Red Wolf
Page 1
RED WOLF
Liza Marklund
Translated by Neil Smith
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781407093987
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TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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RED WOLF
A CORGI BOOK: 9780552162319
Originally published by Piratförlaget in 2003 as Den Röda Vargen First publication in Great Britain Corgi edition published 2010
Copyright © Liza Marklund 2003 English translation copyright © Neil Smith 2010
Liza Marklund has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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is available from the British Library.
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
About the Author
Map of Sweden
Prologue
Tuesday 10 November
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Wednesday 11 November
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Thursday 12 November
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Friday 13 November
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Saturday 14 November
Chapter 15
Monday 16 November
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Tuesday 17 November
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Wednesday 18 November
Chapter 26
Thursday 19 November
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Friday 20 November
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Sunday 22 November
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Monday 23 November
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Tuesday 24 November
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
A Word from the Author
Author’s Acknowledgements
Facts about Liza Marklund
The Bomber – opening chapters
Prologue
Saturday 18 December
Liza Marklund is an author, publisher, journalist, columnist, and goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. Her crime novels featuring the relentless reporter Annika Bengtzon instantly became an international hit, and Marklund’s books have sold 12 million copies in 30 languages. Her novels have all been number one bestsellers in all five Nordic countries, and she has been awarded numerous prizes, including a nomination for the Glass Key for best Scandinavian crime novel.
The Annika Bengtzon series is currently being adapted into film. She has cowritten a novel with James Patterson, The Postcard Killers, which is available now.
Neil Smith studied Scandinavian Studies at University College London, and lived in Stockholm for several years. He is deputy editor of Swedish Book Review. He now lives in Norfolk.
www.rbooks.co.uk
Prologue
He had never been able to stand the sight of blood. There was something about the consistency, thick and viscous. He knew it was irrational, especially for someone like him. Recently this revulsion had taken over his dreams, presenting itself in ways he couldn’t control.
He looked down at his hands and saw they were covered in dark-red human blood. It was dripping onto his trousers, still warm and sticky. The smell hit his nose. He jerked back in panic and tried to shake it off—
‘Hey, we’re here.’
The voice interrupted his sleep. The blood suddenly vanished, but the intense feeling of nausea remained. Sharp, cold air rushed in through the door of the bus. The driver hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to escape it.
‘Unless you want to come down to the garage?’
All the other passengers had got off the airport bus. He stood up with an effort, bent over with pain. He picked up his duffel bag from the seat, muttering, ‘Merci beaucoup.’
The jolt as his feet hit the ground made him groan. He leaned against the frosted side-panelling of the bus for a moment, rubbing his forehead.
A woman in a crocheted hat was making her way to the local bus-stop a bit further on. She stopped next to his duffel bag; there was genuine concern in her eyes as she leaned towards him.
‘Are you all right? Do you need help?’
He reacted strongly and immediately, waving his hand in her face. ‘Laissez-moi tranquille!’ He spoke far too loudly, panting from the effort.
The woman didn’t move, just blinked a few times, openmouthed.
‘Êtes-vous sourde? Je vous ai dit: laissez-moi tranquille.’
Her face crumbled at his aggression and she backed away. He watched her go, heavy and thickset, plodding towards the number three with her bulging carrier bags.
I wonder if this is how I sound when I speak Swedish, he thought. Then he realized that his thoughts were actually formulating themselves in his mother tongue.
Indépendence, he thought, forcing his brain back into French. Je suis mon propre maître.
The woman glared at him one last time before getting on the bus.
He stood there in the diesel fumes as the buses slid away and the street emptied of people; listening to
the silence of the cold, absorbing the shadowless light.
Nowhere on earth was outer space as close as it was at the Polar Circle. When he was growing up he took the isolation for granted, not realizing the implications of living on the roof of the world. But he could see the buildings, the frozen conifers now, as clearly as if they were engraved on the streets: isolation and exposure, endless distance. So familiar, and yet so alien.
This is a harsh place, he thought, in Swedish once more. A town that’s frozen solid. Just like me.
He carefully lifted the strap of the bag over his shoulder and chest and started to walk towards the City Hotel. The exterior, from the turn of the last century, was just as he remembered, but he had no way of knowing whether the interior had changed. During his time in Luleå he had never had any reason to enter such an opulent building.
The receptionist welcomed the old Frenchman with a distracted politeness. She checked him into a room on the second floor, told him when breakfast was served, gave him the key, and promptly forgot all about him.
You’re least visible in a sea of people, he thought, thanking her in broken English and heading off to the lifts.
The room had an air of trying too hard. The cool tiling and replicas of fashionable furniture suggested luxury and tradition, but behind the façade he could see dirty windows and grubby fibreglass walls.
He sat on the bed for a moment, looking out at the twilight. Or was it still dawn?
The sea view that the website boasted about consisted of grey water, some wooden buildings next to a harbour, a neon sign and a large black felt-roof.
He was on the verge of falling asleep and shook himself to clear his head, noticing the smell that emanated from him. He stood up and opened his bag, then went over to the desk where he lined up his medicines, starting with the painkillers. Then he lay down on the bed as the nausea gradually eased.
So, he was finally here.
La mort est ici.
Death is here.
Tuesday 10 November
1
Annika Bengtzon stopped at the entrance to the newsroom, blinking against the sharp white neon lighting. The noise crashed against her: chattering printers, whirring scanners, the tapping of nails against keyboards; people feeding machines endlessly with text, images, letters and commands.
