their order.

  Nina Hoffman nodded. ‘Down at the station,’ she said, ‘just before your article was published. You brought me a printout to look through.’

  ‘It was the day that that financial consultant was locked up,’ Annika said. ‘Filip Andersson. I remember everyone being relieved that those terrible axe-murders could be sorted out so quickly.’

  ‘I’ve hardly ever felt such unanimous loathing within the force for one individual criminal,’ Nina said.

  ‘Rich, cowardly and sadistic,’ Annika said. ‘Not a combination that’s ever going to win any popularity contests. He’s in Kumla Prison, isn’t he?’

  Nina Hoffman raised her chin. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’

  ‘I don’t know how much you remember, but Julia talked a fair bit about David that night. David didn’t want her to work in the force while she was pregnant. He didn’t like the fact that she’d had her hair cut. He didn’t like the fact that her pregnancy was starting to show. He hoped it would be a boy. He called three times just to find out where we were. I got a hint of control-freakery.’

  Nina looked at her coldly. ‘How come you remember it so well?’

  ‘David was already a television celebrity, even then. And I’m allergic to control-freakery, it brings me out in a rash. How was their marriage, really?’

  Nina folded her arms. ‘Don’t you think that’s a very personal question?’

  ‘You don’t kill your husband without a very good reason.’

  The pizzas arrived and they started to eat in silence.

  Annika paused halfway through, put her knife and fork down and leaned back. ‘Eating a whole calzone’s like putting a big rock in your stomach,’ she said.

  Nina carried on with hers.

  This isn’t going well.

  ‘How have things been for you since we last met?’ Annika asked. ‘Do you still work at the Katarina station?’

  Nina shook her head and wiped her mouth with the napkin. ‘N
o,’ she said, glancing up quickly, then looking down again. ‘I got promoted. I’ve been an inspector for the past year or so.’

  Annika studied her. Nina Hoffman was a smart woman who played according to the rules.

  I’ll have to try a different approach.

  ‘It’s always a sensitive matter, writing about tragedies within relationships like this,’ she said. ‘While there’s a lot of public interest, everyone in the media has to consider all the people involved. David was one of the best-known police officers in Sweden. I don’t know if you saw the press conference yesterday when they announced that Alexander was missing, but the head of National Crime said straight out that David’s murder was an attack on the structure of society as a whole, an attack on democratic principles.’

  Now Nina’s expression had changed.

  ‘He seemed personally affected in a way I haven’t seen before,’ Annika went on. ‘The head of National Crime usually looks fairly wooden. If I’ve understood it correctly, his reaction is shared by a lot of police officers. The entire Swedish police force seems to have taken David’s murder personally. That makes our job in the media even more difficult.’

  Nina put down her knife and fork and leaned forward. ‘How do you mean?’

  Annika chose her words carefully. ‘We’re always walking a tightrope when we write about ongoing criminal investigations,’ she said slowly. ‘We want to publish as much information as possible for our readers, but at the same time we have to take into account the work of the police. They have the same conflict of interest, only reversed. You want to work undisturbed and as effectively as possible, but at the same time you wouldn’t get anywhere if you didn’t communicate with the public, which usually happens via the media. Do you know what I mean?’

  Nina Hoffman was looking hard at her. ‘To be honest, no, I don’t,’ she said.

  Annika pushed her plate aside. ‘We need to know what happened with this murder, and we need an open dialogue about what we can and should publish. That requires trust and loyalty from both sides. If we can establish that, maybe we have a chance of succeeding, you and us alike.’

  Nina blinked several times.

  ‘We always know much more than we publish,’ Annika went on. ‘I mean, I was there when you and Julia walked right into the axe murders, but I didn’t write anything about it in the paper the next day. And I let you approve the way I described your work in the profile I did of you. That’s how I work, and that’s what I mean about us taking responsibility on both sides …’

  It was entirely true that Annika hadn’t written anything about the axe murders the following day. She had promised Nina that she wouldn’t. Instead she had given all the details to Sjölander, who got a scoop and a front page for nothing.

  ‘What do you want to know about Julia?’ Nina asked.

  ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘The investigation has only just started,’ Nina replied.

  ‘Are there any other suspects?’

  Nina sat silent.

  ‘This must put you in an extremely odd situation,’ Annika said. ‘Professionally as well, I mean. You can’t be part of the investigation, I understand that, but at the same time—’

  ‘I’m involved whether I like it or not,’ Nina Hoffman interrupted. ‘I responded to the call first. My colleague and I were the first officers inside the flat.’

  Annika jerked. ‘It must be hard for you,’ she said, ‘trying to remain objective.’

  A couple near them burst into simultaneous laughter. Another couple stood up, chairs scraping. Annika moved her cutlery.

  ‘Objective?’

  Annika waited until the couple near them had gone out. ‘Not having a preconceived idea of culpability.’

  ‘David was shot in his sleep,’ Nina said. ‘We found a gun by the bed. We’ve already linked it to the culprit.’

  ‘With fingerprints? That was quick.’

  ‘It was easier than that. It was Julia’s service revolver.’

