Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  ‘No, it should be pretty quick. Come back in an hour and we’ll have it ready for you. But don’t be any later than that, because we’ll be closed …’

  She turned onto Drottninggatan, the pedestrian street running through the heart of Stockholm, and looked around her. It was drizzling, and dark clouds behind the parliament building suggested there was more rain to come. She wandered aimlessly, looking at the street performers, the posters and cheap clothes. It was all out of her reach, she had no money left at all. That impulsive trip to Piteå had swallowed her last few notes.

  Anne Snapphane had been rather cross when she announced she wanted to come back to Stockholm.

  ‘Can’t you just let that damn minister go?’ she had said. ‘Let him rot in peace!’

  Annika had been embarrassed, but had insisted.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she had said. ‘I want to know what happened.’

  She walked up towards Klarabergsgatan, and went into some terrible American coffee-house in the square where she ordered iced water. They wanted ten kronor for a glass of tap water. Annika swallowed the urge to make a smart remark and dug out the money. It was starting to rain more heavily now, and it would be worth ten kronor just to stay dry.

  She sat at the counter and looked around. The place was full of fashionable types with mugs of cappuccino and small cups of espresso. Annika took a sip of water and crunched on an ice-cube.

  So far she had avoided thinking about it, but she couldn’t avoid it any longer. She had forfeited a month’s worth of unemployment benefit because she had left the Katrineholm Courier voluntarily, and there was no more money coming from the Evening Post.

  I don’t really have that many outgoings, she thought, and jotted them down.

  The rent on the flat was only 2,970 kronor a month, and now there were two of them. Food didn’t have to cost much, she could live on pasta. She didn’t need a monthly travel card, she could make do with single bus tickets, walking and sneaking onto the underground without paying. The telephone was an essential, so she had to prioritize that. Clothes and make-up were no real sacrifice, at least not for a while.

  I still need to make some money, she thought.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  A boy with multicoloured hair and mascara was standing in front of her.

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Annika muttered.

  She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. After all, it was free.

  She was back at Fredsgatan within fifty minutes. The registrar disappeared at once to fetch some papers, and looked worried when she came back.

  ‘I haven’t found any travel claims for that date, but here’s the receipt for entertainment.’

  Annika was given a copy of the receipt for the visit to Studio Six. It ran to all of 55,600 kronor, and was described as payment for ‘entertainment and refreshments’.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Annika said.

  ‘It’s probably going to be tricky getting that one past the auditors,’ the registrar said without looking up.

  ‘Have many people asked to see this?’ Annika asked.

  The woman hesitated. ‘Not many, actually,’ she said, looking up. ‘We were expecting considerably more, but so far there have only been a handful.’

  ‘But there’s no claim for travel expenses?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I checked one week further back, and a week forward as well.’

  Annika thought for a few moments, looking at the receipt and the spidery signature.

  ‘Could he have made a claim through another department?’

  ‘The Minister for Foreign Trade? It’s unlikely. It would have ended up with us anyway.’

  ‘Any other government office? He must travel a lot, lobbying for different organizations and companies?’

  The registrar sighed. ‘Yes, naturally,’ she said. ‘There may be some companies that pay, I don’t really know.’

  Annika persisted. ‘But if he was travelling on government business and the claim wasn’t presented here, where else could it have gone?’

  The woman’s phone rang, and Annika could see her getting stressed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘Keep the copy, you’re welcome to it.’

  Annika thanked her and left as the woman answered the call.

  57

  It was quiet and peaceful in the flat. She went straight to the maid’s room and peered in. Patricia was lying asleep, rolled up like a little ball. She shut the door carefully, and it closed with a little click.

  ‘Annika?’

  She opened the door slightly.

  ‘Annika!’

  To her surprise, Patricia sounded scared and upset, and she went in.

  ‘What is it?’ Annika said with a smile.

  Patricia rushed up and wrapped her arms round Annika’s neck, in floods of tears.

  ‘Goodness, whatever’s the matter?’ Annika said, alarmed. ‘Has something happened?’

  Patricia’s hair had caught on Annika’s eyelashes and she tried to push it away so she could see.

  ‘You didn’t come home,’ Patricia said. ‘You didn’t sleep at home, and your boyfriend came and asked for you. I thought … something had happened to you.’

  Annika laughed, stroking the young woman’s hair.

  ‘You daft thing,’ she said. ‘What could happen to me?’

  Patricia let go of Annika, dried her eyes and nose on her T-shirt.

  ‘Don’t know,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m not Josefin,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

  She could see the other woman’s confusion and couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Come on, Patricia! You’re worse than my mum! Would you like some coffee?’

  Patricia nodded, and Annika went out into the kitchen.

  ‘A sandwich?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Patricia said.

  Annika prepared a snack as Patricia pulled on some tracksuit bottoms. The atmosphere round the table was a little subdued.

  ‘Sorry,’ Patricia said, spreading some marmalade.

  ‘Oh,’ Annika said, ‘don’t worry about it. You’re just a bit jumpy, but that’s hardly surprising.’

