Borderline

by Liza Marklund

  ‘It’s the scenes of the murders that are the problem,’ Annika said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The women in Sätra, Hässelby and Axelsberg were killed outside their homes. But what about Nacka and Täby? Did those murders take place close to the victims’ homes?’

  Berit rustled some papers.

  ‘In the Nacka case, she died pretty much outside her front door. But it doesn’t work with the girl in Täby.’

  Annika took a deep breath. The safest place for a man to murder his partner was indoors. It was easier to get at her, and there was less chance of being seen. But if the man no longer had access to the woman inside the home, he might have to do it outside.

  That was what Sven, Annika’s ex, had tried to do all those years ago. Annika was no longer letting him into her flat, so he had waited for her in the woods. He had chased her all the way to the old works in Hälleforsnäs, into the blast furnace where he had caught up with her – and her cat, poor little Whiskas, had got in the way … She remembered his sandy fur, his little miaow and his soft purr.

  ‘The further away from her home she dies,’ Annika said, ‘the further away she seems to be, in terms of their relationship, from the perpetrator …’

  ‘I know,’ Berit said. ‘I’ve looked at the statistics. There are, admittedly, a few factors which, in purely scientific terms, support the theory that we’re dealing with a crazy serial killer. But, as you say, the overwhelming weight of evidence on the subject suggests that these are instances of violence within relationships.’

  ‘Mikael Rying’s report?’

  ‘The Development of Fatal Attacks Against Women Within Close Relationships,’ Berit confirmed. ‘The statistics are a few years old now, but they’re beyond dispute. From 1990 onwards, female victims knew their killer in ninety-four per cent of all solved cases.’

  Annika’s mobile bleeped: a text. She ignored it and leaned back on Ellen’s bed, tucking her feet beneath her. She knew those statistics by heart. In almost half of the cases, the murderer was the victim’s former husband or partner. She had spent years covering this sort of issue, often to the groans and rolled eyes of the newspaper’s management. Knives were used as the murder weapon in 38 per cent of cases, followed by strangulation, firearms, axes and other bludgeoning instruments, violent abuse, such as kicks or punches, and finally more obscure methods such as electric shocks and bolt-guns.

  ‘The victims of crazy killers fall into three categories,’ Berit said. ‘Mass murder, sexual killings, and murder as a consequence of another type of crime, most commonly robbery.’

  ‘Which doesn’t fit these cases,’ Annika said.

  She picked up a copy of the prestigious morning paper and studied the photographs of the five murdered women: Sandra, Nalina, Eva, Linnea and Lena, ordinary women wearing makeup with their hair in a variety of styles; they had probably battled with different diets to keep their weight down, and stressed about children or relationships spinning out of control.

  Could they have been the victims of a crazed killer? What if she’d actually got it right with her teasing comment to Patrik?

  ‘What are you going to write?’ Annika asked.

  Berit sighed. ‘I’ve been ordered to interview the women’s former husbands, apart from the one in custody, with the angle that at last the police are focusing on the real killer.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ Annika said.

  ‘Not at all. So far I’ve spoken to Nacka and Hässelby, and they were both remarkably talkative.’

  ‘Why aren’t I surprised?’ Annika said.

  ‘They don’t mince their words about what whores their wives were. Obviously, they’re both distraught about what’s happened, but considering the way their women behaved, it really isn’t surprising.’

  ‘And all that stuff about their wives being beaten and threatened before was lies,’ Annika said.

  ‘Exactly. The husband who was convicted of abuse was entirely innocent, and if he did happen to hit her a few times, it really wasn’t as bad as she made out.’

  ‘In fact it was probably her fault,’ Annika said.

  Her mobile bleeped again: another text. The light was fading outside, either because the clouds were getting thicker or because the day was drawing to a close. She wasn’t sure which.

  ‘The question is, what can I write? I can’t just let these men make speeches about how innocent they are. I’d have to go into all the background, and there isn’t space for that.’

  ‘The biggest problem in any murder case,’ Annika said, ‘is that we only have access to one side of the story.’

