Last Will

by Liza Marklund

  “Sorry,” Annika said. “I’m getting sidetracked. Then what happened?”

  Birgitta Larsén rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

  “This is where it gets complicated,” she said. “Carrie said something very cryptic just a few weeks before she died. ‘Just so you know,’ she said, ‘if anything ever happens to me, it’s all in my archive. I’ve written it all down.’”

  “And what did it say?” Annika asked.

  “That’s the problem,” Birgitta Larsén said. “I told the police that Carrie felt threatened and that she’d written about it in her archive, but we haven’t found the archive. I’ve looked, the police have looked, her husband Knut has looked, but we haven’t found anything that reveals what she was so afraid of.”

  “Have you told the police that Caroline cheated with her big scientific breakthrough?”

  The professor’s neck jerked.

  “I don’t think there’s any call to use that sort of language,” she said.

  “But you haven’t told them?”

  “No, I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  Annika stared at her. There was something else she didn’t want to reveal.

  “Out of all the people who were there on Saturday afternoon, how many of them knew Caroline in the mid-1980s?” Annika asked.

  Birgitta Larsén raised her eyebrows a touch and thought for a moment.

  “About half, maybe. Why?”

  Annika looked at her watch.

  “I have to write an article about Lars-Henry Svensson,” she said. “Can I quote you about his death? Is there anything that you’d like to say, as one of his colleagues?”

  “He was a real troublemaker,” Birgitta Larsén said. “If he hadn’t gone and died we’d have had to find a way to get rid of him somehow.”

  Annika nodded thoughtfully.

  “I might not be putting that in the opening paragraph,” she said. “By the way, why did you say that you should have taken more care of him after Caroline’s death?”

  Birgitta Larsén stood up.

  “Caroline wanted to look after everyone and everything,” she said. “If it wasn’t Alfred Nobel and his memory, it was Lars-Henry Svensson and his career. It could be quite frustrating at times, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  So where were you yesterday evening? Annika suddenly wondered. And how did you know that Ernst Ericsson was dead? Did Sören Hammarsten really phone you?”

  “Well, I must go and sort out my poor animals,” Birgitta Larsén said.

  Annika followed her out of the door.

  “Who knew exactly which animals were yours?”

  But Birgitta Larsén didn’t hear, just disappeared down the corridor.

  Annika drove straight home and hauled her computer up to the office. It was starting to be a real nuisance, sorting out the cables and wireless connection every time she wanted to check her email or make any notes.

  It was much better with my own office at work and a separate computer at home, she thought.

  Once she had unpacked and connected everything she called Q. There was no answer, so she emailed a plea to talk to him sometime during the day. Because she was planning to ignore his ban on disclosure, she realized that she wasn’t top of his list of favorite people today.

  Schyman had interviewed her the previous evening about what she had seen out in Fågelbrolandet; then he had written an article that she had amended. She hadn’t gotten home until two o’clock in the morning, and she was starting to feel the effects.

  What if she were to lie down on the bed for a little while before she got going?

  She just needed to come up with an idea to think about while she rested.

  Lars-Henry Svensson wasn’t important enough to warrant a full-page obituary; he was just a grumpy, bitter old professor who had had a nail hammered through his eyeball.

  The mutilation of corpses was always interesting, but if she remembered correctly the Evening Post had run an article about that after another recent murder case. Maybe she could dust it off, make a few calls to check the facts, and pretend it was a new piece?

  She went into the Evening Post’s online archive of articles and found the text, written by Patrik just three weeks before.

  It felt a bit cheeky to recycle it so soon.

  Perhaps something about the fact that the Kitten wasn’t behind these two most recent murders, that they were different from the murders at the Nobel banquet because of the fury and highly personal nature of the attacks? She had already written an outline of an article along those lines.

  She went back to the Internet again and checked her personal archive at annika-bengtzon@hotmail.com, but just as she was typing in her password her fingers stiffened.

  Just so you know, if anything ever happens to me, it’s all in my archive. I’ve written it all down.

  Annika stared at the screen.

  My archive. Written it all down.

  She picked up the phone and called the Karolinska Institute.

  Birgitta Larsén was down in the lab with her test animals.

  “Did Caroline have another email address apart from her official work address at KI?” Annika asked, realizing that she was sounding rather breathless.

  “No,” Birgitta Larsén said blankly. “I don’t think so, why?”

  It sounded like she was busy with something as she spoke.

  “Did you used to email each other?”

  She heard something fall to the floor, and the professor groaned.

  “All the time—there were always a million and one things going on, work and meetings and seminars, and our network, of course. If only you knew how many irons she had in the fire at the same time …”

  “And she always used the Institute’s email server?” Annika interrupted. “And her work address, caroline.von.behring@ki.se?”

  Birgitta took a deep breath and was quiet for a moment.

  “Yes,” she said, “except for the women’s group.”

  “The women’s group?”

  “Our network. Alfred’s Amazons.”

