Tomorrow he would die at the hand of an unknown woman. But that wasn’t all. His reputation as an honourable, hardworking journalist would be crushed. Before long, all of Sweden would know what a dishonourable remnant of a man had been heading up Sweden’s biggest tabloid. The reporters Ola Pettersson and Kristian Lövander, who he had refused to do anything about, would look like choirboys beside him. It would be obvious to everybody why he had protected them.
Ingrid sighed and turned away from Tommy’s back.
She needed to sleep. Tomorrow would hardly offer her any rest. She would have to get up earlier than Tommy to prepare his breakfast. In the evening, she had arranged for her mother to babysit Lovisa. As soon as Lovisa had been dropped off, she would be heading for a restaurant where she could be certain of being seen.
She was going to get away with both the murder and the character assassination of Sweden’s best-known editor-in-chief.
39. Victoria Brunberg
After quickly popping up to her room to drop off the bag containing the black dress and the short, white fur coat she had bought, Victoria got in the lift to go back down to the bar.
She noticed how she drew appreciative looks from the male hotel guests. Victoria sat down in a leather armchair and a waiter in a white shirt immediately appeared by her side.
‘Vodka, please,’ she said, without looking at either him or the menu.
‘Ice?’
She shook her head. While Victoria waited, she opened the newspaper lying on the table in front of her. The editorial was about the #MeToo movement. Victoria hadn’t read a newspaper since last summer and she was hypnotised. The next article, a long cultural piece, was about how men in positions of power exploited young women.
After reading the introduction, she looked around for the waiter before quickly noticing that the vodka was already there on a napkin in front of her. She took a big swallow.
The next moment she almost spat out the spirit. She coughed. In the middle of the piece was a photo of the man who was going to die.
She blinked and stared.
There was no doubt about it. It was the same person.
Aftonpressen’s editor-in-chief Tommy Steen insists the newspaper is taking accusations of sexual harassment against two male employees seriously, the caption explained.
Later on in the article, Tommy expanded on his reasoning, explaining that he couldn’t act until the men in question were found guilty of anything. He also responded to criticism that he had not named the employees as he had done with other men working in other industries.
Her palms felt clammy, and she took another large swallow of vodka and put down the newspaper. Tommy Steen was his name, and he was the editor of the paper she was holding in her hand. She oscillated between dread and excitement. The waiter stopped by her table and cleared his throat discreetly.
‘From the gentleman over there,’ he said, nodding towards a handsome man in a dark suit standing at the bar.
In the ice bucket covered in condensation that the waiter set down on the table was a bottle of Moët & Chandon. She flashed a dazzling smile at the man and the waiter began to open the bottle.
40. Ingrid Steen
Ingrid mechanically reached out to switch off the alarm clock on her mobile before it had gone off for more than a couple of seconds. She felt wide awake and rested.
Tommy mumbled to himself as she wrapped herself up in her dressing gown and padded out of the bedroom. Hanging in the hallway was the change of clothes for Tommy to wear in the evening. Under the pocket square was a small bag containing two grams of coke.
In the kitchen, she switched on the coffee maker she had set up the evening before. She glanced at the calendar on the computer.
20:00. MS Ocean Star.
The international media conglomerate which, in addition to Aftonpressen, owned two TV channels and dozens of other publications in Sweden, had chartered the majestic vessel for their annual company party. Since the weather was mild and the waters around Stockholm still ice-free despite it being December, they were going to take a trip out into the archipelago, if Ingrid had understood correctly. When Tommy had dutifully invited her, she had – to the relief of both of them – said no. But that hadn’t stopped her from having Natasha Svanberg added to the guest list under Tommy’s name.
She could hear water flowing through the pipes. Tommy was always quick in the shower.
She put out a mug, poured some coffee, mixed in a bit of the leftover cocaine and stirred it with a teaspoon.
Then she poured herself her own cup of coffee and got out her iPad.
41. Victoria Brunberg
The thick curtains prevented any light from penetrating. The suite was in darkness, the furniture a series of dark shadows. Lying next to her was Al, as the tall American was called. He was breathing heavily without snoring. His hair, which had been so neatly swept into a side parting the day before, was plastered to the crown of his head.
Victoria checked her mobile – it was quarter to nine in the morning. They couldn’t have slept for more than three or four hours.
The American, Alan DePietro, was a businessman working in oil, and had lived in Russia for several years.
As a result, they had quickly switched to Russian after he had approached and asked whether he could join her. He was polite, charming and urbane. Al treated her with caution – with respect. After staying in the bar until closing time, he invited her up to his room. At first she said no. But when Al made no further attempt to persuade her, paid the bill and wished her good night, she changed her mind.
‘Is there any vodka?’ she asked, laughing.
The suite was almost at the top of the hotel and comprised three rooms in a row. There was an ample terrace overlooking the palace. It was the most incredible hotel she had ever seen. She felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. First, Al had let her order whatever she wanted off the room service menu. An entire dinner had been served to them on beautiful silver platters out on the terrace. Stockholm had slept as they ate and drank while swathed in blankets. Al was almost twice her age – approaching fifty. He had told her stories of Texan oil barons and Russian oligarchs he had met that Victoria had only seen on TV. She urged him to tell her about their homes, their boundless luxury and private jets.
