Lifetime

by Liza Marklund

  ‘But,’ Annika said, ‘I thought it was the neighbour. Hopkins.’

  ‘I know that’s what you thought, but you were wrong.’

  ‘It must be a mistake. This doesn’t fit her pattern. You said so yourself. The fire was a personal attack, a hate-crime. Why would she hate me?’

  ‘Just drop it,’ Q said. ‘Accept that you were wrong. And you caught her, so how much more personal could it get?’

  Annika stood up, walked over to the window and stopped to watch the falling snow. ‘I know I get things wrong,’ she said. ‘Fairly often, in fact.’

  Q sat in silence.

  Annika turned back to him. ‘But you’re sure she was in Sweden that night?’

  ‘Off the record,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Annika said. ‘What is it?’

  He gestured towards the visitor’s chair. ‘Sit down. We’ve managed to keep this quiet for six months. The number of people who know is seriously bloody limited.’

  ‘It won’t last,’ Annika said. ‘Everything gets out.’

  He laughed. ‘You are so fucking wrong!’ he said. ‘It’s the exact opposite. Almost nothing gets out. So, off the record?’

  She looked at her shoes and sat down again, then gave a quick nod.

  ‘The Kitten was picked up at Arlanda early on the morning of the third of June this year,’ Q said. ‘She was planning to fly to Moscow on a fake Russian passport.’

  Annika folded her arms. ‘So? You arrest criminals every day, don’t you?’

  Q smiled. ‘It’s actually rather funny. She was very upset when we brought her in. Not because we’d caught her, but because her suicide pills didn’t work.’

  Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Q said. ‘She’d bought what she thought was cyanide, but it turned out to be Tylenol.’

  ‘Tylenol?’

  ‘A common American painkiller, with the same active ingredients as Alvedon and Panodil, which you can buy here in Sweden.’

  ‘Ah,’ Annika said. ‘My favourites.’

  ‘People have got Tylenol and cyanide mixed up before, but the other way round. Seven people died in Chicago in 1982 after taking what they thought were Tylenol pills. Turned out to be cyanide.’

  ‘So what’s so confidential about the Kitten biting into a painkiller? Why haven’t we heard anything about this? She must have been remanded in custody, so she ought to have been charged by now.’

  Q sat there silently. Annika’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘She hasn’t been registered in any Swedish court. Not even her arrest. You’ve handed her over to the USA! Just like that!’ She stood up again. ‘You’ve sent her back to a country that still has the death penalty! That’s a breach of the UN Convention, the same one you broke when you let the CIA pick people up from Bromma Airport …’

  The detective superintendent raised a hand. ‘Wrong again,’ he said. ‘Just sit down. The extradition was carried out at state level. She’s from Massachusetts, and they don’t have the death penalty there.’

  ‘But the US as a whole does,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Q said, ‘in thirty-eight states. But twelve don’t, including Massachusetts. She’ll get life imprisonment, that much is certain. And we’re really talking about life, none of this eighteen years nonsense.’

  ‘What’s so controversial about that, then?’

  ‘Just think about it!’

  Annika shook her head.

  It wasn’t Hopkins! Imagine that I could be so wrong!

  ‘So Hopkins called the fire brigade? He tried to rescue us instead of kill us?’

  ‘We swapped her,’ Q said.

  She stared at him.

  ‘We did a deal with the Americans and swapped her for someone else.’

  She closed her eyes and remembered an animated conversation in the newsroom, hearing Patrik Nilsson’s shrill voice inside her head: The government gave the Yanks something in return. We have to find out what it was. Raids on people involved in online piracy? Landing rights for the CIA at Bromma?

  Something clicked inside. ‘We swapped her for Viktor Gabrielsson!’

  ‘Officially, she was arrested by the FBI. All the documentation shows that. We’ll never be able to claim that she was in Sweden that night.’

  ‘So you got the cop-killer home again. Do you think that was a good deal?’

  ‘It wasn’t my decision, but it meant I had to take charge of the investigation into the fire in your house.’

  She was trying to understand. ‘So you suspected her right from the start?’

  ‘She was one on a very short list.’

  ‘What does this mean for me?’

  ‘Like I said, the fire is regarded as a closed case, from our point of view. Unfortunately the files will record it as having been dropped. Sorry.’

  ‘What?’ Annika said. ‘So I’ll never be properly cleared?’

  He shook his head lightly and looked almost genuinely sad.

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘what about the insurance money?’

  ‘You can probably whistle for that.’

  She had to laugh, if bitterly.

  ‘You sold out my home, my children’s home, just to get a bit of credit with the CIA and bring home a cop-killer.’

  The detective tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure I’d put it quite like that.’

  ‘So what do you propose I do?’

  ‘You’ve got some money left in savings, haven’t you?’

  She sighed heavily and shut her eyes. ‘Thomas and I split what was left over. My half wouldn’t even get me a two-room flat on Södermalm.’

  ‘You’ll just have to get a mortgage, like everyone else. Or get a contract on a rented flat.’

  She laughed again, a harsh laugh this time.

  ‘A contract on a rented flat? And where would I find one of those these days?’