  Alfred’s Amazons?!

  Birgitta Larsén cleared her throat, and sounded a little embarrassed.

  “It really wasn’t my idea,” the professor said. “I’m not the Nobel fanatic. It was Caroline who set up the network’s addresses, they all had something to do with Alfred Nobel. So I was Sofie Hess, which I always thought was an insult. As if I was somehow supposed to embody the leech of the group, spendthrift and stupid, always begging for more money. I mean, what was she thinking … ?”

  Annika closed her eyes and tried to comprehend what the woman was saying behind the torrent of words.

  “So Caroline allocated email addresses to everyone in the women’s group, to Alfred’s Amazons?”

  “She said Alfred was very fond of Sofie, and that I shouldn’t take it badly, because Sofie Hess was also very persuasive and charming, otherwise Alfred wouldn’t have …”

  “Birgitta,” Annika interrupted. “Did Caroline have an email address on the Internet, one that was different from the one she used at work?”

  “Well, yes,” Birgitta Larsén said, sounding indignant. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “She had an email address with a name that had some sort of connection to Alfred Nobel? Which one? Bertha von Suttner?”

  “No,” Birgitta Larsén said. “She was Andrietta Ahlsell.”

  Who?

  “Who?”

  “Alfred Nobel’s mother. I think that’s how Carrie saw herself, as if she had a responsibility to Alfred and his memory. She seemed to think it was her role in life to carry on his vision, and I have to say that sometimes she took it a bit too personally …”

  “What was the domain name?” Annika asked.

  “The what?”

  “The domain. Was it Hotmail, or Yahoo, or Nameplanet, or what?”

  “How am I supposed to know that?”

  Annika stifled a groan.

  “Wh
o knew what address you were sending emails to?”

  “Do you know?” Birgitta Larsén said. “I always thought it was all a bit ridiculous. And I didn’t like the fact that I was Sofie Hess, so I didn’t really pay that much attention. Why do you want to know?”

  “You can keep an electronic archive in your email address,” she said. “I’ll try to follow it up.”

  “Well, if you must,” Birgitta Larsén said, then sighed and hung up.

  Andrietta Ahlsell?

  Annika stared at the screen.

  How many combinations could you come up with using that name, without looking at the domain name?

  You could run the first name and surname together, add a hyphen, or use initials or underscoring.

  What were the most common domains where you could most easily register your own email account?

  Hotmail and Yahoo, but Google had started with Gmail, and Nameplanet was still going.

  She went into her own work email and tried putting the most common name combinations together with the biggest domain names.

  Sixteen emails in total.

  She sent them all off at once.

  The emails sent to any addresses that didn’t exist would bounce back to her in-box with a Delivery Error Report from the Mail Delivery System.

  Any emails that got through would have to have been sent to a registered address.

  She watched the emails, all headed test, vanish into cyberspace.

  So she could only wait and see.

  Andrietta Ahlsell, Alfred Nobel’s mother. What did Nobel have to do with all this?

  Annika rubbed her eyes.

  What could have happened on Saturday to trigger these latest murders? Something to do with the prize, with the Nobel Prize for Medicine?

  She went into www.ki.se, the home page of the Karolinska Institute, and found her way to the information about how the process of choosing a recipient was conducted.

  The whole procedure took almost a year. In September questionnaires were sent to approximately three thousand people around the world, to individuals and institutions that had the right to nominate candidates for the prize. They were members of the Nobel Assembly at the Karolinska Institute, the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, previous recipients of the Nobel Prize for Medicine, and selected scientists at universities in Sweden and other countries.

  She yawned, and thought about going downstairs to make a cup of coffee, but couldn’t be bothered.

  These individuals, she read, had until February to write back with any suggestions of candidates. Between March and May the proposed names were sent to specially selected experts who then evaluated the work of the nominees. By the end of May the experts reported their findings to the Nobel Committee.

  And that’s where we are now, Annika thought.

  During the summer, up to August, the Nobel Committee put together a recommendation to present to the Assembly. In September the Committee provided a report containing the names of potential recipients to the Assembly. The report had to be signed by the whole Committee. The report was then debated by the entire Assembly on two occasions.

  At the beginning of October there was a vote, and the recipient was picked by a majority decision. After that the names of the winner or winners were announced to the public. The decision was final and could not be appealed against.

  So the most important work of thinning out the list was done fairly early, Annika thought. Right about now, in fact.

  She read that the prize was presented on December 10, the anniversary of Nobel’s death. It consisted of a medal, a diploma, and a document confirming the financial size of the award, currently ten million Swedish kronor.

  A lot of money, she thought, for one individual. But nothing compared to the amounts that people in the pharmaceutical industry were used to dealing with.

  The value is in the prize itself, Annika thought, in the recognition of being awarded a Nobel Prize. How much could that be worth? Being acknowledged as the recipient of the greatest award in the world, being told that you have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind?

  Damn it, she thought, blinking. I’m exhausted.

