Lifetime

by Liza Marklund

  With a degree of reluctance, she sent him her personal details. Of course there was nothing confidential in what she was sending: her address and ID number were matters of public record, but she had still felt uncomfortable faxing them to him.

  What could he possibly do, though? Hide under her bed clutching an axe?

  And that was hardly likely, seeing as she slept on a mattress on the floor.

  In fact, out of the three of them, Filip Andersson had been the one she was least keen to meet. She persuaded herself that this was because he was least likely to dish the dirt on David Lindholm. On the other hand, Filip Andersson was probably the most likely of the three to be able to express himself articulately. According to the trial report, Svensson had spoken through an interpreter, which suggested that his Swedish wasn’t good. Maybe he hadn’t been able to read her fax, but she’d had no other way of contacting him so had had to give up.

  There had been nothing about interpreters in the report of the Stevens trial, so she presumed that his Swedish must be reasonable, but her limited experience of hired thugs suggested that he was hardly likely to be particularly talkative.

  Which left the axe murderer from Sankt Paulsgatan. She had booked a time at the visitors’ section of Kumla Prison for eleven o’clock today, 1 December.

  She had to admit that she had slept badly. Not just because she was going to be locked into a confined visiting room with a mass-murderer, or because the children were back with Thomas and his wretched ice-maiden, but because something was gnawing away at her, something she had missed, and she hadn’t managed to work out what it was.

  I’ll have to try to wheedle it out of him, whatever it is.

  She havd been through the verdict in Filip Andersson’s case carefully, and had checked Sjölander’s old computer for any more files relating to it, but had found nothing else.

  There were certainly weaknesses in the case, but she hadn’t found any glaring errors. Filip Andersson had been at the scene of the murders; he had had both the opportunity and the motive. According to one witness, the three victims had tricked him out of a large sum of money, which was presumed to have provided the motive: revenge. It wasn’t mentioned in the report of the trial, but Annika knew that theft rarely went unpunished in Filip Andersson’s world. Not to respond might be seen as an invitation to further attempts, which was evidently why Andersson had decided to make an example of them.

  A gossip blog for journalists had provided more details about the nature of the victims’ deception, but Annika had no way of knowing how accurate that was. The blog claimed that the three had been involved in an elaborate money-laundering scheme largely based on the Spanish coast. Through a number of different property deals, mostly conducted through Gibraltar, they had managed to process the considerable profits of trafficking cocaine from Colombia via Morocco.

  Annika had some difficulty in envisaging the staid Swedish financier as the business partner of a South American drug lord, but what did she know?

  The three murder victims, who were all fairly low down the criminal food-chain, had put the money in their own pockets and believed that Andersson wouldn’t notice. Which was why he had chopped off their hands: they should have kept their greedy fingers to themselves.

  But there were undoubtedly some details of the case that struck Annika as very odd.

  Most significantly, if Filip Andersson was so high up the food-chain, why would he do the dirty work himself, allowing his smart trousers to be splattered with blood? Had all the thugs-for-hire been on holiday at the same time? Or was he simply a sadist?

  If he had the ability and ruthlessness to build up an advanced drug-smuggling syndicate, would he really have left his fingerprints on the handbag of one of the victims?

  And why hadn’t there been more blood on his trousers?

  And why on earth use an axe?

  The entrance to the Central Station emerged through the swirling snow in front of her and she went inside, stamping her feet. She had booked a first-class ticket so she could sit in peace and do some work on the journey. The train was due to leave at seven fifteen, and after a change at Hallsberg she would get to Kumla at nine thirty-two. She would return to Stockholm on the one twenty-eight, and was already looking forward to it.

  The Central Station was literally black with people, even though it was still extremely early.

  Why doesn’t anyone ever wear bright red in winter? Or orange? Do nature, the climate and the Swedish need to fit in drain all the colour out of us?

  She hadn’t had time for breakfast, so she bought a yogurt drink and an apple from a kiosk.

  The train rattled into the station just as she emerged on to the platform. She found her carriage, then her seat, took off her coat, settled into the seat and fell asleep immediately.

  She woke with a start when the tannoy announced, ‘Next stop Hallsberg, Hallsberg next stop.’ Groggy with sleep, she struggled into her coat and tumbled out on to the platform seconds before the doors closed and the train headed further south.

  She was on the point of getting into a taxi when she remembered that she wasn’t in Kumla yet: she still had the six-minute trip on a local train.