  ‘The police union has a number of properties throughout the city. I can arrange for you to get a flat in one of them, if you like?’

  She looked at him and felt disappointment rising like bile in her throat. ‘Christ, this society really is crooked.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said, with a broad smile.

  Annika went up to the newsroom and left the car-keys in a basket on the reception desk, grateful that no one was around to shout at her for keeping the car too long.

  She felt oddly empty, relieved but sad at the same time.

  The divorce would be finalized the following week, after the obligatory six months’ breathing space. She would happily have postponed it, would have liked to discuss it calmly with Thomas, but the opportunity had never arisen; she’d never suggested it and neither had he. The fact was, they hadn’t talked to each other properly on a single occasion since the evening when he’d left her and the house had burned down.

  I got that wrong as well. I’ve messed up pretty much everything there is to mess up.

  Although she had been right about Julia. She took a fresh newspaper from the stand and looked at the front page. ALEXANDER FOUND LAST NIGHT, it shouted. What followed was an absolute classic: Grandmother in tears – ‘It’s a miracle!’

  The rest of the page was taken up with a picture of the little boy at nursery. (Spike had hit the roof when she’d refused to take a new picture of him with her phone and send it to him.)

  She skimmed the text below the picture. It said that the mystery surrounding the disappearance of four-year-old Alexander Lindholm had finally been solved. The boy’s grandmother, Viola Hensen, had given a statement: ‘There are no words to describe how happy we are.’

  Readers were referred to five double-page spreads, including the centrefold.

  She leafed through the rest of the paper. Patrik Nilsson had written the articles about Yvonne Nordin’s death and Alexander’s captivity; Annika had provided him with the background information and was cited in several places. She was described as being present at the scene when the events took place, but she wasn’t portrayed as an active participant.
To her surprise, she was actually quite pleased about this, because at the back of her mind she was aware that she could easily have been wrong. Emil Oscarsson had written a summary of David’s murder, Julia’s trial and Alexander’s abduction in an excellent piece. He was a real find.

  She folded the paper and pushed it back into the stand. She felt exhausted. She went into the newsroom to discuss what she was going to write for the next day’s paper with Spike and Schyman, and was surprised to see so many people there. Saturday morning was usually the quietest time of the week, but today the newsroom was close to packed.

  ‘Are they all here because of Alexander?’ Annika asked, putting her bag down on Berit’s desk.

  ‘Him and the redundancies,’ Berit said, looking up over her glasses. ‘The list was made public yesterday afternoon. Schyman’s got round the employment regulations by promoting half the staff to management.’

  ‘The old fox,’ Annika said, sitting down on Patrik’s chair. ‘Including you and me?’

  ‘We’re not on either list. No need. We’ve been here so long we wouldn’t have gone on the last-in, first-out principle. So, I gather you’ve been off having an adventure.’

  Annika put her feet up on Berit’s desk. ‘She was about to take off with the boy,’ she said. ‘She very nearly made it.’

  ‘But you slashed the tyres of her car,’ Berit said.

  Annika stopped short and looked at her colleague intently.

  ‘How do you know that? It wasn’t in the paper.’

  To her astonishment she saw Berit blush, which she never had before.

  ‘Someone told me,’ she said, then began hunting through some documents in one of her desk drawers.

  ‘Who have you been talking to? Someone in the police?’

  Berit cleared her throat and pulled out some sheets of paper. ‘I spoke to Q.’

  Annika raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘With Q? But I’ve only just come from a meeting with him …’

  I care about reporters on the evening papers. Or have done, at least some of them …

  Suddenly the penny dropped with such force that Annika gasped. ‘It was Q!’ she said. ‘You had an affair with Q …’

  ‘Why don’t you say it a bit louder?’ Berit said tightly.

  ‘And there was me thinking he was gay!’

  Berit took off her glasses. ‘Does it matter?’

  Annika stared at her colleague, at her grey-flecked hair and wrinkly neck. Tried to imagine her with the detective, the way they met up and flirted and kissed … ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘He’s actually quite good-looking.’

  ‘And he’s also very good in bed,’ Berit said, putting her glasses on and going back to her computer.

  ‘I’ve been made a member of management!’ Patrik Nilsson said, holding up a copy of the lengthy list.

  Annika dropped her feet to the floor and picked up her bag. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.

  Patrik was beaming with pride but the young temp, Ronja, was on her way out of the newsroom with a box of her possessions. ‘How did you get on, Ronja?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, head held high. ‘I’m going freelance. I’ll go to Darfur to cover the conflict there. Something really important.’

  ‘Unlike the nonsense we deal with here?’ Patrik said.

  Ronja stopped and jutted her chin. ‘There, it really is a matter of life or death.’

  ‘Which it never is in Sweden?’ Annika said.

  Ronja turned on her heel and left them by the desk. Left them sitting on their fat backsides, lulled into the false assurance that their reality was more secure and better than hers.

  Suddenly Annika felt ashamed, remembering how insecure and wretched she had felt as a temp.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Patrik said. ‘Who tipped you off about Yvonne Nordin? Who told you they were about to arrest her?’