  They ate in silence.

  ‘Are you going to move out?’ Patricia asked quietly after a while.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Annika said. ‘Why?’

  Patricia shrugged. ‘Just wondered …’

  Annika poured more coffee.

  ‘Has there been much in the papers about Josefin while I’ve been away?’ she said, blowing on her cup.

  Patricia shook her head. ‘Hardly anything. The police say that their inquiries are pointing in one direction, but that they won’t be arresting anyone. Not yet, at least.’

  ‘And everyone thinks that means the minister is guilty?’ Annika said.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Patricia said.

  ‘Has there been much about him?’

  ‘Even less. It’s like he died the moment he resigned.’

  Annika sighed. ‘You don’t kick a man when he’s down.’

  ‘What?’ Patricia said.

  ‘That’s the thinking. You don’t keep digging when someone has faced up to the consequences of their mistakes and resigned. What else have they written since I’ve been gone?’

  ‘They’re saying on the news that a lot of voters are ignoring the election,’ Patricia said. ‘A lot of people are saying they aren’t going to vote at all. People really don’t like politicians at the moment. They’re saying the Social Democrats might not manage to hold on.’

  Annika nodded; that made sense. Having a minister under suspicion of murder must be a nightmare for them.

  Patricia wiped her hands on a sheet of kitchen roll and started to clear the table.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police recently?’ Annika asked.

  Patricia stiffened. ‘No.’

  ‘Do they know you’re living here?’

  The young woman stood up
and went over to the sink.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Annika got up.

  ‘Maybe you ought to tell them. They might need to ask you about something.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Patricia said abruptly.

  She turned her back and filled a saucepan with water for the washing-up.

  Annika sat down at the table again, looking at the young woman’s tensed back.

  Okay, be like that, she thought, and went into her own room.

  Rain was beating hysterically against the window ledge. God, it just won’t stop, Annika thought, sinking onto her bed. She lay on top of the covers without turning on the lights.

  The room was gloomy and shadowless. She stared at the old council wallpaper, grey, slightly yellowing.

  It had to fit together somehow, she thought. Something happened immediately before 27 July that made the Minister for Foreign Trade take a flight from Terminal 2 at Arlanda, so wound up and stressed that he didn’t even notice that some of his relatives were calling to him. The Social Democrats must have been in a real panic.

  Although it could have been a private matter, Annika suddenly realized. Maybe he wasn’t on duty for the government, or the party. Maybe he had a lover somewhere.

  Could it really be that simple?

  Then she remembered her grandmother.

  Harpsund, she thought. If Christer Lundgren had messed things up in his private life, the Prime Minister would never have let him use his summer residence as a hiding place. It had to be political.

  She stretched out on her back, put her hands behind her head and took several deep breaths with her eyes closed. Patricia was busy in the kitchen, she could hear plates clattering.

  Structure, she thought. Work out what happened. Take it right from the start. Get rid of any wishful thinking, be logical. Weigh things up. What is it that has actually happened?

  A minister resigns from the government following suspicions of involvement in a murder. And not just any murder: a sexual attack in a cemetery. Suppose the man is innocent? What if he was somewhere else entirely the morning the woman was raped and murdered? Suppose he has a watertight alibi?

  Then why the hell doesn’t he come clean? His life is in ruins, his political career is finished, he’s a social pariah.

  There’s only one explanation, Annika thought. My first instinct was right: the alibi is even worse.

  Okay, even worse, but who for? For himself? Unlikely, that could hardly be possible. Which leaves just one option: worse for the party.

  So, she had reached one conclusion.

  What about the rest of it, then? What could be worse for the party than having a minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign?

  She shifted uncomfortably on her bed, lay on her side and looked out into the room. She heard Patricia open the front door and go down the stairs. She was probably heading for the shower.

  The idea drifted into her head like a soft breeze.

  Only the loss of power could be worse. Christer Lundgren did something that night that would lead to the Social Democrats losing power if it ever came out. It had to be something utterly fundamental, something massive. What sort of thing could bring a government down?

  Annika sat bolt upright on the bed. She could remember the words, replaying them in her head. She hurried into the living room and sat down on the sofa with the phone on her lap. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

  Anne Snapphane was still talking to her, even though she’d lost her job. Maybe Berit Hamrin would still regard her as a colleague as well, even though they were no longer working together. If she didn’t try, she’d never know.

  With a sense of determination she dialled the Evening Post’s reception desk. When she asked to speak to Berit she tried to make her voice sound lighter than usual, in the hope that the receptionist wouldn’t recognize her.

  ‘Annika, great to hear from you!’ Berit said merrily. ‘How are things with you, then?’

  Annika’s pulse began to calm down.

  ‘Fine, thanks. I spent a couple of weeks in Turkey, it was really fascinating.’

  ‘Were you doing something about the Kurds?’

  Berit assumed she was still a journalist.

  ‘No, just holiday. Listen, there’s something I’ve been wondering about the Information Bureau, the whole IB thing. Have you got time to meet for a chat?’

