Lifetime

by Liza Marklund

  The breakfast buffet had been stripped bare, and the room was half empty. The businessmen had gone to their important meetings, leaving just one middle-aged couple and three Japanese tourists to stare at her and the children, at her torn jeans and soot-stained designer top, at Kalle in his silky Batman pyjamas and Ellen in her flannel ones with the butterfly print.

  Sorry if we’re disturbing your lovely breakfast with our unbrushed teeth and bare feet.

  She clenched her jaw, filled a teacup with coffee, then helped herself to a yogurt and three slices of gravad lax. The yogurt was the only thing she managed to swallow, but she took the salmon because it was included in the price, 2,125 kronor for a ‘twin standard room’ that resembled a lift-shaft.

  I can’t do this on my own. I need help.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Berit Hamrin said. ‘You sound completely normal.’

  ‘The alternative is just lying down and dying, and if I was going to do that I might as well have stayed in the house,’ Annika said, checking that the bathroom door was closed.

  She had found the Cartoon Network on the hotel television, and had put the children back to bed, each with a little box of sugared cereal in place of sweets. Then she had shut herself into the bathroom, where there was another phone, and called her colleague in the newsroom.

  ‘And you didn’t manage to take anything with you? I read about the fire on the agency feed, but I had no idea it was your house. Bloody hell!’

  Annika slumped on to the toilet seat and propped her head on her hand.

  ‘According to the news agency, the house was completely gutted,’ Berit added. ‘Hasn’t anyone from the paper called to ask what happened?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Annika said. ‘I left my mobile as a deposit with Stockholm Taxis. I don’t think anyone’s been in touch, though. No one died, after all.’

  Berit was silent. A chill crept up Annika’s neck.

  ‘So, what do you need help with first?’ Berit asked eventually.

  ‘The children have only got their pyjamas and I couldn’t bring any money with me.’

  ‘What size are they?’ Berit wondered, clicking a ballpoint pen.

  ‘110 and 128.’

  ‘Shoes?’

  Annika’s throat tightened and she was finding it hard to breathe.

  Don’t start crying, not now.

  ‘Ellen’s a twenty-six, Kalle’s thirty-one.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll be there in an hour or so.’

  She remained seated on the toilet, staring at the towel rail, feeling the hole in her chest throb and ache. But she couldn’t lose herself in the fog of self-pity and hopelessness that beckoned – she had the children to think of.

  Your life is gone, a voice whispered, but she knew that wasn’t true: in the bedroom Scooby-Doo was howling that he was scared of ghosts.

  You’ve got nothing left!

  ‘Of course I bloody have,’ she said aloud.

  Home was important, the place you belonged, but it didn’t necessarily have to consist of four walls. It could just as easily be people, or projects, or ambitions.

  You’ve got nothing that means anything.

  Was that true?

  She didn’t actually have much less today than she’d had yesterday.

  The children had no clothes, and her computer had gone up in flames, but pretty much everything else was still there.

  Apart from Thomas.

  And Anne. Her best friend.

  She got up and looked in the mirror.

  Only the children left. Me and the children. Everything else has been stripped away.

  She had lost.

  Shouldn’t it feel worse than this?

  The editor-in-chief of the Evening Post, Anders Schyman, had surrendered his privileged corner office in the name of cutbacks, and installed himself in a cubbyhole behind the comments desk, something he regretted more with each passing day. The only advantage of the reorganization was that he was in direct contact with the newsroom: he could sit in his office and watch the work in progress.

  Even though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, the level of activity out there would have been unthinkable just a few years back. Nowadays the website was updated round the clock, apart from a few hours of downtime around four in the morning, and not just with text, but video content, radio, adverts. The ever-earlier print deadlines for the paper meant that the entire production process had been brought forward so that now everything was done during the day, which was new. Tradition dictated that the evening papers were put together at night, preferably by a gang of hard-drinking, weather-bitten editors with red eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. Today there were hardly any such relics left on the paper. They had either adapted to the new age, kicked the booze and polished their shoes, or been cleared out with a redundancy package and an early pension.