  I have to pull myself together. I have to be focused when I meet the axe murderer.

  She shook herself to clear her head. She had to run to catch the train to Örebro. The flat countryside with its brown fields and grey farmhouses spread out around her as the train set off, and her eyes found nothing to focus on until she saw a strip of pine forest on the horizon, blurred by mist.

  She was the only passenger to get off in Kumla.

  It had stopped snowing. Dampness hung heavy and cold over the town. The train rumbled off, leaving an echoing silence behind it. She stood there listening to it for several seconds. Around her she saw a big ICA supermarket, a Pentecostal church, the Hotel Kumla. Hesitantly she set off towards the exit, her heels loud on the concrete platform.

  She descended into a grey tunnel and emerged into a grey square, beside a Sibylla fast-food kiosk. Her stomach was rumbling – she had left the apple and the yogurt drink on the first train. She went over to the hatch and ordered a thin-bread roll with two sausages, prawn cocktail sauce and a bottle of water. She couldn’t hear if the lad inside said twenty-three or seventy-three so she offered him a hundred to be on the safe side, and got back change from seventy-three.

  For a thin-bread roll!

  And the mineral water was obviously ordinary tap-water.

  Hardly surprising that people turn to crime here.

  She gobbled the roll, threw the napkin into the bin and headed across the cobbles towards the taxi-rank, feeling decidedly unwell. ‘Viagatan, number four,’ she said, as she got into a large Volvo.

  The walls and barbed wire of the prison began almost in the centre of town. The taxi drove alongside an endless electrified fence that eventually ended at a large metal gate. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I can’t get any closer than this.’

  The drive cost sixty kronor, less than the thin-bread roll.

  She paid, and the taxi disappeared, leaving her alone in front of the huge entrance. A double layer of fencing stretched out on either side, first a chain-link fence with several layers of barbed wire at the top, then an electric fence at least five metres high. The wind was whistling through the wire.

  She hoisted her bag on to her shoulder and went to the entry-phone.

  ‘Annika Bengtzon. I’m here to see Filip Andersson.’ Her voice sounded small and thin.

  There was a whirring sound from the gate. She pulled it open cautiously and went in. She found herself on a tarmac drive leading to the next gate. The fencing continued on either side of her so that she was walking through a caged enclosure with the wind pulling at her hair and round her legs, one hundred or so long metres of bare no man’s land before she reached a building with two doors.

  ‘VISITS TO INMATES’, it said on the left one, so that was hers.

  She pressed another entry-phone.r />
  The door was extremely heavy so she had to use both hands to open it. She stepped inside a long entrance hall, with a pushchair parked just inside the door. A young woman with a ponytail was standing there, tapping at her mobile phone with her back to Annika, ignoring her. Three of the walls were covered with white metal lockers. The fourth had windows with closed blue curtains. Beneath the windows was a row of chairs. It looked like a dentist’s waiting room.

  She pressed a third entry-phone.

  ‘Someone will be with you shortly,’ a voice said curtly.

  The girl with the ponytail put her mobile into her bag and left the building without looking at Annika.

  She stood in the middle of the floor for a while, then leaned over and peeked behind the curtains. Thick metal bars, of course, white. She let the curtain fall.

  She went to a notice-board next to the phone and read about opening hours and the renovation of overnight rooms.

  ‘Take off your outdoor clothes and leave them in a locker.’

  She straightened up and stared around her. The voice had come from a loudspeaker. She looked up at the surveillance camera in the top-left corner of the room and felt the blood rush to her face. Of course they’d be watching her.

  She quickly took off her coat and scarf and stuffed them into locker number ten, as far from the camera as possible.

  ‘You can come in now,’ the voice said.

  The lock clicked. She opened the door to the visitors’ section and found herself at a security check. A metal detector to the left, then an X-ray machine and conveyor-belt for bags on the right. Two uniformed guards, one male, one female, were watching her through a glass screen.

  ‘You can put your bag on the belt and go through the detector.’

  She did as she was told, her pulse beating fast. She managed to set the alarm off as she walked through the machine. ‘Take off your shoes and put them on the belt.’

  She obeyed. The noise stopped.

  Then she was allowed to step behind the glass screen and go up to the desk.

  ‘ID, please,’ the man said, and she handed him her press pass.

  ‘Would you mind opening your bag, please?’ the woman said.

