Lifetime

by Liza Marklund

  ‘Daddy, she’s pushing me!’

  He moved his briefcase from one hand to the other and couldn’t help sighing. ‘Listen, both of you,’ he said, grabbing his son’s collar to stop him hitting his sister. ‘Will you please stop fighting? We’re almost home now.’

  Yes, this is my building. Well, it’s hers, but …

  He tugged open the outer gate.

  A howl of pain echoed through the stairwell. He looked down in surprise to see Ellen’s contorted face lifted towards him. Her fingers were trapped in the folded gate, her eyes overflowing and her cheeks bright red. He quickly shut the gate to free her, and she curled into a little ball at his feet, nursing the damaged fingers in her other hand.

  ‘Oh, little one, what on earth were you doing? You mustn’t put your fingers there when Daddy’s opening the door.’

  Blood was dripping on to the marble floor, and at the sight of it her screams increased. ‘Blood, Daddy!’

  Thomas could feel himself going pale. He wasn’t good with bodily fluids.

  ‘There, there, let Daddy see. Do you want me to blow on it?’

  He crouched beside his daughter, but she turned her back on him and pressed her hand to her new snowsuit. Damn! Now it’d be covered with blood. ‘Darling, let Daddy see.’

  ‘You hurt me!’

  ‘I know, darling, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to but I didn’t see you had your hand there. I’m so sorry.’

  He picked her up, careful not to get blood on his coat. She burrowed her head against his neck, wiping tears and snot on the collar of his suit jacket.

  ‘It huuurts.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Thomas said, breaking into a sweat.

  ‘She’s always so clumsy,’ Kalle said, staring wide-eyed at the blood that was already turning dark on the floor.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘into the lift now.’

  He guided his son in with one hand, holding his daughter with the other, then grabbed for his briefcase and put it inside the lift, closed the gates, and let Kalle press the button for the sixth floor.

  The loft apartment.

  The penthouse, as Sophie described it on her website.

  ‘It huuurts, Daddy.’

  ‘There, there,’ Thomas said, watching impatiently as the floors slid by, the chandelier on the third floor disappearing past his feet, the panelled walls of the fourth with their patrician portraits and double doors.

  ‘What are we having for tea?’ Kalle was always hungry these days.

  ‘I’m not sure. Sophia was going to make something.’

  The lift stopped at the top of the building with a little shudder.

  ‘Now, keep your fingers out of the way,’ he said unnecessarily loudly, before he opened the gates.

  He couldn’t be bothered to hunt through his briefcase for the keys to the flat so he rang the bell with his free hand as he hoisted Ellen with the other. ‘Shush, shush,’ he said, rocking her rather helplessly.

  Nothing happened. Ellen’s screams started to subside. He couldn’t hear any sounds inside the flat. The little girl was starting to feel very heavy on his arm. Was Sophia not at home?

  He rang the bell again.

  The door flew open. Sophia was wearing an apron and had her sleeves rolled up. There was a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows. ‘Did you forget your keys?’ she asked, then noticed that Ellen was crying.

  Thomas pushed past her and knelt to put his daughter down on the hall floor. ‘Okay, now you have to show Daddy your hurt fingers,’ he said, taking the child’s hand.

  ‘Has there been an accident?’

  He closed his eyes for a second and swallowed, let go of Ellen’s hand, then stood up and smiled. ‘Darling,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Ellen got her fingers caught in the lift door and she’s bleeding quite badly. I need to get her cleaned up.’

  ‘You did it,’ Kalle told him sullenly, glaring at Sophia.

  ‘Take your snowsuit off and hang it up, then go and wash your hands,’ Thomas said, shrugging off his own coat. It would have to be dry-cleaned before he could wear it again. He glanced down at his jacket. Same thing.

  He looked at Sophia. She didn’t notice his silent plea and went back into the kitchen.

  Annika always took care of the dry-cleaning.

  The thought hit him out of nowhere and made him blink.