  Anders Schyman let out a deep sigh.

  Over the years the feeling that something was slipping from his grasp had grown stronger and stronger until eventually he had worked out what it was: the very point of what they were doing, the fundamentals of journalism.

  Nowadays it was so important to keep the website updated that occasionally everyone forgot that they actually had to have something to say.

  He remembered the critical slogan their rivals had levelled at the Evening Post in the old days when the paper had sold more copies in Sweden than any other: ‘Biggest, but never first. Most, but never best.’ Now everything was done much faster, at the cost of truth and analysis.

  But it isn’t all crap, he forced himself to think. Today’s paper was another bloody good edition, with Annika Bengtzon’s inside story on the Nobel killer, Berit Hamrin’s incisive articles about terrorism, and Patrik Nilsson’s interview with a docu-soap star speaking about her eating disorder.

  The problem was that all this was already old. Even though the paper had scarcely reached the newsstands, it was reporting yesterday’s news because David Lindholm had been found dead in his bed and his wife was suspected of murder.

  There was an endless torrent of praise for the dead police officer on the Internet. He had had an unparalleled insight into human nature, and an astonishing ability to communicate. As an interviewer he was unbeatable; he was the most loyal friend ever.

  How do I handle this? Anders Schyman wondered. He was no longer used to wrestling with ethical dilemmas. His mind, which should have been dominated by basic journalistic principles, such as news evaluation, checking sources and reflecting upon whether or not to identify people by name, had little time for anything but financial analysis and sales figures.

  He looked out over the newsroom.

  First I need an awareness of the situation, he thought, standing up decisively and striding out of his office. ‘What are we doing with the murdered supercop?’ he asked Spike, head of news, who had his feet on his desk and was eating an orange.

  ‘Front page, newsbill, seven, eight and the centrefold,’ Spike replied.

  ‘And the news that his wife is a suspect?’ Schyman asked, sitting down on the desk, demonstratively close to the man’s feet. Spike took the hint and dropped them to the floor.

  ‘You mean what point size are we making the headline?’ he asked, tossing the orange peel into the recycling bin.

  ‘If we name David Lindholm as the murder victim, then say his wife is a suspect, we’re identifying her as the murderer,’ the editor-in-chief said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She hasn’t even been taken in for questioning,’ Schyman said.

  ‘Just a matter of time.’ Spike was staring at his computer screen. ‘Besides, it’s everywhere already. Our rivals and the oh-so-refined morning rag have already got character assassinations up on the net.’

  Okay, Schyman thought, so much for taking the ethical initiative.

  Berit Hamrin came over to the desk, handbag swinging from her shoulder and her coat over one arm.

  ‘Bloody good articles in today’s paper,’ Schyman sai
d, trying to look encouraging. ‘Has there been any response?’

  Berit nodded towards Spike’s screen. ‘Julia Lindholm,’ she said. ‘Have we taken a conscious decision to identify her as the murderer on the Internet?’

  ‘“We”, meaning the collected journalists of Sweden?’ Spike said.

  ‘As far as I know, only the other evening paper and one of the morning papers are running the story that Lindholm’s wife is a suspect,’ Schyman said.

  ‘We don’t have to give her name,’ Spike said.

  Berit moved closer to Schyman. ‘The very fact that we’re publishing David Lindholm’s name, how he was shot on his bed and that his wife is a suspect means that we don’t have to give her name. Anyone who knows Julia will clock that she’s the person we’re referring to.’

  ‘We have to be able to cover sensational murder cases,’ Spike said indignantly.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe what we’ve got on our website right now as “coverage”,’ Berit said. ‘It’s called “gossip”. So far the police haven’t confirmed anything, so all we’re publishing is rumour.’