  Annika had to stifle a gasp. ‘How do they know? Don’t they all look alike?’

  ‘Most officers have a Sig Sauer 225. But each gun has a serial number that links it to a particular individual.’

  ‘Can I publish that?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Silence rose up between them. Groups of people around them were getting up and leaving.

  ‘What do the police think about Alexander? Is he still alive?’ Annika asked, when the silence had become too oppressive. ‘Is there any point in asking the public to help look for him?’

  Nina Hoffman looked at her sternly for several long seconds. ‘We don’t know if Alexander’s alive,’ she said. ‘For the time being we’re assuming he is. It’s extremely important that the public keep their eyes open.’

  ‘If he’s dead, what might have happened to him?’

  ‘He hasn’t been at nursery all week. Julia rang to say he was ill. The last person to see him was the downstairs neighbour, Erlandsson. He looked out through the spyhole in his door and saw Julia going out with the child on Tuesday morning. They had a flowery fabric bag with them.’

  ‘And I can’t write about that either?’

  They reverted again to silence. The waitress took their plates away. Neither of them wanted coffee, just the bill. Annika paid with Berit’s money as Nina gathered her things.

  ‘Julia resigned a couple of weeks ago,’ Nina Hoffman said, standing up. She was tall – a head taller than Annika.

  ‘She did?’ Annika said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can come with you to the bank if you like,’ Nina said. ‘They usually only need someone to confirm your identity.’

  Annika stopped mid-step. ‘Could you? That would be great.’

  They left the restaurant and walked towards the branch on Götgatan. The queue of lunchtime customers was gone. Annika filled in a new withdrawal form and went straight up to the cashier with the thick glasses. ‘Hello,’ Annika said. ‘It’s me again. I want to withdraw my money now.’

  Nina Hoffman put her driving licence and police badge alongside the form. ‘I can vouch that the person in question is the person she claims to be,’ she said firmly.

  The cashier’s mouth pursed and she nodded curtly. She counted out twenty-five thousand kronor in thousand-kronor notes and held them out to Annika with a little flick of the wrist.

  ‘Can I have them in an envelope, please?’ Annika said.

  The cashier gave a little cough.

  ‘As soon as I’ve opened an account with another bank I’ll come back and close everything I’ve got here,’ Annika said.

  When they emerged on to the street she let out a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Imagine, that it could suddenly be so easy …’

  ‘The police badge usually helps,’ Nina Hoffman said, and smiled slightly for the first time.

  ‘Have you still got my mobile number?’ Annika asked.

  They parted and went in different directions, Nina towards Danvikstull, Annika to the Underground station at Slussen.

  9

  Schyman was sitting at his desk, staring helplessly at the report from the management board, dated the previous day.

  Sixty employees had to go.

  He stood up and did the short circuit of his tiny cubbyhole, one step in each direction.

  He sat down again and tugged at his hair.

  If he protested, there would be only one outcome: he would have to take his things and leave. There was no other option – he had learned that during his years in the warm embrace of the Family, the proprietors. Anyone could run the paper. He was under no illusion that he was indispensable. The question was, what journalistic ambitions might any new management harbour? Would they turn the Evening Post into a gutter-press rag with naked girls on page three? Cut out anything political, investigative or analytical and focus exclusively on gossip and celebrities?

  Or would they simply close it down?

  The Evening Post wasn’t one of the
Family’s most warmly regarded publications, to put it mildly. If it weren’t for the fact that the paper brought money into the business, it would have been dead and buried long ago.

  It had been made clear to him when he accepted the position of editor-in-chief and legally responsible publisher some years before that he had to run it at a profit, and Anders Schyman had never let them down – but lose sixty employees?

  He would, of course, have to discuss the matter with the new managing director, a lad who had graduated from business school a few years ago and had got the job at the Evening Post because his friend’s dad was on the board. So far he hadn’t made too many waves (much to everyone’s relief).

  Anders Schyman put the report down on his desk.

  That wasn’t such a bad idea, damn it.

  Perhaps it was time for the lad to take some responsibility and do something in return for his million-kronor salary. On the other hand, someone so inexperienced couldn’t judge which measures needed to be taken, or which employees could be let go, so it would obviously have to be himself who identified the priorities and the dead wood. If Schyman sent the young man into battle and the cutbacks worked, then the new guy would be the one who got all the credit. And he would be left looking weak and ignorant.

  And that would never do.

  So what would be the points of conflict?

  The unions, of course, would make a terrible fuss.

  The newspaper had approximately five hundred employees, half of them on the editorial side, which meant they were members of the Swedish Journalists’ Association. (Those who weren’t already members would join up the moment the proposed cutbacks were announced. There was nothing better for promoting solidarity than a serious threat to people’s wallets.)

  The other two hundred and fifty were in the Salaried Employees’ Union (advertising, marketing, administration), and a couple of dozen poor sods were still working in graphics.

  What could be cut?

  Not advertising – that was out of the question. They would have to accelerate out of the crisis, and advertising was the only way to rake in profits. The analysts and distribution people couldn’t be touched either. Technical support had already been pared to the bone.