  She got up from the desk, went into the bedroom and lay down on the unmade bed.

  And fell asleep instantly.

  When she woke up again she had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been anywhere between fifteen minutes and eight hours.

  It was still light outside, the same gray light as when she had fallen asleep.

  Feeling confused, she got up, noticing that she had drooled on the pillow.

  She went into the bathroom for a pee, and looked at the time.

  She had been asleep for two hours.

  She sat on the toilet for a couple of minutes, wondering if she would ever have the energy to stand up again.

  Then she remember the emails she had sent and got a new burst of energy.

  She had fifteen emails in her in-box.

  Fifteen messages saying Delivery Error Report from Mail Delivery System.

  She went through the replies, checking which addresses didn’t exist.

  They had all bounced back, except the one sent to andrietta_ahlsell@yahoo.se.

  So that address had been registered.

  She went into yahoo.se, clicked on mail and filled in andrietta_ahlsell as the user ID.

  Password?

  What on earth should she try first?

  Alfred?

  Invalid password.

  Where to start?

  caroline.

  Invalid password.

  What was her husband called? Knut?

  knut.

  Invalid password.

  She scrolled down the page and read on.

  Try the following:

  Is “Caps Lock” activated on your keyboard?

  If so, press “Caps Lock” before trying again.

  Have you forgotten your ID or password, or spelled them wrong?

  You can reactivate your ID and/or password by confirming your confidential information.

  Still not working?

  Try Log-in help.

  Annika pressed Get a new password.

  A new window appeared on the screen, and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned forward to read.

  To get a new password you must answer your security question correctly:

  What was the name of the first school you attended?

  What was Caroline von Behring’s first school called?

  She picked up the phone and called Birgitta Larsén once more. The professor was back to her old routine again and answered at once.

  “Carrie’s first school? There was only ever one. The French School. Caroline was an incurable Francophile, a real snob if you ask me. What are you up to now?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Annika said, and hung up.

  Filled in French.

  A new window opened up.

  Create new password.

  Confirm password.

  Annika chose alfred.

  The screen flickered.

  Welcome Caroline!

  She gasped. Caroline had an online email account, and she had broken into it!

  She glanced quickly over the page. It looked like the opening page of most other online mailboxes.

  You have one (1) unread message.

  On the left was a list of the usual folders: Inbox, Drafts, Sent mail, Spam, Deleted. In the in-box she could see her own email, test.

  Below the list was a heading marked My folders.

  It contained a folder entitled Archive.

  Annika clicked on it, her pulse racing.

  There were six messages, all sent to Andrietta Ahlsell from Caroline von Behring. Their headings were: In the Shadow of Death, The Price of Love, The Greatest Fear, Disappointment, Nobel’s Will, and Alfred Bernhard.

  Annika opened them in order.

  Her frustration grew with each one she read.

  These weren’t secrets.

  They we
re short musings about Caroline von Behring’s hero, tragic little commentaries on Alfred Nobel’s life and death.

  She moved the mouse to hover over the sixth and last document, taking a couple of deep breaths before clicking on it.

  It had been written in September last year, three months before Caroline’s death.

  Annika read more and more slowly the further she got.

  SUBJECT: Alfred Bernhard

  TO: Andrietta Ahlsell

  That’s his name, Alfred Bernhard, just like his namesake, just like Nobel, but his surname is Thorell.

  He used to light up the whole room when he walked in.

  Lectures with Bernhard Thorell in the audience were always a bit magical, oddly golden, somehow, never dull.

  I felt so alive when Bernhard was nearby, so interesting and spiritual, my analyses and conclusions so radiant and clear.

  Other people became tongue-tied in his presence, others strangely anxious.

  I used to despise them.

  It wasn’t that I was in love (that’s not how I would describe it), more like flattered, or possibly fascinated. He had a quality that really affected people, and if only he had studied a bit harder he would have made an excellent doctor.

  But he still chose to be a scientist.

  I got it into my head that he was doing it for my sake.

  For my sake.

  That was the effect he had on people: we all felt specially chosen, all of us gray souls.

  He got in touch with me, asked if there were any doctoral positions in my research group, and I was so flattered that I hardly knew what to think: he wanted to work with me, on my project. His wish was confirmation of my own brilliance, my pedagogical and scientific superiority. The fact that his career choices were a consequence of his own poor exam results was something I never considered.

  Caroline, Caroline, how naïve could you be?

  When the first doctoral students came in and started to talk I dismissed them. I shouted at one of them, a young woman from Czechoslovakia who had staked everything on coming here—I drove her out and my cheeks still burn with shame when I think about it. Her name was Katerina; she was short, with dark hair. She had left her husband and her young daughter as hostages in her home country for the chance to conduct research at the Karolinska Institute (this was before the Iron Curtain came down), and she would sometimes weep over her test tubes because she was missing them so much. She came to see me, reluctantly, and accused Bernhard of the most peculiar things.