‘You said you work at the Russian embassy?’
Victoria avoided his gaze, nodding quickly.
‘My country is spying on your country – we’re bugging your newspaper.’
Tommy stroked his chin. He seemed sceptical.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I want to leave Russia and seek asylum in Sweden.’
Tommy got out a pack of cigarettes and waved it in Victoria’s direction. She helped herself to one before he took another out for himself.
‘I quit ages ago, but I’m still an occasional social smoker,’ he said by way of explanation as he lit her cigarette. Their eyes met for a second in the dim glow of the flame flickering in his cupped hand.
It felt intimate – there was something attractive about him.
The cigarette didn’t light.
‘Let me,’ she said.
She took the lighter and the cigarette from Tommy’s mouth and stepped out of the wind. Tommy turned back towards the water and waited for her. One hard shove was all it would take.
‘How you getting on?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Almost there,’ she said.
Victoria quickly took off her high heels and hurled herself towards him.
46. Ingrid Steen
The wine was gone, their plates had been removed from the table by a waitress and the conversation was beginning to die down. The pauses were becoming longer. Carina’s eyes were shiny with exhaustion and booze. The auditory accompaniment from the bar was growing louder and louder, the wall of people moving closer to Ingrid’s table as the crowd grew in size. Ingrid was in high spirits – she wasn’t sure whether it was the alcohol or the fact that she was noticing that men still looked at her with hungry eyes. Probably a combination of the two. Especially one man at the bar, who had awakened her curiosity. He appeared to be in his thirties, with dark brown hair, and was wearing a black shirt and black jeans. Time after time, his gaze would linger on her without any hint of embarrassment, and Ingrid stared directly into his bright eyes.
‘Time to make a move, don’t you think?’ said Carina, reaching for her coat.
‘Definitely,’ said Ingrid.
At the same time, she didn’t want the evening to end. She didn’t want to go home to the big empty house in Bromma.
‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to the ladies.’
Ingrid sensed the man at the bar watching her as she gathered up her things and pushed her way towards the toilets.
Once she had closed the cubicle door behind her, she got out the bag of cocaine from her handbag, found an old, wrinkled banknote and quickly laid out a line. She’d never tried drugs – apart from a few puffs of hash one weekend in Copenhagen during her youth.
She sucked up the powder, using her phone’s selfie camera to make sure her nose wasn’t white. Then she opened the door. The world began to spin, becoming softer and a little more electric. She quickly made her way through the venue to Carina, who was waiting by the table.
Out in the street, they embraced in front of the line of taxis.
‘You can have the first one,’ Ingrid said, gesturing towards a waiting Taxi Stockholm cab. She remained where she was, waving as Carina got into the back seat. Once the car had disappeared, she turned around and headed back into Riche. She immediately sought out the man in black by the bar. He looked surprised. Ingrid felt full of self-confidence.
‘Do you live nearby?’ she asked right away.
‘In Vasastan.’
‘Good,’ said Ingrid. ‘Give me the address. Then leave and take a cab there.’
He laughed.
‘Thirty-five Odengatan.’
Five minutes later, Ingrid was in the back of a taxi driving along Birger Jarlsgatan. Her heart was pounding, her head pleasantly spinning. She discreetly put a hand between her legs and felt that she was wet.
47. Victoria Brunberg
She saw Tommy fall soundlessly through the air – it was only when he was a metre or so from the water that he screamed. His body vanished into the dark sea. Victoria stayed by the railing. A couple of seconds later, Tommy’s body appeared – he was waving and screaming for all he was worth. She checked with a glance over her shoulder that no one was approaching, then she raised the lighter to the cigarette before taking a long drag.
His body would shut down before he reached the shore: he would freeze to death. He hadn’t seemed like a bad man, but what did Victoria know? The woman who wanted him dead probably had her reasons – just like she had with Malte.
Victoria checked her wristwatch and realised her hand was shaking. They ought to be on the way back to Stockholm. She returned to the party. The band were still on stage, the blonde singer singing for all she was worth, leaning back with her face pointing towards the ceiling. No one had seen a thing. Victoria returned to the same spot as before and asked for a glass of white wine. She felt calm. In an hour or so the boat would dock at Nybrokajen and then she would slip away unnoticed. People were already so hammered they barely knew their own names. But what next? Where was she going to go? Back to Russia? She thought about Al and her body felt warm. She liked him; he had treated her decently. Not like Yuri, but he was a man who understood women. A proper man. Perhaps she should accept his invitation to celebrate Christmas in Barbados. But what would she do between now and then?
48. Ingrid Steen
The man was waiting outside the main door, which was next door to a bar with smokers standing outside in clusters dragging on cigarettes. He proffered his hand to her and introduced himself.
‘Lukas.’
‘Charmed,’ she said with a giggle. ‘You can call me Johanna.’
He frowned.
‘Call you?’
‘Yes. It’s not my real name, see. You going to open up or what?’
Lukas shrugged, tapped in the code and held the door open for her. Ingrid felt amused by the situation and by being in control. In the lift they stood opposite each other, Ingrid scrutinising him from head to foot with no embarrassment. She liked what she saw. He met her eye and smiled.