  Schyman noticed that the journalists around the main newsdesk were raising their heads to listen. Was this good or bad? Were ethical discussions at the newsdesk healthy or did they made him look weak? He decided it was probably the latter. ‘We’ll continue this discussion in my office,’ he said firmly, ushering them towards his cubbyhole with his hand.

  Berit responded by pulling on her coat. ‘I’m heading out to meet a source,’ she said. She disappeared down the stairs leading to the garage.

  Schyman realized that he was still holding out his hand towards his office. He let it fall to his thigh. ‘So we’ve already put what we’ve got about his wife being under suspicion on the website?’ he said to Spike. ‘Who took that decision?’

  Spike’s face bore an expression of wounded innocence. ‘How should I know?’

  How indeed? The printed paper and the online edition had different editors.

  Schyman turned on his heel and went back to his office.

  What am I actually doing here?

  5

  Berit was carrying eight large bags. ‘I tried not to get too caught up in gender stereotypes,’ she said, as she squeezed into the room and dropped the bags on the floor. ‘Hello, Kalle, hi, Ellen.’

  The children glanced at her, then went back to the television. Annika switched it off.

  ‘Look, Kalle,’ she said. ‘Aren’t these great jeans?’

  ‘Those are for Ellen,’ Berit said, sitting on the bedside table and unbuttoning her coat. ‘Underwear’s in that bag, and that one’s got some bits and pieces, soap, toothbrushes and so on …’

  The children got dressed of their own accord, silent and serious. Annika helped Ellen brush her teeth and caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror. The pupils were enlarged, almost covering the irises, as if the hole in her chest was visible in her eyes.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked Berit.

  Berit stood up, pulled an envelope out of her handbag and handed it to her. ‘I went past a cashpoint and got some money out. You can pay me back later.’

  The envelope contained ten thousand kronor in five-hundred notes.

  ‘Thanks,’ Annika said quietly.

  Berit looked around the cramped room. ‘Shall we go out for a bit?’

  The four walked silently through Reception and out into the street, crossing the road towards Humlegården. The clouds were hanging thick and grey in the sky; the wind was gusty and cold. Annika pulled her new cardigan more tightly round her. ‘How can I possibly thank you?’

  ‘If my house burns down, I’ll be in touch,’ Berit said, turning up her collar against the wind. ‘You have to make a start by phoning the insurance company. They’ll cover any costs you have to pay for staying somewhere until your house is rebuilt.’

  They reached the park. The children were a bit hesitant in their new trainers, Kalle’s green, Ellen’s blue.

  Annika forced herself to smile at them. ‘You run ahead,’ she said. ‘Berit and I will wait here.’

  They raced off towards the playground.

  ‘Where’s Thomas?’ Berit asked quietly.

  Annika gulped. ‘I don’t know. We … we had a fight. He wasn’t at home when it happened. I don’t know where he is. His mobile’s switched off.’

  ‘So he doesn’t know?’

  Annika shook her head.

  ‘You have to try to get hold of him.’

  ‘I know.’

  Berit looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

  Annika sat down on a bench. ‘Not right now,’ she said.

  Berit sat beside her and looked at the children, who had taken possession of the playground. ‘They’ll get over it,’ she said. ‘But you have to hold yourself together.’

  They sat for a while without talking, watching the children play on the slide. Ellen was laughing.

  ‘By the way, have you heard about David Lindholm, that police superintendent?’ Berit said. ‘He was shot this morning.’

  ‘What – the one on television?’ Annika said, waving to Ellen. ‘Married to Julia Lindholm?’

  ‘Do you know them?’ Berit said, sounding surprised.

  ‘I spent a night in a patrol car with Julia. Do you remember that series of articles about women exposed to danger in the course of their work?’

  Berit shook her head and pulled a bag out of her pocket. ‘They’re allowed sweets, aren’t they?’ she asked Annika. ‘Kalle, Ellen!’ She waved the bag and the children came running.

  ‘How many can we have?’ Ellen asked, panting.

  ‘You can’t even count,’ Kalle said scornfully.

  They each took a handful, Ellen picking out the pink ones, and Kalle the green.

