The Long Shadow Page 3

  ‘Does he know anything?’ Berit asked.

  Annika shook her head.

  ‘Killed by gas in a breakin?’ he said, and the traffic noise behind him changed. ‘Can I call you back?’

  Annika gave him her numbers. ‘What do you make of it?’ she said, once she’d hung up.

  Berit bit into an apple. She seemed to have given up on the coffee. ‘Crime on the Costa del Sol or this latest reorganization?’

  ‘The reorganization.’

  Berit put on her reading glasses and leaned towards the computer screen. ‘You just have to make the best of things,’ she said. ‘If someone else is responsible for my work, I get more time for the stuff I really want to do.’

  ‘Such as? Your own articles? Gardening? Deep-sea diving?’

  ‘I write songs,’ Berit said, and concentrated on the screen.

  Annika stared at her. ‘What sort of songs? Pop songs?’

  ‘Sometimes. Once we sent in an entry to the Eurovision Song Contest.’

  ‘You’re kidding. You made it to the green room? What was it like?’

  ‘The song didn’t get very far. The last I heard, it had been picked up by a local group in Kramfors who play it at gigs around south-east Ångermanland. Have you read Lilian Bergqvist’s report to the Court of Appeal?’

  ‘I haven’t had time. What’s it called?’

  ‘ “Application for Judicial Review in the Case—” ’

  ‘The song.’

  Berit took off her glasses. ‘ “Absolutely Me”,’ she said. ‘One of the lines is the ground-breakingly innovative “To be or not to be”. Now, I’ve spent thirty-two years working on this paper, and if I’m lucky it’ll stay afloat for another ten. By then I’ll be sixty-five, and ready to retire. I like finding things out, writing articles, but I don’t really care who gives me the jobs or which desk I sit at.’ She looked at Annika intently. ‘Does that make me sound bitter?’

  Annika took a deep breath. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I feel exactly the same. Not that I can retire any time soon, but we’ve changed direction so many times that I don’t even feel travel-sick any more. “To be or not to be”. What about the rest?’

  ‘ “No more crying, no self-denying”,’ Berit said, putting her glasses back on and turning to the computer again. ‘What do you make of Filip Andersson’s chance of a pardon?’

  ‘The fact that it’s the attorney general herself requesting the judicial review adds weight to it,’ Annika said. She went onto the attorney general’s website and clicked through to the request.

  ‘You met him in Kumla Prison a few months ago, didn’t you?’ Berit said. ‘Do you think he’s innocent?’

  Annika glanced through the report. Reading about these murders always unsettled her. She had been in the patrol car that had been first on the scene that evening, and had wandered blithely among the victims. Then, last autumn she had come across Filip Andersson’s name several times when she’d been digging into the case of the murdered celebrity police officer, David Lindholm. Filip Andersson had been a reasonably successful financier, famous for his appearances in gossip magazines until he became known throughout Sweden as ‘the Södermalm Axe Murderer’. He had been a close friend of David Lindholm.

  ‘Those people were killed by Filip’s lunatic sister,’ Annika said. She shut the website. ‘How well do you know Rickard Marmén?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I know him well,’ Berit said. ‘My brother-in-law, Harald – Thord goes fishing with him sometimes – has had a flat in Fuengirola since the late seventies. When the children were small we used to borrow it for a week every summer. Rickard’s the sort of guy you bump into sooner or later if you spend any time down there. I’m not so sure that Filip Andersson is innocent.’

  ‘He’s a fairly unpleasant character,’ Annika said, typing Swedes Spain Costa del Sol into Google. She clicked a link and found herself at www.costadelsol.nu. A moment later she read that the Costa del Sol had a Swedish-language commercial radio station, broadcasting twenty-four hours a day. There was a monthly Swedish magazine, a Swedish newspaper, Swedish estate agents, Swedish golf-courses, Swedish restaurants, Swedish food shops, Swedish dentists, vets, banks, construction firms and television engineers. She found a diary that informed her, among other things, that the Swedish Church was planning to celebrate ‘cinnamon-bun day’. Even the mayor of Marbella turned out to be a Swede or, at least, was married to one. Her name was Angela Muñoz, but she was evidently known as Titti.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Marbella looks as Swedish as a rainy Midsummer Eve.’