But in addition to entertaining her with anecdotes from a long and exciting life, he listened to her, appreciated her views and described her thoughts as ‘interesting’.
Afterwards, when they were freezing, Al had fired up the sauna. They had brought the champagne into the bathroom but never made it into the sauna. Instead they had sex in the shower, quickly towelled off and then picked up where they’d left off in the big bed.
Victoria kicked the duvet off, went to the window and pulled the curtains apart a crack. A feeble beam of light split the room in two. On the nightstand was an empty bottle and two champagne flutes.
Victoria gathered up her clothes, put them on and padded towards the door. It was a pity they’d never see each other again.
‘Natasha?’
She stopped mid-movement. She hadn’t used her real name. She had invented some story about working in a clothes shop, and now she regretted it.
At least the bit about the name.
‘I thought I’d let you sleep,’ she said.
He waved her over and Victoria perched on the edge of the bed.
‘While you were snoring your head off, I did some thinking,’ Al said with a smile. ‘Like I told you, I’ve never had a family, and I celebrate every Christmas by getting hammered in some hotel where the staff are paid an obscene amount of money to keep poor bastards like me company. This year I’ve booked an all-inclusive resort in Barbados.’
Victoria waited patiently for him to continue, but had to do her best not to crack a big smile of delight.
‘What I’m suggesting is that you come with me to Geneva today, or later in the week and then celebrate Christmas with me in Barbados? Stockholm is great, but the we
ather isn’t the best …’ Al said, with a gesture towards the window.
‘I don’t know. I’d been thinking I would go home to Russia. To my mother.’
Al smiled, but Victoria could tell he was disappointed.
‘I understand,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘Pity though.’
42. Birgitta Nilsson
For the first few days, Birgitta Nilsson had spent every waking moment expecting to hear a knock on the door from police officers who’d come to put her in handcuffs and take her away. But the police, questioning and trial never came. Instead, before she returned the hire car she took it to a garage and paid for a new window to be fitted.
The pain in her body was growing worse; fatigue became a state of normality. Nevertheless, she ignored the letters summoning her for treatment. Birgitta was done with life. She was staying alive in the knowledge that Jacob was going to die and that she had to be there for the twins. But she didn’t want to embarrass them, didn’t want their father to be exposed as a wifebeater. As soon as he was gone and the bruises had healed, she would begin chemotherapy. Jacob’s assaults had increased, become more raw, more consummate. He didn’t hit her to hurt her but to repair himself. He struck blows mechanically without showing any emotion. And Birgitta took it without displaying any emotion. Perhaps that was one of the things that provoked him and made him hit harder.
She bade the class a good afternoon, gathered up her papers and gave the classroom a quick tidy before locking up.
The corridor was almost deserted. Only Lovisa Steen was still there.
‘Anything the matter, my dear?’ Birgitta asked.
‘No, nothing.’
‘You sure?’
The girl nodded.
‘Then why are you still here?’
‘Mum’s picking me up a bit later today, and then I’m going to Grandma’s.’
‘How lovely! Is she nice, your grandma?’
Birgitta helped her to put her large backpack on and they walked side by side past the rows of coat hooks.
‘Mum and Dad are getting divorced,’ Lovisa said suddenly. The girl bit her lip.
Birgitta started. Tommy and Ingrid Steen? Bromma’s most perfect couple? Well, what did anyone know these days?
Tears appeared in Lovisa’s eyes.
‘There, there, sweetheart,’ said Birgitta, leading her to a bench, sitting down with the girl on her lap and hugging her. She didn’t know quite what to say.
They sat in silence.
Birgitta felt a tear on her hand.
‘I’ve got cancer. I’m going to die,’ she whispered.
She realised the moisture was coming from herself.
43. Victoria Brunberg
Victoria reached the pier just a few minutes before the MS Ocean Star was due to sail. Two bouncers in black wearing thick coats scrutinised her with uninterest, asked for her name, checked a list and then nodded before letting her past. Her stilettos echoed off the gangway as she boarded. Through the windows she could see that the partygoers had wasted no time. Festivities were already under way and music was booming across the almost-deserted deck. A few plucky smokers were satisfying their nicotine cravings while fighting the cold. Victoria opened the door and stepped inside. The men were wearing dark suits, most of them with open collars. The women were in party frocks. She avoided making eye contact, aimed for the bar at the back of the room and made her way over to request a glass of white wine. She looked around, searching for Tommy Steen, the man she was going to kill. Opposite the bar there was an elevated area – on the small stage was a microphone stand, two guitars, a bass and a drumkit.
A man in his sixties with thinning hair got onto the stage with a glass of champagne in his hand and used the tip of his index finger to test the microphone. The hubbub fell quiet and faces turned towards the man.