  ‘I’ll have to trust the readers to draw their own conclusions,’ Berit said.

  ‘Most will believe the men,’ Annika said, opening the paper. ‘How many of them have been charged with anything, did you say?’

  ‘Only Barham Sayfour, Nalina Barzani’s cousin. If he’s released he’ll be deported, because now his reason to stay has vanished.’

  ‘Oops,’ Annika said. ‘Didn’t think of that.’

  Annika’s mobile buzzed: call waiting.

  ‘Someone’s trying to ring me,’ Annika said. ‘I’d better answer.’

  ‘And I need to do some writing,’ Berit said. ‘Get back up on the tightrope.’

  She clicked to get rid of Berit, then took the other call. It was Anne Snapphane.

  ‘I’m standing outside your building. Can I come up?’

  Anne sparkled and twinkled as she stepped into the hall, with her glittery top, fake diamond bracelet and loads of shiny hairspray. ‘It worked!’ she said triumphantly, giving Annika a hug. ‘At last, it worked!’

  Annika hugged her back and smiled. ‘Congratulations. What worked?’

  ‘I could really do with a stiff drink now, but I’ll have a cup of coffee.’ She had been a recovering alcoholic for years.

  Annika went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  ‘I’ve just sent in the first invoice for my new interview series, so I’ll be able to buy you a proper coffee-machine,’ Anne said, as she sat down at the kitchen table.

  Annika looked at her in surprise.

  ‘They accepted my pitch.’

  Annika searched her memory frantically. Had Anne mentioned this before?

  Her friend threw her arms out. ‘You’ve got a memory like a sieve. Media Time! You promised you’d help me. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Annika said, spooning instant coffee into the mugs.

  Anne picked up her handbag, a multi-coloured affair with gold studs and an expensive-looking logo, then fished out a mirror and her lip-gloss. Annika poured boiling water into the mugs and put them on the table.

  ‘The bosses at Media Time were really keen. They want me to get going straight away. Is that okay with you?’

  Annika smiled at her and got the milk out of the fridge. ‘Sounds great. What sort of company is it?’

  ‘A modern media stable. They’ve got a digital television channel that broadcasts on the internet, a digital radio station for music and news, and an online news agency.’

  Annika stopped in the middle of the floor with the milk in her hand. ‘Mediatime.se?’

  ‘They really have been a breath of fresh air for journalism. They dare to publish things that no one else will touch.’

  ‘Have they published information about the minister of finance doing a luxury renovation of his apartment with black-market labour?’

  Anne threw out her hands again. ‘It’s just like I’ve always said – all these Social Democratic ministers do is fiddle things to feather their own nests.’

  Annika sat down on a stool at the kitchen table. All of a sudden she was aware that there was an elephant in the room, something large and grey, and it was using up all the oxygen. ‘Anne,’ she said, ‘what’s the pitch you managed to sell to them?’

  ‘The interview series,’ she said. ‘Serious programmes with interesting people. It’s going to be called
Anne Investigates. Isn’t that a great title? Me interviewing and investigating. You’re my first guest.’

  Annika put her hands round the mug, which stung her palms. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, although she already knew.

  ‘You can talk about the kidnapping,’ she said. ‘We’ll have plenty of time, twenty-five minutes. You can just say the things you want to say. I’m not going to push you.’ She leaned over the table and put her hands round Annika’s. ‘It’ll be entirely on your terms,’ she said. ‘I’ll adapt to whatever you want. We don’t have to do it in an anonymous television studio, we could be here, in your home. At the kitchen table, like this, or in the children’s room …’

  Annika pulled her hands away. The elephant was filling the entire room now, threatening to crush her against the wall and break the window overlooking Bergsgatan. ‘Anne,’ she said, ‘you can’t be serious.’

  The elephant stopped breathing. You could have cut the silence with a knife.

  ‘This will be really good for you as well,’ Anne said breezily, but her voice sounded tight and forced. ‘You couldn’t get better terms. You can see the end result and have editorial approval. I’ll cut out any sensitive questions or any answers that you regret.’

