Exposed Read online

  Liza Marklund is an author, publisher, journalist, columnist, and goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. Her crime novels featuring the relentless reporter Annika Bengtzon instantly became an international hit, and Marklund’s books have sold 12 million copies in 30 languages to date. She has achieved the unique feat of being a number one bestseller in all five Nordic countries, and she has been awarded numerous prizes, including a nomination for the Glass Key for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel.

  The Annika Bengtzon series is currently being adapted into film.

  Neil Smith studied Scandinavian Studies at University College London, and lived in Stockholm for several years. He now lives in Norfolk.

  Also by Liza Marklund

  RED WOLF

  By Liza Marklund and James Patterson

  POSTCARD KILLERS

  VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2011

  Copyright © 1999 Liza Marklund

  English translation copyright © 2011 Neil Smith

  Map © Tom Coulson at Encompass Graphics

  Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in Canada by Vintage Canada,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2011.

  Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.

  Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.

  www.randomhouse.ca

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Marklund, Liza, [date]

  Exposed / Liza Marklund ; translated by Neil Smith.

  Translation of: Studio sex.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-35848-6

  I. Smith, Neil II. Title.

  PT9876.23.A653S7813 2011 839.73′74 C2011-901754-7

  v3.1

  A Note to the Reader

  The events in this book take place several years before those of my previous novel, Red Wolf. Chronologically, Exposed is the first in the series about crime reporter Annika Bengtzon.

  Although the Annika Bengtzon novels form part of a series, they can just as easily be read alone.

  You can read an extract from my forthcoming novel, The Bomber, at the end of this book.

  Enjoy!

  Liza Marklund

  A Note on the Currency

  Calculated at a rate of 10.3 Swedish Kronor to the pound, the monetary figures in this book would convert approximately as follows:

  10kr = 95p 500kr = £48.50

  50kr = £4.85 1000kr = £95

  100kr = £9.50 10,000kr = £950

  200kr = £19.50 50,000kr = £4850

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Note to the Reader

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One - July Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Two - August Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Part Three - September Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Epilogue

  Author’s Acknowledgements

  Liza Marklund

  Excerpt from The Bomber

  Prologue

  The first thing she saw was the pair of knickers hanging from a bush. They were swaying gently, their salmon pink standing out against the lush greenery. Her immediate reaction was anger. Young people had no respect for anything! They couldn’t even let the dead rest in peace.

  She began to contemplate the decline of society while her dog explored further along the iron railings. She followed the animal down the south side of the cemetery, round the thin trees, and that was where she caught sight of a leg. Her fury rose: how dare they! She saw them every evening, wandering the pavements with their skimpy clothes and their loud voices, offering themselves to men. The fact that the weather was hot was no excuse.

  The dog did a little sausage in the grass next to the railings. She looked away and pretended she hadn’t seen. There was no one about at this time of day. Why bother putting it in a bag?

  ‘Come on, Jesper,’ she said, pulling the dog towards the eastern end of the park. ‘Come on, boy.’

  She glanced back over her shoulder as she walked away from the railings. The leg was no longer visible, hidden by the thick foliage.

  It was going to be another hot day. She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead even though the sun had only just risen. She was breathing heavily as she struggled up the slope. The dog was pulling on the lead. His tongue was hanging so far out that it was touching the grass.

  How on earth could you just fall asleep in a cemetery, the final resting place of the dead? Was that what feminism was all about, giving young girls a licence to behave badly and show a complete lack of respect?

  She was still annoyed. The steep hill was making her mood even worse.

  I ought to get rid of this dog, she thought, then felt guilty for thinking it. To make up for her uncharitable thought she bent down to let the dog off the lead, and picked him up for a cuddle. The dog struggled free and rushed off after a squirrel. She sighed. What was the point of trying to be nice?

  With another deep sigh she settled onto a bench while Jesper tried to catch the squirrel. After a while the dog had worn himself out and came to a halt under the tree where the little rodent was hiding. She didn’t move until the dog had finished dashing about, then she got to her feet again, her dress sticking to her back. The thought of the sweat stains down her spine made her feel embarrassed.