  ‘But with a rather better chance of sun,’ Berit said.

  ‘How many Swedes live there?’

  ‘About forty thousand,’ Berit said.

  Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s more than there are in Katrineholm,’ she said.

  ‘And that’s just the permanent residents,’ Berit said. ‘There are plenty more who only live there for part of the year.’

  ‘And a whole family has been murdered,’ Annika said, ‘in the midst of this Swedish idyll.’

  ‘Good angle,’ Berit said, picking up the phone to call the attorney general’s office.

  Annika clicked and read ‘Latest news from Spain’. The Spanish police had seized a large shipment of narcotics in La Campana, 700 kilos of cocaine hidden in a container-load of fruit. Three leaders of the controversial Basque party ANV had been arrested. There were fears of drought again this year; a whale had beached outside San Pedro; and Antonio Banderas’s father was going to be buried in Marbella.

  She closed Google and went into the paper’s own archive. Loads of Swedish celebrities seemed to have houses or apartments down there, actors and artists, sports stars and businessmen.

  She picked up the phone and dialled International Directory Enquiries, and had better luck this time. She asked for the numbers of La Garrapata restaurant, the Swedish Magazine, the South Coast newspaper and the Wasa estate agency, all of them in the district of Málaga.

  Then she started ringing round.

  None of the Swedes who answered on their crackly Spanish telephones knew anything about anyone being gassed to death in connection with a robbery, but they all had juicy stories about other breakins, the history and development of the area, the weather, the people and the traffic.

  Annika found out that there were more than a million people living in the province, half a million in Málaga and a couple of hundred thousand in Marbella. The average temperature was seventeen degrees in winter and twenty-seven in summer, and there were 320 days of sunshine each year. Marbella had been founded by the Romans in 1600 BCE, when it was known as Salduba. In 711 the city had been conquered by the Arabs, who renamed it Marbi-la. The oldest part was built on Roman remains.

  ‘We were still in animal skins when people down there had running water and air-conditioning,’ Annika said, after she’d hung up.

  ‘Do you want to go and get some lunch?’ Berit asked.

  They logged off their computers so that no one could send fake emails from their accounts. Annika was digging out a lunch coupon from the bottom of her bag when the phone on her desk rang. The number on the little screen was eleven digits long, and started with 34.

  ‘Annika Bengtzon? Rickard Marmén here. Okay, I’ve looked into that breakin. It seems to be true.’

  He must have moved from the motorway because now there was silence in the background.

  ‘I see,’ Annika said, losing hope of finding a lunch coupon, then discovered a crumpled one in the side-pocket.

  ‘Did you know it was Sebastian Söderström’s family?’

  She was about to say, ‘Who?’ but gasped instead. ‘The ice-hockey player?’ She let the coupon fall to the desk.

  ‘Well, it must be ten years since he last played in the NHL. He’s been living down here for a while, runs a tennis club. As far as I’ve been able to find out, his whole family was wiped out, including his mother-in-law.’

  ‘Sebastian Söderström i
s dead?’ Annika said, waving at Berit to stop her heading off to the canteen.

  ‘He had a wife and two fairly young kids.’

  ‘What did you say about Sebastian Söderström?’ Patrik asked, suddenly materializing beside her.

  Annika turned her back on him and stuck a finger in her free ear. ‘How reliable is this information?’ she asked.

  ‘Hundred per cent.’

  ‘Who can confirm it?’

  ‘No idea, darling. But now you know.’ He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Patrik asked.

  Berit came back to the desk and put her bag down again.

  ‘Check out Sebastian Söderström on paginasblancas.es,’ Annika said, and Berit logged back in, typed in the details and read: ‘Las Estrellas de Marbella, Nueva Andalucía.’ The number had nine digits, and began with 952.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Patrik asked.