  Yes, that was how it had been, ever since he’d lost the ticket for the old angora cardigan her grandmother had given her. Now he dropped his coat and jacket on the hall bench. ‘Right, then,’ he said, picking up the little girl again. ‘Let’s go and put a plaster on them.’

  She had almost stopped crying now. He carried her into the bathroom and discovered a cut right under the cuticle on her right ring-finger. She’d probably lose the nail.

  ‘It’s blue,’ Ellen said, staring in fascination at the end of her finger.

  ‘Like blueberry pie,’ Thomas said, and she giggled.

  He sat down on the lid of the toilet and put his daughter on his lap, rocking her gently. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘Do you get sweets for squashed fingers?’ She looked at him hopefully as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘If we’ve got any.’

  ‘You can get them in the shop. Foam cars are good.’

  They went into the sitting room, hand in hand. Ellen was still trembling a little with shock.

  She’s so fragile. I have to take better care of her.

  Kalle had left his snowsuit on the hall floor. Thomas swallowed his annoyance and bent to hang it up.

  When he stood up, Sophia was watching him from the kitchen door. ‘If you keep tidying up after him like that, he’ll never learn,’ she said.

  He shrugged, smiled, then held out his arms. ‘You’re right,’ he said, tilting his head to one side.

  She smiled back. ‘You can sit down at the table – dinner’s ready.’ She disappeared into the kitchen again. Thomas went to the dining-table in the studio and ducked instinctively in the large, open space of the room. The ceiling height in the hall and bathroom exaggerated the difference: the studio had to be seven or eight metres tall at its highest point. The oblong skylights and muddle of beams made you think of Tribeca or some other hip New York neighbourhood (not that he had ever been in an apartment in Tribeca, but Sophia had, and she had explained the similarity to him).

  ‘Kalle,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Dinner.’

  He could hear the bleep of a PlayStation game from his son’s room, which wasn’t really much more than a cupboard, and sighed. He picked Ellen up and sat her on a cushion so she could reach her plate. Sophia had thought buying a higher chair unnecessary: ‘She’ll soon be taller.’

  She came in with a bowl of mashed potato and a frying pan full of slices of fat sausage.

  ‘Kalle!’ Thomas called again, sitting down. ‘Dinner’s on the table!’

  ‘I just need to die first.’

  ‘No! Come here now!’

  Sophia was looking down at the table: she didn’t like it when he shouted.

  There was a demonstrative sigh, then the noise of the game stopped and Kalle came out into the studio. ‘I was about to beat my highest score actually.’

  Thomas ruffled his hair. ‘Well, you can have some sausage instead.’

  ‘Yum!’ he said, scrambling up on to the tall, leather-covered chrome chair. ‘Are those onions? Yuk. Can I scrape them off?’

  ‘Just try one,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Here we eat what we’re served,’ Sophia said. ‘Some wine?’

  She was smiling at Thomas. He smiled back. ‘Thanks, I’d love some.’

  All food tastes so much better with wine. Meatballs and pasta taste better. Sausage tastes better. Even instant mashed potato becomes edible. I’ve drunk far too little wine up to now.

  They touched glasses.

  ‘How was your day?’ she asked, tasting her Rioja.

  He took a sip and closed his eyes. Divine. ‘Oh,’
he said, putting his glass down. ‘Cramne’s ignoring me since I pointed out how impossible it was to follow the directives. He just thinks it’s a good idea to raise the sentencing tariffs, and I don’t really think I have much of an opinion on that, but the costs are bound to increase, which conflicts entirely with the directives we were given for the inquiry.’

  He took another sip, and Sophia nodded understandingly.

  ‘I’m glad you pointed that out,’ she said. ‘Now this socialist government will have to think again, thanks to you.’

  He put his glass down and looked at his plate. He’d voted for this socialist government and thought they were doing a reasonable job. He knew Sophia didn’t share his opinion, but she probably imagined that he shared hers.

  Annika always voted left of centre.

  He pushed the thought away. ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘How has your day been?’