  ‘Come on, Jesper darling. Over here …’

  She waved a plastic bag full of dog treats, and the short-legged bull-terrier set off towards her. His tongue was hanging out, swinging back and forth,
making it look like he was laughing.

  ‘Is this what you want, then? Yes, I thought it might be …’

  She fed the dog the entire contents of the bag, and took the opportunity to put him back on the lead. It was time to go home. Jesper had had his treats. Now it was her turn: coffee and a Danish pastry.

  The dog showed no inclination to go back. He’d caught sight of the squirrel again, and all those dog treats had only renewed his energy for the chase. He protested noisily and furiously.

  ‘I don’t want to be out here any longer,’ she complained. ‘Come on, Jesper!’

  They took a different path to avoid the steep slope back home. Going uphill was just about okay, but going down always made her knees ache.

  She was walking down the path towards the northeastern corner of the cemetery when she saw the body. It was lying in thick undergrowth, stretched out, with its arms up behind a broken granite headstone. A fragment of a Star of David was lying next to the head. She felt suddenly afraid. The body was naked, completely motionless and white. The dog pulled loose and rushed at the railings, the lead dancing like an angry snake behind him.

  ‘Jesper!’

  He managed to squeeze between two rails and set off towards the dead woman.

  ‘Jesper, come here!’

  She was shouting as loud as she dared, because she didn’t want to wake anyone living nearby. A lot of people slept with their windows open in this heat; the stone buildings of the city centre never had time to cool down during the short summer nights. She fumbled frantically for more dog treats, but they were all gone.

  The bull-terrier stopped beside the woman and eyed her curiously. Then he began to sniff, at first hesitantly, then more eagerly. When he got to her groin he could no longer contain himself.

  ‘JESPER! Come here at once!’

  The dog looked up but showed no signs of obeying. Instead he moved up to the woman’s head, then started stiffing at the hands. The woman watched in horror as her dog started to chew on the corpse’s fingers. Feeling sick, she grabbed at the black railings. She moved slightly to the left and bent down, peering through the headstones. She stared into the dead woman’s eyes, just two metres away. They were glazed, slightly clouded, dull and cold. She had a strange sense of all sound around her vanishing; there was just a faint buzzing noise in her left ear.

  I have to get the dog away from here, she thought. I can’t tell anyone that Jesper has been chewing on her.

  She got down on her knees and stuck her hand as far as she could through the railings. Her outstretched fingers were pointing right at the woman’s dead eyes. Her upper arm was so plump that she almost got stuck, but she just managed to catch hold of the lead. The dog whined as she pulled on the leather strap. He was in no mood to let go of his prey. His jaw was clamped onto the body, which moved slightly.

  ‘You stupid bloody dog!’

  With a thud and a whimper he crashed against the railings. She pulled him back through with trembling hands, clutching him like never before, both hands clasped firmly round his stomach. She hurried down to the street, her heels sliding on the grass and straining her thighs.

  It wasn’t until she had locked the door of her flat behind her and caught sight of the pieces of flesh in the dog’s mouth that she started to retch.

  Part One

  JULY

  Seventeen years, four months and sixteen days

  I thought love was just for other people, for people more assured, for people who mattered. The fact that I was wrong makes my soul sing with happiness.

  I’m the one he wants.

  Intoxication, the first touch, the way his fringe fell across one eye when he looked at me, nervous, not at all pushy. Crystal clear: the breeze, the light, the overwhelming sense of fulfilment, the pavement, the warmth of the wall.

  I got the one I wanted.

  He is my still centre. The other girls smile and flirt, but I’m not jealous. I trust him. I know he’s mine. I see him across the room, fair hair shining, the way he brushes it back, his strong hand, my hand. My chest constricts with joy, I am short of breath, tears in my eyes. The light focuses on him, making him strong and complete.

  He says he can’t manage without me.

  His vulnerability lies just beneath his skin. I am lying on his arm and he traces a finger across my face.

  Don’t ever leave me,

  he says,

  I can’t live without you.

  And I promise.

  Saturday 28 July

  1

  ‘There’s a dead girl in Kronoberg Park.’