  ‘Just need to check something,’ Annika said, dialling the number of the villa in Las Estrellas de Marbella. After five rings an electronic female voice said ‘Ha llamado a nuevo cinco dos …’ She hung up and dialled the press office at the Foreign Ministry.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ Berit said, who could see what number she was dialling. ‘They’re usually the last to know anything.’

  After the Asian tsunami the Foreign Ministry had got its act together and had been almost helpful for a while, but now they were back to normal.

  ‘My name’s Annika Bengtzon and I’m calling from the Evening Post,’ she said, when the call was finally answered. ‘I’d like confirmation that the family gassed to death in a breakin at Las Estrellas de Marbella in the south of Spain last night were Swedish citizens.’

  ‘We haven’t received any information to that effect,’ the woman at the Foreign Ministry said abruptly.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to check,’ Annika said, and hung up.

  ‘My Spanish isn’t good enough for the Spanish police,’ Berit said.

  ‘Neither’s mine,’ Annika said.

  ‘Interpol,’ Berit said.

  ‘Europol,’ Annika said. ‘They’re more active.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Patrik shouted.

  Annika jumped. ‘I have a source who says that the family gassed on the Costa del Sol was Sebastian Söderström’s. He was with his wife, children and mother-in-law.’

  Patrik turned on his heel and yelled, ‘Sport!’

  Annika took three long strides and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Calm down,’ she said, as he spun round to her. ‘I need to get confirmation. You can’t get Sport to start writing his obituary until we know it’s true.’

  ‘They need to start making calls,’ Patrik said.

  ‘And say what? That we think he’s dead? And even if it’s true, we don’t know that his family has been informed.’

  ‘You said they all died.’

  Annika groaned. ‘Maybe he’s got parents, brothers and sisters.’ She took another step forward, stopping right in front of him. ‘A bit of advice, Head of News. Try to curb your enthusiasm. You’ll end up in the ditch if you carry on like this.’

  Patrik paled. ‘Just because you didn’t get promoted,’ he said, and stalked off towards the sports desk.

  ‘We’ll have to try to get confirmation,’ Berit said, picking up the phone.

  After several phone calls the Spanish police had confirmed that five people had been killed the previous night just outside Marbella in what looked like a gas attack in connection with a burglary. There would be no comment on the identity and nationality of the victims until tomorrow lunchtime at the earliest.

  They took a break and hurried down to the canteen.

  ‘Sport isn’t exactly my strong subject,’ Berit said, once they were sitting at a window table with plates of beef stew in front of them.

  Annika broke off a piece of crispbread and looked out at the greyness beyond the window. ‘He played professionally in the NHL for several seasons,’ she said, ’first with the Anaheim Ducks, then Colorado Avalanche. He was in defence. In the early nineties he was selected to play for the Three Crowns national team several years running. I think he was in the team that won gold in the World Championships in Finland in ’ninety-one, and Czechoslovakia in ’ninety-two …’

  Berit put down her fork.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Annika took a sip of mineral water. ‘He was my ex-boyfriend’s idol,’ she said, and Berit let the matter drop.

  ‘There’s something about fading sports stars,’ she said. ‘They seem to attract misery.’

  Large raindrops were striking the window.

  ‘Imagine hitting the top when you’re twenty-four,’ Annika said. ‘You’d spend the rest of your life as a has-been.’

  They skipped coffee and went back up to the newsroom.

  Patrik was practically jumping up and down beside Annika’s chair. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said. ‘As of this afternoon Kicki Pop is going to be presenting the radio programme that goes out before P1’s in-depth news programme. I want you to call Erik Ponti at Radio News and find out what he thinks about that.’

  Annika stared at the … head of news, and waited for the laugh that would tell her it was a joke. It didn’t come. ‘Are you kidding?’ she said. ‘I’m busy with the murders in Marbella. That’s a huge story. There are loads of Swedes down there who—’

  ‘Berit can deal with that. I want you to do this now.’