  Just as Sophia opened her mouth to speak, Ellen started crying. ‘It hurts again, Daddy,’ she said, holding her plastered finger towards him. He saw that the plaster was too tight: the tip of her finger had swollen.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, blowing on her hand. ‘We might have to give you a little pill so you can get to sleep with that naughty hand.’

  ‘Or sweets,’ Ellen said, wiping her tears.

  ‘Maybe you’re allowed sweets even if you haven’t squashed your finger,’ Kalle said.

  ‘You have to eat up first,’ Thomas said. ‘Then you can have a look in my briefcase.’

  ‘Hurray!’ Kalle said, waving his knife and fork and splashing sausage fat on the wallpaper.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Thomas said. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  Sophia got up to fetch a clean dishcloth and wiped the wall. There was already a stain.

  ‘Now sit nicely at the table,’ Thomas said, and Kalle shrank away from his gaze.

  They ate in silence.

  ‘Can I get down?’ Kalle said, putting his knife and fork together.

  ‘Wait for your sister,’ Thomas said.

  Kalle groaned. ‘But she’s so slow.’

  ‘I’ve finished now,’ the little girl said, pushing away her plate.

  ‘Okay,’ Thomas said, and breathed out quietly, relieved, as the children rushed out into the hall to find his briefcase.

  He and Sophia touched glasses again.

  ‘This is the life,’ she said, looking into his eyes as they drank.

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her glossy blonde hair and bright eyes.

  Sausage and powdered mash. This was the life?

  ‘It’s not hard to make the world sparkle for a party,’ she went on, ‘but we need to make the most of an ordinary Tuesday, like today. It’s important to add a bit of sparkle to everyday life.’

  She was right, of course.

  So why does it make me feel so embarrassed? Why am I just thinking this is bollocks?

  ‘Are you thinking about work?’ she asked, putting a hand on his arm.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘The verdict in the first appeal for clemency is due in Örebro District Court tomorrow.’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Clemency?’

  He opened his mouth to go on, then realized that she didn’t understand the workings of the judicial system.

  Of course not, why should she?

  ‘Up to now, people serving life sentences have only been able to get their sentences limited by asking for clemency, but that system was never entirely legally sound. The government never gave any explanation for its decisions, and they couldn’t be appealed against, but for a while now lifers have been able to turn to Örebro District Court as well, to get their appeal for clemency adjudicated. They’re represented by a legal ombudsman and are given a judicial motivation for the decision. The first verdict’s due tomorrow.’

  He took a sip of wine.

  ‘It wouldn’t be a bad thing if the case was rejected,’ he said. ‘Obviously it wouldn’t be good if the first signal was that it was much easier to pursue cases in Örebro than with the government.’

  ‘But why Örebro?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Where are the largest prisons?’

  ‘Which prisons?’

  ‘Kumla and Hinseberg. The largest male and female prisons respectively. And where are they?’

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘In Örebro County?’

  ‘Bingo!’

  She laughed. ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘I never knew that. What a lot I’m learning now I’m with you!’

  He looked towards the children, who were sitting by the door to the hall sharing out the sweets between them.

  He had had the same discussion with Annika long before, when the location of the new clemency procedure was still under discussion. She had also questioned Örebro as a suitable site, and he had said the same thing then: ‘Where are the largest prisons?’

  ‘Bullshit!’ had been Annika’s response. ‘By the time they come to apply for clemency they’re no longer in Kumla or Hinseberg. They’re out in some open prison in the middle of nowhere waiting to be rehabilitated. The only reason this is being linked to Örebro is that it’s in the minister’s constituency.’

  He remembered how taken aback he had been because the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘You’re making that up,’ he had replied, and she had shrugged.

  Now he looked at Sophia again. ‘What about you, then?’ he asked. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Such a funny thing happened today,’ she said, but at that moment Kalle came racing towards him.

  ‘Daddy, tell her off! She took the last sweet because she said she was the one who got hurt.’