‘You’re good looking. Did you know?’ she said.
He laughed.
‘You too.’
It was a small two-bedroom flat on the fourth floor, with windows facing onto Odengatan. Ingrid didn’t take off her shoes – she went straight to the window. Lukas approached her, stood close by and put his hands on her waist. Her body tingled, but she could feel the drug wearing off.
‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
Lukas pointed her in the right direction. She took her bag with her, laid down a new line on the loo and snorted it. She felt her heart beat faster and her body temperature rise.
He was still by the window. She squeezed in between him and it, and sat down on the window ledge, drawing him to her. They kissed. He tasted of booze. She unbuttoned his trousers, taking his hard cock in her hand. His breathing got heavier and heavier.
Down on Odengatan, a drunk shouted.
She fumbled with her own clothes until she stood in front of him naked but with her high heels on. Ingrid leaned her upper body against the window and arched her back inwards.
PART III
49. Ingrid Steen
The Swedish flag fluttering outside the building was at half-mast.
Ingrid was wearing black. Even though it was winter and the sun hadn’t shown its face all week, she had concealed her face behind a pair of oversized sunglasses.
She opened the door and got out of the car. Mariana Babic had been waiting inside the sliding doors to meet her. She gave her a long, warm hug.
‘Are you going to be okay doing this?’ she said softly.
Ingrid nodded with gritted teeth.
Someone must have warned the staff in the newsroom that Ingrid was on her way up. The team were gathered around the central desk. Ingrid acknowledged a few familiar faces while trying to spot Julia. Tommy’s office was empty, the de
sk groaning under flowers.
The Group CEO Ingvar Svedberg put an arm around Ingrid, leading her carefully to the middle of the room. Ingrid kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. Ingvar cleared his throat.
‘Tommy Steen was one of the finest people and most courageous journalists I have ever met. Aftonpressen is in mourning, the Swedish media is in mourning. We’ve been robbed of a strong, important voice in social debate …’
Ingrid stopped listening, continuing to search for Julia’s face among the journalists present.
When being questioned by the police, Ingrid had hesitantly admitted that Tommy used coke and that she’d tried to get him to stop.
She had also reluctantly explained that two weeks ago she’d realised that Julia Wallberg, Aftonpressen’s celebrated TV presenter, was the person who was helping him to get hold of the drugs. The police had exchanged glances. Ingrid knew that the Stockholm cops loved putting away people in the public eye for drugs offences to show the wider public and politicians that they took the issue seriously. Every famous person caught up in a raid was a publicity coup for the police, and Ingrid was certain they would move against Julia. Hopefully it would result in them searching the presenter’s apartment, and that would see her hitherto successful career brought to an end. Everyone in the room probably already knew that the police had found a bag of cocaine in Tommy’s jacket pocket and that the tox screen had shown he had coke in his system when he’d gone overboard.
The information had already got out online and on social media. Ingvar Svedberg could talk about Tommy’s splendid qualities until he was hoarse, but in the eyes of the public he was nothing more than a crackhead who had gone at it and then fallen overboard at a company party.
‘An accident, a terrible accident has left an incredible woman without a husband and a beautiful little girl without her beloved father …’
Ingrid pursed her lips. Ingvar cleared his throat, took a deep breath and collected himself.
‘I’d like us to honour Tommy’s memory with a minute’s silence.’
50. Birgitta Nilsson
Birgitta had been keeping an eye on Lovisa all day – it was the girl’s first day of school since her father had been found drowned in the archipelago. While it pained Birgitta to see the girl so silent and absent, she was in agreement with the head and the school welfare officer that it was in Lovisa’s best interests to get back into her daily life as soon as possible.
The other pupils were quieter than usual. They understood, they were showing respect. Birgitta was proud – this was a wonderful class she had in her charge. One day they would grow up to be good, capable members of civic society.
Just as Birgitta emerged into the playground, she saw Lovisa with her mother heading for their car. Ingrid Steen was wearing black. Unable to stop herself, Birgitta called out her name. Ingrid turned around, said something to Lovisa and came towards Birgitta.
‘I just wanted to offer my condolences,’ said Birgitta. ‘What a dreadful, tragic accident.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ingrid.
She searched for more to say.
‘Lovisa, she’s … you have a wonderful, courageous daughter. You can be proud of her.’
Ingrid Steen nodded and was about to head back to the little girl.
‘You probably have lots of lovely friends looking out for you, but if you need anything then don’t hesitate to get in touch,’ said Birgitta.
‘Thanks,’ said Ingrid, before turning away.
Birgitta watched them go for a while before hurrying homewards. She needed to cook a big meal for Jacob and the twins. It was the last time they were going to see each other, and she wanted them to have a good time together. They’d sigh at her hopelessness, roll their eyes on the few occasions when she opened her mouth. The passing of the years had left her accustomed to this and mostly indifferent, but it still hurt. Sometimes she wished she’d had a daughter too. Girls were softer than boys. Life might have felt simpler if she had had someone who loved her back.