  If Berit was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Of course, when?’

  ‘Are you busy this evening?’

  They agreed to meet at the grotty pizza parlour in half an hour.

  Patricia came back in, in her tracksuit and with a towel wrapped round her hair.

  ‘I’m heading out for a while,’ Annika said, standing up.

  ‘I forgot to give you a message,’ Patricia said. ‘Sven said that he’ll be staying for a couple of days.’

  Annika went over to the coat-rack.

  ‘Are you working tonight?’ she said as she pulled on her coat.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  58

  The rain was tipping down, making the restaurant’s filthy windows glisten in the darkness. Berit was already there. Annika’s umbrella had blown inside out, and she stumbled through the door, soaked to the skin.

  ‘Good to see you,’ Berit said with a smile. ‘You’re looking well.’

  Annika laughed and shrugged off her wet coat.

  ‘Leaving the Evening Post has done wonders for my health. How are things up there?’

  Berit sighed. ‘Pretty messy. Anders Schyman’s trying to sort things out, but the rest of the management team are presenting serious opposition.’

  Annika shook her wet hair and pushed it back.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Schyman wants to establish new routines, have regular progress meetings and seminars about the direction of the paper.’

  Annika opened her eyes wide.

  ‘That would explain it,’ she said. ‘Let me guess: the others are saying that he’s trying to turn the Evening Post into a new version of Swedish Television?’

  Berit nodded and smiled. ‘Exactly. You picked up quite a bit about how that paper works during your few weeks there, didn’t you?’

  A waiter came to take their order: coffee and a bottle of water. He walked away sullenly, annoyed the order was so small.

  ‘So how badly is the election campaign going for the Social Democrats?’ Annika wondered.

  ‘Appallingly,’ Berit said. ‘They’ve dropped from fifty-four per cent in the polls back in the spring to less than thirty-five per cent now.’

  ‘Is that because of the IB affair or the business with the sex club?’

  ‘Probably a combination of both,’ Berit said.

  Their drinks arrived with an unnecessary amount of clattering.

  ‘Do you remember our talk about the IB archives?’ Annika said once the waiter had gone. ‘Of course,’ Berit said. ‘Why?’

  ‘You said you thought the original archives still existed somewhere. What makes you so sure?’ Annika said, taking a sip of her water.

  Berit thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘Several reasons,’ she said finally. ‘There were registers of political affiliations before and during the war, but they were made illegal after the war ended. Long after that the Defence Minister, Sven Andersson, said that the register from the war years had “disappeared”. In actual fact, it was in the Ministry of Defence archive the whole time, filed as a security document. It was finally made public a few years ago.’

  ‘So the Social Democrats have lied about archives disappearing before,’ Annika said.

  ‘Exactly. And a year or so later Sven Andersson said that the IB archives were destroyed as long ago as 1969. The latest suggestion is that they were burned shortly before the story broke in 1973. But the destruction of the archives was itself never documented – not the domestic list, and not the foreign files.’

  ‘You mean t
hey used to keep records of when things were destroyed?’ Annika said.

  Berit sipped her coffee and pulled a face.

  ‘Ugh, this has been stewing for a while. Yes, the Information Bureau was a typical piece of Swedish bureaucracy. There are masses of IB papers stored in the security archives of the Ministry of Defence. Everything was documented, including reports of when records were destroyed. And there’s nothing like that relating to the archives of political affiliations, which suggests that they still exist somewhere.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Annika said.

  Berit thought for a moment.

  ‘They’ve always claimed that the domestic and foreign archives were destroyed at the same time, and that there are no copies. But now we know that’s a lie.’

  Annika looked hard at Berit.

  ‘How did you persuade the speaker of parliament to admit his involvement with IB in the paper?’

  Berit rubbed her forehead and sighed. ‘I had a good argument,’ she said.

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  Berit sat in silence for a while, stirring two sugar-lumps into her coffee.

  ‘The speaker always maintained that he never knew Birger Elmér,’ she said quietly. ‘He claimed they had never even met. But I know that’s wrong.’

  She fell silent. Annika waited.

  ‘In the spring of 1966,’ Berit finally continued, ‘the speaker, Ingvar Carlsson and Birger Elmér, all met in the speaker’s flat out in Nacka. The speaker’s wife was there as well. They had dinner together. Conversation turned to the fact that the speaker and his wife had no children. Birger Elmér suggested that they consider adopting, which they later went on to do. I repeated this to the speaker, and that’s when he decided to talk …’

  Annika was staring at Berit.

  ‘How the hell could you know that?’

  Berit looked at her tiredly.

  ‘I can’t tell you, you know that,’ she said.

  Annika leaned back in her chair. It was mind-blowing. Bloody hell! Berit must have a source right at the very top of the party.

  They sat without talking for several minutes, listening to the rain outside.

  ‘Where were the archives kept before they disappeared?’ Annika eventually said.

  Berit sighed. ‘The domestic archive was kept at twenty-four Grevgatan, and the foreign archive at fifty-six Valhallavägen. Why do you ask?’