  She couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You’re telling me to call Erik Ponti and try to get him to bad-mouth a female colleague? One who just happens to be young and blonde?’

  ‘He’s famous for saying that bimbos are the lowest of the low.’

  Annika sat down, her back ramrod straight. ‘Ponti may be pompous and self-important,’ she said, ‘but he’s not stupid. He criticized a blonde female colleague once when he had every reason to do so. But considering the amount of shit he caught, do you really think he’d do it again?’

  Patrik leaned over her. ‘Make the call,’ he said.

  Annika picked up the phone and dialled Radio News.

  Erik Ponti didn’t feel like making any unpleasant comments, not about Kicki Pop personally and not about her programme.

  ‘What a surprise,’ Annika said, pulling her jacket on and heading towards the caretaker’s desk.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Patrik called after her.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting at two o’clock,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  ‘Who with?’

  She turned round and looked him in the eye. ‘There’s such a thing as confidentiality of sources,’ she said. ‘Ever heard of it?’

  ‘Not where your superiors are concerned,’ he said, and his earlobes were dark red.

  ‘Not where the legally responsible publisher is concerned,’ she corrected.

  Then she went to the caretaker’s desk and booked out a car from Tore.

  2

  The rain was heavy now, so she had to keep the windscreen wipers on. It was only half past one but darkness was edging in, creeping up on frozen pedestrians, filthy streetlamps and lorries with flickering headlights.

  She was heading west, towards Enköping, past Rissne, Rinkeby and Tensta. She passed blocks of flats, terraced houses, empty schools and an abandoned football pitch. The traffic on the motorway ground to a complete halt outside the railway station in Barkarby and Annika peered through the windscreen of the car in front to see if there had been an accident she could phone in to the paper. It didn’t look like it. Maybe a pedestrian had been knocked down. Or someone had jumped in front of a train. That was fairly common.

  Soon the traffic was moving again, if slowly. The residential buildings thinned out, pine forest and industrial units taking over. The road surface was terrible, with brownish-grey sludge thrown up at the windscreen. She switched the radio on, but it was in the middle of a segment of adverts so she turned it off again.

  The scenery outside became incre
asingly monotonous. The industrial units vanished, leaving just the pines. Their branches reached out towards the car, the same dirty Volvo she had driven out to Garphyttan on the December day when she had found Alexander.

  At Brunna she turned right, towards Roligheten. All of a sudden the rain stopped. Annika had a terrible sense of direction and compensated for it by scrutinizing maps and writing detailed directions for herself. Left at Lerberga, then left again after 800 metres, past Fornsta. Through an army training area, then right.

  She was heading for Lejongården, a rehabilitation home for families, situated by the water of Lejondalssjön, where Julia Lindholm had been staying with her son since he had been found.

  Annika had promised to visit them, but had kept putting it off. She didn’t know what to expect. She and Julia had met only twice before, both times under difficult circumstances. The first time, they had stumbled upon the gruesome murder scene on Sankt Paulsgatan on Södermalm. Annika had been shadowing Julia and her colleague Nina Hoffman on their shift in patrol car 1617 that evening. The call hadn’t sounded terribly serious, a domestic dispute, so Annika had been allowed to go with them as long as she agreed to stay in the background. Nina had ushered her away as soon as they had found the bodies.

  The second time they had met, Julia had been under arrest on suspicion of murdering her husband, police officer David Lindholm, and her son Alexander. She had been sentenced to life imprisonment by the City Court. No one seemed to care that she had always maintained her innocence, and claimed that another woman she had never seen before had shot her husband and abducted her son.

  Annika had only met Alexander once, on the night she had rescued him from Yvonne Nordin’s cottage outside Garphyttan. He had been missing for seven months.

  The headlights lit up a rough-hewn red wooden façade, the sort of red that reflected, which meant that it wasn’t proper old-fashioned paint but a modern oil-based version. This was the place she was looking for. She pulled up in front of the house, engaged the handbrake, switched off the headlights, but remained seated in the darkness with the engine idling.