  The voice was breathless, the words slurred, suggesting drug use. Annika Bengtzon looked away from her screen and fumbled for a pen amongst the mess on her desk.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked, sounding more sceptical than was strictly called for.

  ‘Because I’m standing right next to it, for fuck’s sake!’

  The voice rose to a falsetto and Annika had to hold the phone away from her ear.

  ‘Okay, how dead?’ she said, aware that the question sounded ridiculous.

  ‘Bloody hell, completely dead! How dead can you be?’

  Annika looked around the newsroom uneasily. Spike, the head of news, was sitting over at the newsdesk, talking on the phone. Anne Snapphane was fanning herself with a pad of paper behind the desk opposite, and Picture-Pelle had just switched on his Mac over at the picture desk.

  ‘I see,’ she said, as she found a Biro in an empty coffee cup and an old printout of a news agency telegram, which she started making notes on the back of.

  ‘In Kronoberg Park, you said. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Behind a headstone.’

  ‘Headstone?’

  The man on the other end started to cry. Annika waited in silence for a few seconds. She didn’t know what to do next. The tip-off line – officially known as the Hotline but only ever referred to in the office as Cold Calls – was almost only ever used by pranksters and nutters. This one was a strong candidate for the latter.

  ‘Hello …?’ Annika said cautiously.

  The man blew his nose. He took several deep breaths and started talking. Anne Snapphane was watching Annika from the other side of the desk.

  ‘I don’t know how you keep answering those calls,’ she said when Annika had hung up.

  Annika didn’t respond, and just carried on making notes on the back of the telegram.

  ‘I have to have another ice-cream or I’ll die. Do you want anything from the canteen?’ Anne Snapphane asked, standing up.

  ‘I just need to check something first,’ Annika said, picking up the phone and dialling the police emergency desk. It was true. Four minutes ago they had received a report of a dead body in the section of the park facing Kronobergsgatan.

  Annika got up and went over to the newsdesk, holding the telegram in her hand. Spike was still talking on the phone, his feet up on the desk. Annika stood right in front of him, demanding his attention. The head of news looked up, annoyed.

  ‘Suspected murder, a young girl,’ Annika said, waving the printout.

  Spike ended his call abruptly by simply putting the phone down, and dropped his feet to the floor.

  ‘Is it from one of the agencies?’ he wondered, turning towards his screen. ‘No, Cold Calls.’

  ‘Confirmed?’

  ‘The emergency desk have got it, at any rate.’

  Spike looked out over the newsroom.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Who have we got here?’

  Annika made her move. ‘It’s my tip-off.’

  ‘Berit!’ Spike yelled, getting up. ‘This year’s summer killing!’

  Berit Hamrin, one of the paper’s older reporters, picked up her handbag and came over to the newsdesk.

  ‘Where’s Carl Wennergren? Is he working today?’

  ‘No, he’s on holiday, sailing round Gotland,’ Annika said. ‘This is my tip-off; I took the call.’

  ‘Pelle, pictures!’ Spike yelled towards the picture desk.
>
  The picture editor gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Bertil Strand,’ he shouted.

  ‘Okay,’ the head of news said, turning to Annika. ‘So what have we got?’

  Annika looked down at her scribbled notes, suddenly aware of how nervous she was.

  ‘A dead girl, found behind a headstone in the Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen.’

  ‘So it isn’t necessarily a murder, is it?’

  ‘She’s naked and was strangled.’

  Spike looked at Annika intently. ‘And you want to do this one yourself?’

  Annika swallowed and nodded, and the head of news sat down again and pulled out a pad of paper.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You can go with Berit and Bertil. Make sure we get good pictures. We can sort the rest out later, but we have to get good pictures.’

  The photographer was pulling on the rucksack containing his equipment as he walked past the newsdesk.

  ‘Where is it, again?’ he said, aiming his question at Spike.

  ‘Kronoberg Prison,’ Spike said, picking up the phone.

  ‘Park,’ Annika said, looking to see where her bag was. ‘Kronoberg Park. The Jewish Cemetery.’