‘My dear colleagues, welcome aboard. We’re about to set sail on a voyage through the archipelago …’
Victoria stopped listening, allowing her gaze to sweep the room again. The speaker produced a volley of laughter just as Victoria spotted the editor-in-chief of Aftonpressen. He was standing nearby, diagonally to Victoria’s right, beside a young woman. Both Tommy Steen and the woman seemed to be listening with interest.
They were standing close together, slightly too close together for them to just be colleagues who had ended up side by side. Every now and then the woman would put her hand around his, quickly but openly, and squeeze it. There was no doubt that there was something going on between them. Might she be the one who had sent Victoria here and ordered the murder? If so, she was ice cold. And crazy.
‘Cheers!’
The man on the stage raised his glass towards the gathered masses.
Victoria put her lips to her glass and took a small sip. She didn’t want to drink too much. She needed to stay sober, even if she would have preferred to numb her nerves with more alcohol.
The room was filled with applause. Victoria set down her glass and joined in. The man got off the stage and the boat began to pull away from the quayside.
44. Ingrid Steen
Ingrid was unaccustomed to having so many people around her. Riche was filled to the gunwales with dinner guests. All around her were TV celebrities, politicians and high-profile journalists, digging into their meals. The ones without tables were thronging around the bar, which was just a couple of metres away from the dining areas.
The bar at Riche was known as the shark pool – it was where the separated over-forties went on the hunt for a new life partner. Somewhere a glass shattered.
‘… and then he said that this wasn’t what he’d envisaged his life being like, that he’d dreamt of something else. You know? He’s forty-five but acting like a kid. He’s a man, not a fucking boy. Zero sense of responsibility.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said Ingrid, shaking her head and lifting a piece of fish to her lips.
Carina Feldt was an old colleague from her days at Aftonpressen who had changed careers five years ago and become a publisher. She had spent the last six months embroiled in a toxic divorce from the father of her two children, Gustaf Hammar, the PR king of Stockholm.
One day after putting the kids to bed, he’d told her it was over. He didn’t love her any more, he wanted more time for himself. There was no room for negotiation, nothing to think through – he’d already bought himself a two-bedroom flat at the other end of town.
‘So now he takes the kids every other weekend – that’s all he does. He’s living like a twenty-year-old. Hitting the bar with his employees, getting home at dawn and embarrassing himself. It’s tragic.’
‘Tragic,’ said Ingrid.
Ingrid felt sorry for Carina, but she was having a hard time engaging. Her thoughts kept wandering off to the MS Ocean Star and Tommy. Everything was in place, she had done her part, and anything that happened now was beyond her control. There was nothing she could do to help. The boat should have sailed by now with the party in full swing. Tommy was probably standing around getting fresh with Julia – probably more or less openly.
Ingrid longed for it all to be over. For the moment when Tommy was revealed to be a crackhead and his whole reputation as an honourable, serious journalist was thrown to the wolves.
Carina got up to go to the ladies’, disappearing into a mass of people at the bar. Ingrid put her hand in her bag to pull out her mobile, but her fingers brushed something else instead.
45. Victoria Brunberg
Victoria needed to get closer to Tommy, to talk to him, but that young woman didn’t leave his side. They were two hours into the voyage, sources of light outside the windows were becoming ever more sparse and the hacks around her were getting increasingly inebriated. Victoria was still at the bar, responding monosyllabically to any attempts at conversation while continuing to keep an eye on Tommy.
A band were getting ready to come on stage. When they picked up their instruments and a singer with a mop of blond hair and a leather jacket grabbed the microphone, t
here was uproar in the room. Victoria glanced across to where Tommy had most recently been standing. He was gone. She quickly began to scan her surroundings and spotted his back. The woman was nowhere to be seen; perhaps she’d gone to the loo. Instead, Tommy was talking to the man who had welcomed the guests earlier in the evening. Victoria had to act now. She had gone over what she would say several times. She took the wine glass with her, making her way through the crowds whose attention was now fully directed at the stage.
Victoria touched Tommy’s elbow, leaned forward and whispered her rehearsed phrase. It was drowned out by cheers as the singer on stage grabbed the microphone and said a few words. Tommy stared at Victoria uncomprehendingly. ‘I work at the Russian embassy. I have information about acts of espionage against Sweden,’ said Victoria, more loudly this time. ‘Follow me, we need to talk.’ Tommy’s jaw dropped, but he quickly pulled himself together.
He nodded, gesturing towards the back door by the bar. No one seemed to pay them any attention; everyone’s eyes were glued to the stage where the singer had started her first song. They quietly walked down a deserted corridor, their footsteps echoing ominously. They stopped outside a door with a window in it, leading out onto the deck.
‘Out here,’ Tommy said, holding the door open for her.
Victoria noted with relief that the deck was empty. She headed towards the stern to ensure that they wouldn’t be discovered even if some passenger gasping for a cigarette showed up. Tommy was a couple of steps behind her as she turned the corner and stood by the metre-high railing.
The boat was leaving foam and white ripples in its wake in the dark water, which was fringed on either side by wooded shorelines. Tommy stood beside her, leaning his elbows on the railing. She put down her handbag between them.
Women Without Mercy Page 7