  Annika put her hand to her forehead. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this.’

  Anne’s eyes opened wide. ‘An interview isn’t that terrible. It’s recognition. Think of all the countries and cultures where you’re not allowed to say what you think and how you feel. You ought to be grateful that people are interested. Imagine if no one gave a damn about you and Thomas and your problems.’

  Your problems?

  All of a sudden Annika was back in Anne’s stairwell in Östermalm, with her soot-stained children beside her, asking to be let in because her house had burned down and she had no money and nowhere else to go. She’d had to lower her children out of the upstairs window, away from the flames, and then she’d had to jump. The taxi had been waiting outside, and Anne had said no. Anne had met a new man; Anne couldn’t believe Annika could be so thoughtless that she was demanding to be let in under such delicate circumstances – didn’t she want Anne to have a future?

  ‘You really are crazy,’ Annika said. ‘You sold me out so you can be a TV celebrity.’

  Anne jerked as if she’d been slapped. Her eyes darkened and the hand beside the mug was shaking. ‘Are you going to let me down now?’ she whispered. ‘Now that I’ve finally got a chance?’

  ‘I take everything away from you, don’t I?’ Annika said, with a rising sense of disbelief. ‘Your men and your success, maybe your daughter as well. The fact that Miranda lives with Mehmet, is that my fault too?’

  Anne was breathless with shock. ‘There really are no limits to your selfishness,’ she said. ‘But you’re not going to get away with it this time. You promised to help me. I’m going to do this, with or without you.’

  Annika pushed her coffee aside. ‘You can do exactly as you please,’ she said. ‘I’m all for democracy and freedom of expression.’

  Anne stood up, spilling her coffee and scraping her chair on the wooden floor. She hurried out into the hall and put on her outdoor clothes. Her eyes didn’t leave Annika for a moment. ‘The way I’ve supported you,’ she said. ‘The way I’ve listened and helped and comforted you. If I hadn’t been so busy helping you, I’d be in a far better position myself. I held back to support you, and this is the thanks I get?’

  Annika gulped. ‘You’ve said all that before, so presumably you really do believe it. It’s almost sad.’

  ‘You’ll regret this,’ Anne said, and left the flat.

  Annika stayed in her chair at the kitchen table, listening to the lift descending in the stairwell. A nagging anxiety began to grow in her. Her hands and feet felt numb. Was Anne serious? Was she really going to hurt her deliberately?

  She closed her eyes, forced herself to think rational thoughts.

  Anne had no power. No one was interested in her. She was clinging to the outside of the media world but had never managed to gain any influence. She wasn’t a threat.

  Annika breathed out and let her shoulders relax, then shook some life into her hands.

  Then she heard the lift rising again, and her shoulders tensed. Had Anne forgotten something?

  It was Kalle and Ellen coming home from their afterschool club.

  ‘Mummy, I passed the swimming test! Can we buy the badge? Please?’

  She took them into her arms and held them tight. ‘How was today, then?’

  ‘Good,’ both children replied mechanically.

  ‘Did anyone ask about Daddy?’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘Can we buy the swimming badge? It’s on the internet.’

  ‘Only that man,’ Kalle said, pulling off his hat and throwing it on the hall floor.

  Her anxiety woke up again. ‘What man?’

  ‘From a newspaper. He had a massive camera.’

  Halenius appeared in the living-room doorway and Kalle’s jaw clenched. ‘Hello,’ he said to the children, then to Annika, ‘Can you come?’

  She couldn’t move. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me now.’

  Halenius glanced at the children. ‘It’s the Spaniard,’ he said. ‘He’s been released.’

  * * *

  Schyman was clicking frantically between various translation programmes. For the first time ever he regretted not going with his wife to those never-ending Spanish classes: he had always blamed work, saying he didn’t have time, and now he was trying to read El País with the help of Babel Fish. It wasn’t going very well. He tried Google Translate instead, and that was slightly better: ‘man the Spaniard is to be found in the city Kismayo this afternoon’.