51. Ingrid Steen
The bushes and trees separating each garden from the next were leafless and bare. The temperature was heading for freezing. Ingrid had had no idea that the street was so close to her own home. She’d had to stop herself from looking for the name of the woman whose husband was going to die soon. Perhaps it was someone she knew? Someone she had bumped into in the supermarket? Someone with a child in Lovisa’s class at school?
She pulled her hat further down over her ears.
The houses with their Christmas star decorations in the windows looked so peaceful. Everything indicated that the people who lived here were normal, decent sorts. Yet there was at least one woman who hated her husband so much she was willing to kill him. There were probably more.
Detached houses in suburbia were women’s prisons without walls – the women were kept there through love and duty to their children. Ingrid wasn’t going to murder a man – she was going to liberate a woman. Just as she had been liberated by Tommy’s death.
52. Birgitta Nilsson
The house was silent. Jacob was snoring beside her. Birgitta stayed awake, even though sleep was whispering to her temptingly. Jacob sometimes used sleeping tablets – it had been no trouble grinding a few more into his nightcap.
He was going to die. She was going to keep her promise to love him and be faithful for better or worse until death parted them. Birgitta was going to be at his side until the end. He had picked her, and she had been flattered, had mistaken his reticence for goodness. The evil that you learn to identify as a child is loud. Her body still bore the marks of his evil.
Birgitta carefully pushed aside the duvet, crept downstairs and unlocked the front door. On her way back up, she couldn’t help but go into Jacob’s study.
The candles were on the windowsill. The silver candelabra had been inherited from Jacob’s mother. Three weeks after her death, he had used it to strike Birgitta. Not her head. No, he had swung it against her side while the twins were asleep. He had broken two of her ribs. Birgitta had lain awake for weeks afterwards. Jacob had always been capable of controlling his evil acts. And Birgitta had learned to control the physical pain that Jacob’s violence gave rise to. Birgitta doubted that he had ever committed an act of violence against anyone other than her. When the twins had been born, she had been afraid he would set about them. She had promised herself early on that if he raised a finger to either of them she would kill him. But he had never touched them – no matter how much they had screamed, fussed and fought.
Birgitta heard a sound from the doorway.
‘What are you doing in my study?’
53. Ingrid Steen
Ingrid contemplated the two-storey house. She quickly checked her watch. It was time. The front door was supposed to be open; all she was going to do was light a candle and then she was going home. She looked around and pushed open the gate. She crept across the hard, frozen lawn. By the front door, she stopped and listened. Silence.
‘Upstairs, second room on the right,’ she repeated to herself.
She carefully pushed down the door handle and stepped inside. She pulled out some blue polythene overshoes from her pocket and put them on over her shoes. She could smell dinners, life, unfamiliar people. On the wall to her right were framed photographs. She ignored them. She didn’t want to know – couldn’t know.
Ingrid crept as far as the stairs. Took a step. Two more. Suddenly she came to a halt. She could hear noise from upstairs. A voice. A man’s voice. Dogged, almost hissing. She heard a thud. Ingrid spun around, preparing to rush outside.
54. Birgitta Nilsson
Jacob pushed her against the wall.
He couldn’t be awake – it was impossible. She had crushed two sleeping tablets into his whisky. Hadn’t he drunk it?
Jacob righted her, took aim and hit. The air was forced out of her body as his fist struck her belly. Birgitta collapsed. He looked at her in disgust.
‘Spying on me? Bloody hag. I said yo
u could never come in my study.’
He never gave her the chance to reply. He kicked. Birgitta held up her arms. His foot struck her elbow and Jacob grimaced with pain. His eyes lit up – glowing with fury.
The woman, the one who was meant to come and light the candle and make sure that it started a fire, ought to be here any moment now. Perhaps she was already in the house? But what could she do? Obviously she’d leave. Birgitta didn’t blame her.
‘Please, Jacob, I—’
He bent down and grabbed her hair. Dragged her head up until it was level with his. Birgitta ended up on her knees, whimpering pathetically.
‘The belt,’ he hissed. ‘You’re going to get a taste of the belt, you fucking bitch.’
He let go of her and drew the curtains.
55. Ingrid Steen
The knives were in a row, shining amongst the washed-up crockery. She put on the thin gloves, selected a large, sharp steak knife and weighed it in her hand. She had heard enough. She crept back to the stairs and began to move up them. Faint sobs. Somewhere in the house a door opened.
‘Why the hell won’t this bitch do as she’s told?’
Ingrid crouched at the top of the stairs. The man was heading her way – she still hadn’t seen him. Ingrid felt nothing but rage as she waited. The footsteps got closer, increasing in intensity. He was coming back, towards her. When he was around a metre away, Ingrid hurled herself forward. At the last moment, he must have heard her, because he spun around, managing to raise his arm, and she felt the pain as something cut across her cheek.
But it was too late. She had already buried the knife in his stomach. He gasped, staring at her uncomprehendingly. His mouth was open – there was a gurgling sound coming out of it. She withdrew the knife and stabbed him again. And again.
Women Without Mercy Page 8