  She looked at the young man, who was actually a year older than her, at his inquisitive eyes and smug smile and uninhibited self-confidence, and felt as if she was a thousand years old. ‘I’ve got a source,’ she said. ‘A really good one.’

  Then she went over to Spike to find out what he needed from her.

  The afternoon had turned into evening before Annika had finished her article. It was a fairly vague account of Yvonne Nordin’s background and motivation, without reference to any sources. She was aware that it was fairly thin, but didn’t want to expose Nina, Julia, David or even Filip Andersson, so she stuck to the facts that could be verified: that Yvonne had run a business with David, that she had wanted their relationship to carry on and David to get a divorce, and that she might have been guilty of other violent crimes. That the police were investigating whether there was any connection to the triple murder on Sankt Paulsgatan, that Filip Andersson was applying to have his case heard in the Supreme Court (she actually did have references for this last fact, with a case number and everything).

  She sent the article to the shared file store, shut down her computer, packed it away and put it in her bag. As she was walking past Schyman’s room she saw him sitting behind his desk, rocking on his chair.

  He looked grey and exhausted. This autumn had aged him.

  I wonder how much longer he can carry on doing this? He must be close to sixty now.

  She knocked and he started as if he had been immersed in his thoughts, then gestured to her to come in. She sat down opposite him.

  ‘I daresay an apology is in order,’ he said.

  Annika shook her head. ‘Not just now,’ she said. ‘I’m overdosing on them. How are you doing?’

  The last question just came out, she didn’t know where from.

  He sighed deeply. ‘These cuts almost made me give up,’ he said. He sat in silence, looking out over the newsroom, his gaze roaming over the reporters and computers and radio studios and editors and online staff. Outside the windows it was dark again, the short day replaced by a long, windy December night. ‘I love this paper,’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true. I know we get things wrong and sometimes we go too far and hang people out to dry in a terrible way, but we fulfil a function. Without us democracy would be more fragile. Without us society would be more dangerous, harsher.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘I want to believe that’s true,’ she said, ‘but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘You did a good job yesterday.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I didn’t write anything. I refused to take a picture of Alexander.’

  ‘I meant more generally.’

  ‘It’s a messy business,’ Annika said. ‘I don’t think anyone really knows how it all fits together. Everyone involved had different motives and justifications for acting as they did. Maybe they’re all guilty, just not of what they were accused or found guilty of …’

  Anders Schyman sighed again. ‘I think I’ll go home now,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ Annika said.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, please.’

  They got up, the editor-in-chief turned out the lights but didn’t bother to lock his room, and they walked through the newsroom and down into the garage to his car.

  ‘Why did you think Julia Lindholm was innocent?’ he asked, as they were driving down Norr Mälarstrand.

  She decided to be honest. ‘I think I identified with her. If she was innocent, then so was I.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from the police? Have they reached any conclusions about the fire?’

  She swallowed. ‘No,’ she said curtly, and looked out of the window.

  He dropped her off at a bus stop on Munkbron. ‘You really need to sort out a proper flat,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, and closed the car door.

  Epilogue

  Friday, 24 December

  Christmas Eve

  The train pulled in, brakes shrieking, and stopped at the deserted platform. Snow was swirling around the engine and carriages, creeping in through gaps round the doors
and between the joints, enveloping it all in a creaking sheath of ice.

  She was the only person who got off.

  With a groan the train rolled away, leaving her standing alone in the howling wind. She stood for a moment, looking at the ICA supermarket, the Pentecostal church and the hotel. Then she headed towards the exit with soft, silent footsteps. She passed through the icy tunnel, carried on past the taxi rank and Svea’s Café, into Stenevägen.

  The wind was hitting her full in the face and she pulled up her hood and tightened the drawstrings. Her rucksack felt heavy, even though it contained only a Christmas present and some sandwiches she had brought for the journey back. She walked slowly past the houses lining the road, holding up her hand against the wind so she could see in past the curtains and Christmas lights. Inside were warmth and friendship, crackling fires and Christmas trees sparkling and smelling of pine.

  She hoped the people inside appreciated what they had.

  The electric fence appeared in front of her and she turned left into Viagatan. Like so many times before she followed the endless barrier towards the gate and the car park, walking and walking and walking without ever seeming to get any closer.

  She had icicles on her eyelashes by the time she eventually reached the entry-phone beside the main gate.

  ‘I’m here to see Filip Andersson,’ she said.

  ‘Come through,’ the female officer said.

  The lock whirred. She pulled the heavy gate open, and walked quickly and determinedly up the tarmac path to the next gate. The snow had settled on the chain-link fence to her left, forming a rough wall of ice.

  She reached the third checkpoint and pressed the button again. As usual, she had to use both hands to open the door to the visitors’ section. She wiped off the snow and grit inside the door, folded her hood back and blinked to get rid of the ice around her eyes. Then she walked quickly to locker number one, where she left her coat and scarf. She opened the rucksack and took out the Christmas present, then locked the rucksack in as well. She pressed the fourth entry-phone and was let through to the security check. She put the Christmas present on the belt to go through the X-ray machine and walked through the metal-detector. It didn’t bleep. It never did. She knew which shoes and belts she should avoid.