  Things were obviously going to hell for the hostages down there. The Frenchman had been dismembered, and now the British woman had been found dead. The Spaniard’s release was the first bit of good news in the whole wretched business.

  He was keeping an eye on the news agencies as he wrestled with the translation programmes, and when ‘Urgent – Hostage Free in Kismayo’ appeared from Reuters, he gave up the translation and clicked to open the report.

  He scanned it quickly.

  Alvaro Ribeiro, thirty-three, had been found dehydrated and exhausted outside the university in the Somali harbour city of Kismayo on Monday afternoon. He had two broken ribs, and showed signs of malnourishment, but was otherwise in reasonably good health. A student lent him a mobile phone and he was able to phone both his family and a friend who was a reporter at El País. The Reuters report seemed to be a direct translation of the Spanish article. After a short summary of what had happened (delegation from the Frontex conference in Nairobi stopped at roadblock near the Somali border), the Spaniard’s story was related in its entirety. It described how they were stopped and taken away, how they were driven around, forced to march through the night, then held prisoner in a shed made of cow shit and denied food, water and toilet facilities.

  Schyman squirmed: he wasn’t good with excrement and things of that nature.

  Captivity in the hut was described as unbearable, the hostages were starving and soaked in sweat, and they were forced to watch as the French delegate was killed and dismembered.

  Grotesque, Schyman thought, skimming the misery in the hut.

  The Spaniard had been moved to another hut, and after that he hadn’t seen the Dane or the German delegate, Helga Wolff, again. But he did see the other hostages on the morning of Sunday, 27 November, when they were taken out into the open area between the huts. The British woman, Catherine Wilson, was lying naked on the ground outside one of the mud huts. They had driven large spikes through her hands and feet, crucifying her on the ground. First she was raped by three of the guards, but not by the leader. Then the male hostages were dragged forward, one by one, and encouraged to rape her. When they refused the kidnappers threatened to cut off their hands. All the male hostages then chose to violate the British woman, but he hadn’t been able to: he lived
with another man and had never felt any attraction to either women or sadism, but out of fear for his life he had pretended to rape her. Then the leader had killed the woman by raping her with his machete.

  There followed an account of the Spaniard’s release, how he had been driven around in a large vehicle and eventually thrown out.

  Schyman pushed the screen away and peered towards the newsdesk.

  The details about the British woman were so hideous that they felt unreal. Could he publish that sort of information? It turned Swedish dad Thomas into a rapist. But the story was already out, spread round the world by Reuters. And surely forcing someone to commit rape also counted as abuse.

  He fingered his beard. It wasn’t clear if a ransom had been paid, but he presumed it had been. The British woman’s death was nothing short of bestial.

  All the evil of the world wasn’t his fault, or his problem. On the contrary, he had a duty to describe things as they really were, how the world worked.

  He looked through the report again. It was strangely lacking in tastes and smells, mechanical, almost sterile. In this state it wasn’t fit for publication in the Evening Post. They’d just have to follow old Stig-Björn Ljunggren’s theory and dramatize it to liven things up.

  He heard Patrik cry out, and realized that he had found the report as well.

  He clenched his teeth.

  At least tomorrow’s front page and fly-sheets were sorted.

  * * *

  Thomas always made love so carefully. To start with, Annika had thought that was wonderful, that he was so gentle and sensitive, perhaps mainly because it was so far removed from Sven and his roughness. But over the years she had become indifferent to his feather-light touch, and found herself wishing he would take hold of her properly, hold her tight, hard, really want her.

  She took a deep breath and pressed ‘call’ on her mobile. She imagined the phone ringing at the villa in Vaxholm, echoing across parquet floors, and making the prisms in the crystal chandeliers dance.

  ‘Doris Samuelsson,’ Thomas’s mother answered. She sounded weaker than usual, slightly more hesitant, as if the obvious superiority of being Doris Samuelsson was no longer beyond question.