She took a few deep breaths and sailed out into the room. The only activity over by the newsdesk was of the entirely silent, focused variety. Spike, the boss, was reading some pages with his feet crossed on his desk. The temporary head of news was staring at his computer screen with red-eyed attention – Reuters and French AFP, Associated Press and TTA and TTB; domestic and foreign, sport and financial, news and telegrams from all over the world, an endless stream. The exultant shouting hadn’t yet started; no noisy enthusiasm or disappointment about stories that had either worked out well or caused a stir, no excited arguments favouring one particular journalistic approach over another.
She slid past them without looking, and without being seen.
Suddenly a noise, a challenge, a voice breaking the electronic babble: ‘So you’re off again?’
She started, took an involuntary step to one side, letting her gaze swing towards Spike, and was blinded by his desk lamp.
‘I hear you’re flying to Luleå this afternoon.’
She hit her thigh on the corner of the morning team’s desk as she tried to get to her own desk too quickly. She stopped, shut her eyes for a moment, felt her bag slide down her arm as she turned around.
‘Maybe. Why?’
But the editor had already moved on, leaving her adrift, caught between people’s stares and the hum of the newsroom. She licked her lips nervously and hoisted her bag back on to her shoulder, feeling their scepticism stick to the nylon of her quilted jacket.
She was almost there. The glass of her aquarium-like office came ever closer. Relieved, she slid open the door and fled inside. Easing the door shut behind her, she rested the back of her head against the cool glass. At least they had let her keep her own room. Stability and security were becoming more and more important, she knew that much, both for her personally and for society in general.
She dropped her bag and coat on the visitors’ couch and switched on the computer. News reporting felt increasingly distant, even though she was sitting right in the middle of its pulsing, electronic heart. Things that led the front page today were forgotten tomorrow. She no longer had the energy to keep up with AP’s ENPS, the news beast of the digital age.
She ran her fingers through her hair. Perhaps she was just tired. She sat patiently with her chin on her hands as all the programs loaded, then opened up her material. She thought it was looking pretty interesting already, but the suits in charge weren’t so enthusiastic.
She recalled Spike out there, his voice above the waves. She gathered together her notes and prepared her presentation.
The stairwell was dark. The boy closed the apartment door behind him, listening intently. The loose window on the stairs up to old Andersson’s apartment was whistling as usual. The old boy’s radio was on, but otherwise it was completely quiet.
You’re useless, he thought. There’s nothing here. Wimp.
He stood there for a few moments, then set off determinedly for the front door. A real warrior would never behave like that. He knew from his video games that the was almost a master; ‘Cruel Devil’ was about to become a Teslatron God. He knew what mattered: you must never hesitate in battle.
He pushed open the door, the same plaintive creak. The endless winter snow meant that it opened only a fraction – no one had cleared the steps that morning. He forced his way out, squeezing through the gap. His rucksack caught on the door handle, though, and the unexpected jerk almost made him cry out with annoyance. He tugged and pulled until one of the seams split, but he didn’t care.
He stumbled down the steps, waving his arms frantically to keep his balance. At the bottom, he peered through the falling snow above the fence, and stopped still.
The whole sky was illuminated with blue flashing lights. They’re here now, he thought, feeling his throat tighten. This is for real.
He set off, but stopped next to a broken lawnmower that was barely visible under the snow, feeling his heart hammering, faster and faster, thud, thud, thud, thud. He screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see, didn’t dare go up and look. He stood there, his hair-gel stiffening in the cold, hard snowflakes landing on his nose, his ears pricking. Every sound was wrapped in the cotton-wool of the snow, the sound of the ironworks barely audible.
Then he heard voices, a car engine, maybe two. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, looking over the fence towards the football pitch.
Police, he thought. Not dangerous.
He waited until he had calmed down before creeping towards the road and leaning carefully forward. Two police cars and an ambulance, people with confident postures and broad shoulders, with belts and uniforms.
Weapons, the boy thought. Pistols. Bang, bang, you’re dead.
They were standing there talking, walking about and pointing. One man had a roll of tape that he was unwinding; a woman closed the back doors of the ambulance before getting into the passenger seat. He waited for the sirens, but they didn’t come. No point rushing to the hospital.
Because he’s already dead, the boy thought. There’s nothing I could have done.
The sound of a bus accelerating down the road grew louder. He watched the number one go past, annoyed that he had missed it. His mum got so angry if he was late.
He ought to hurry, he ought to run, but his legs refused to move. He couldn’t go onto the road. There might be cars. Gold-coloured cars.
He sank to his knees, his hands shaking, and started to cry, thinking what a wimp he was, but he couldn’t stop.
‘Mum,’ he whispered, ‘I didn’t want to see anything.’
2
Anders Schyman, editor-in-chief, unfolded the graph of the circulation figures on the conferenc
e table in front of him. His hands were twitchy and slightly sweaty. He already knew what the columns showed, but the conclusions and analysis made him blush.
It was actually working. It was okay.
He took a deep breath, put his hands palm-down on the table, leaned forward and let the information sink in. The new direction the team had taken was making a clear difference, both to the circulation figures and to the finances. Here it was, in black and white. It was working; the bitterness from the latest round of cutbacks was dying down. The reorganization was complete; people were motivated, working towards a common goal, in spite of the cuts.
He walked round the shiny walnut table, his fingers stroking the wood. It was a beautiful piece of furniture. He deserved it. His high-handed treatment of the staff had turned out to be exactly the right thing to do.
I wonder if anyone else could have done it, he thought, even though he knew there was no one else. He had finally been able to prove himself.
The deal he had worked out with the printers had cut their print costs by eight per cent. That was saving the owners millions each year. And the recession meant that the cost of paper had gone down, which of course he couldn’t take any credit for, but it all added to the successful development of the business. The recruitment of a new sales manager had helped attract advertisers, and in the last three quarters they had taken market-share from both the morning papers and the broadcast media.