  He emptied his glass and stood up. ‘If you fight about the sweets, I’ll take them away,’ he said, then turned back to Sophia. ‘You stay there, I’ll clear up later. I need to get her snowsuit into the wash – there’s blood all over it.’

  He headed off towards the hall, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Sophia refilling her glass.

  p.13

  Evening Post – Stockholm Edition

  Thursday, 25 November

  ‘It Has To Be Life’

  Experts unanimous after police trial

  By Berit Hamrin

  Evening Post (Stockholm). Life imprisonment. Anything else would be unthinkable.

  Prosecutor Angela Nilsson was absolutely certain when the trial of Julia Lindholm concluded at Stockholm City Court yesterday.

  ‘I’ve seldom been involved with such a calculated and brutal crime.’

  Prosecutor Nilsson didn’t spare the accused during her final statement in the high-security courtroom yesterday afternoon. She called Julia Lindholm ‘emotionally cold’ and ‘cunning’, and demanded nothing less than life imprisonment.

  ‘Killing your child, refusing to say where you hid the body and then pretending that you’re a different person … There aren’t actually any words to describe what I think of that,’ the prosecutor said, among other things.

  The three-day trial in Stockholm City Court has seen a lot of emotion and grief. The presiding judge has had to call for calm on several occasions. David Lindholm’s colleagues have been seen sobbing openly in the public benches. Julia Lindholm’s parents have attended all three days, and her mother broke down several times.

  Julia Lindholm herself was extremely concise in her testimony. She answered in monosyllables and showed no emotion. She claims that there was another woman in the flat on the night of 3 June this year, and that it was this other woman who shot her husband and then took her son with her when she left.

  According to the forensic examination of the crime scene, there is nothing to suggest that anyone else was in the home, which is one reason why a psychological evaluation determined that Julia Lindholm was suffering from a mental disorder at the time of the crime.

  Julia Lindholm’s lawyer, Mats Lennström, maintains that there are clear gaps in the prosecution’s case.

  ‘Most troubling is, of course, the fact that Alexander Lindholm’s body has
never been found. But there are also other assertions that I believe must be questioned. Julia has already said she had mislaid her service revolver. And there were no traces of gunpowder on her when she was arrested.’

  The prosecutor dismissed the defence lawyer’s objections in her final statement.

  ‘You can’t get away with murder simply because you’ve managed to make the body disappear. The fact that the defence claims that she had mislaid her service revolver and had had time to wash her hands before the police arrived on the scene does not count as extenuating circumstances, but rather the opposite.’

  The verdict will be announced on 2 December. Until then, Julia Lindholm will remain in custody.

  Hampus Lagerbäck, professor of criminology, who was a close friend of the victim, is in no doubt about what this means: ‘Clearly, she’s going to be found guilty. No one I’ve spoken to expects anything but a life sentence.’

  Part 3

  DECEMBER

  Wednesday, 1 December

  22

  It was snowing. White ice-crystals lashed Annika’s face as she made her way along Vasagatan. The streetlamps were blurred and yellow in the darkness, and when she peered across at the Central Station she couldn’t see anything but swirling snow. She felt giddy and groggy, unused to being up so early. She was having trouble judging distances and kept stumbling.

  Taking the train instead of driving had been a stroke of genius, not just because she was so tired. The traffic was solid, wheels were spinning at the lights and no one was getting anywhere. She checked the time: fifteen minutes to go.

  Almost two weeks had passed since she’d faxed her letter to Filip Andersson in Kumla Prison.

  The acting prison governor had been right. Neither Stevens, the American, nor the Arab, Svensson, had replied to her faxes, although she had written to them three times. But Filip Andersson, the axe murderer, had come back to her by return. He would be very happy to see a representative of the media, and if she could send him her personal details at once, he would arrange a visitor’s permit. He also took the opportunity to send her a lot of information about his case. The envelope exuded the heavy stench of miscarriage of justice. He had news for her, he said, and it was important that she was well acquainted with the facts of his case.