  ‘I was actually doing a profile of Julia’s colleague,’ Annika said, as she watched the children walk away. ‘Nina Hoffman. It was the night we stumbled across that triple murder on Södermalm, if you remember?’

  Berit took a handful of sweets and offered the bag to Annika, who declined. ‘The axe murders? Hands chopped off and all that?’

  Annika gulped.

  ‘Bloody hell, yes,’ Berit said. ‘Sjölander and I covered the court case.’

  Annika shivered and crossed her legs. She had been heavily pregnant with Ellen that spring, and at the Evening Post pregnant reporters were treated as if they were suffering from severe senile dementia: in a friendly, firm and utterly undemanding way. Eventually she had nagged her way into a fairly relaxed job, a series of workplace reports about women doing what were usually dangerous jobs for men. On the night of 9 March five years ago she had gone on patrol with two female police officers on Södermalm. It was a cold night, quiet, and she had had plenty of time to talk to the two officers. They had been close friends since they were children, had attended Police Academy together and now worked at the same police station. One of them, Julia, revealed that she was pregnant as well. No one at work knew about it yet; she was only in the fourteenth week, and she felt violently sick all the time.

  Just before midnight they’d had a call about a disturbance in a flat on Sankt Paulsgatan, at the Götgatan end. It was a routine call: a neighbour had phoned in to complain about fighting and shouting from the flat downstairs. Annika asked if she could come along, and they let her, as long as she agreed to stay in the background.

  They went up the stairs to the second floor, which was where they found the mutilated woman. She had crawled out into the stairwell and was still alive when the police patrol turned up. Her right hand was missing and blood was pumping out of the severed veins, running over the stone floor and down the stairs, splashing the walls whenever she moved her arm. Julia had thrown up in a window alcove and Nina had forced Annika back down to the street with astonishing force and efficiency.

  ‘I didn’t see much, but I can still remember the smell in the stairwell,’ Annika said. ‘Sweet, and sort of … heavy.’
>
  ‘There were two men in the flat,’ Berit said. ‘They’d both been mutilated as well.’

  Annika changed her mind and reached for a sweet. ‘They solved the case pretty quickly.’

  ‘Filip Andersson,’ Berit said. ‘A financial expert. He denied it but was still found guilty. He’s in Kumla Prison. Life.’

  Berit tipped the last of the sweets into her hand and dropped the empty bag into the rubbish bin beside the bench.

  ‘Crazy,’ Annika said, ‘leaving your fingerprints all over the place if you’ve just chopped up three people.’

  ‘Well, the criminal element of the population doesn’t usually register as being particularly smart,’ Berit said, standing up to help Ellen, who had fallen over and scraped her hand.

  Annika didn’t move. Her body felt as heavy as cement, and the wind was pulling at her hair, but she couldn’t be bothered to brush it away from her face.

  ‘The last I heard before I left the newsroom was that they think Julia killed her husband,’ Berit said, as she sat down again.

  ‘Really? She seemed so timid …’

  ‘Looks like their son’s missing too.’

  ‘Oh, she had a boy, then.’

  They sat in silence again, watching the children, who had evidently found something interesting beneath a large oak on the other side of the playground.

  ‘Have you got anywhere to go?’ Berit asked eventually.

  Annika didn’t answer.

  ‘Your mum?’ Berit suggested. ‘Thomas’s parents?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Do you want to come out to Roslagen with me? Thord is in Dalsland this weekend, fly-fishing with his brother. You can have the guest cottage, if you like. It’s standing there doing nothing.’

  A couple of years ago Berit and her husband Thord had sold their house in Täby and moved out to some stables between Rimbo and Edsbro. Annika had been out there a couple of times – in the summer it was idyllic, with the lake and horses in the paddock.

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I have to go back to the newsroom and finish my follow-up piece on the terrorist articles, but I should be finished by eight at the latest. I’ll pick up your mobile, then collect you from the hotel, if that sounds okay?’