  Once again, Annika did as she was told.

  ‘There’s a knife in your bag,’ the female guard said, pulling out a penknife with the slogan The Evening Post – sharp and to the point. ‘You can’t take that in. Or that pen.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to write with?’ Annika said, hearing that she sounded almost desperate.

  ‘You can borrow one from us,’ the guard said, handing her a yellow Bic. ‘You’ll have to leave your mobile as well,’ he added.

  ‘You know what?’ Annika said. ‘I’ll leave my bag in the locker and just take my notepad and pen in with me. Your pen.’

  The guards nodded. She took the penknife and phone and went into the waiting room, opened her locker and put her bag inside, then went back through the door to the visitors’ section and skirted round the metal detector without going through it. She smiled uncertainly and felt oddly eager to be pleasant. ‘Do the prisoners get many visitors?’ she asked.

  ‘We have five thousand visitors a year, but they’re fairly evenly spread out. Forty per cent of inmates never get visitors.’

  ‘Goodness. Am I the first visitor to see Filip Andersson?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ the female guard said. ‘His sister comes at least once a month.’

  ‘And David Lindholm? As I understand it, he was here a few days before he died.’

  ‘We see trustees and probation contacts here quite a lot,’ the woman said.

  The male guard had stuck Annika’s press pass on to a notice-board with a big metal clip. He put a document on the counter in front of him and pointed at a list of regulations without taking his eyes off her. ‘You may be asked to take off your clothes and be searched by two female officers,’ he said, ‘and you have the right to refuse. But if you do, you won’t be allowed in. You could also be checked for drugs by a dog from the drugs squad. Again, you have the right to refuse. Same thing there, you won’t be allowed in. You can’t take any food in, and smoking isn’t allowed anywhere. You have to sign to say that you agree to being locked inside the visiting room with the inmate.’

  Annika nodded and swallowed. It was suddenly very quiet. She signed with the yellow Bic to acknowledge that she accepted the conditions.

  ‘We provide fruit and coffee, and if visitors have children they can have juice. Would you like anything?’ the female guard said, as she led the way down a corridor with numbered doors. She gestured towards a table of refreshments.

  The thought of anyone bringing children into these surroundings sent a cold shiver down Annika’s spine. She declined the offer with a shake of the head.

  ‘Here’s room number five. I’ll just check it’s okay. You’ll have to tidy up after yourselves.’ The guard opened the door and went into the small room ahead of Annika. ‘There’s a toilet and shower here,’ she said, pointing. ‘This is the Stentofon, if you want the central guards’ office. And next to it is the alarm. Oh, someone’s left some toys out …’ She bent down and picked up a pink stuffed animal and a plastic spinning top from the floor. ‘One of the inmates had his little son to see him yesterday,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘That must be difficult,’ Annika said lamely.

  The guard smiled. ‘We try to make the best of the situation. The children get balloons when they leave. Jimmy blows them up.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘The other guard.’ She gestured towards a low cupboard. ‘There are sheets and blankets in there. I’ll put a call through for the inmate now.’ She went to the door, leaving Annika standing paralysed next to the item of furniture that took up almost the entire floor area: a narrow bed with a foam-rubber mattress.

  The door closed with a muffled clang, and the lock turned.

  Holy fucking Christ, what have I let myself in for?

  The walls were creeping towards her, making it hard to breathe.

  How am I going to handle this? I need a strategy!

  There was one chair in the room, and she made up her mind to take it under occupation. There was absolutely no chance that she was going to end up on the bed next to the axe murderer.

  She put her notepad and pen on top of the cupboard, deciding to use it as a desk. She glanced round the walls. There was one picture, a black and white image of some dock-workers labouring on a quayside, in a brownish-red frame. It was a poster for an exhibition of Torsten Billman’s work at the National Museum, 17 June–10 August 1986.

  Behind her were two windows, and she peered out past the curtains. The same white metal bars as on the windows of the waiting room with the lockers.

  I wonder how long I’ll have to wait. The inmates may have to come a fair distance.

  The minutes crept past. She looked at her watch four times in three minutes, then pulled her sleeve over it to stop herself. She glanced up at the Stentofon, and her gaze settled on the alarm next to it. She was sweating, even though the room was fairly cold.

  There was a rattle from the lock, a clunk, and then the door swung open. ‘Just let us know when you’re done,’ the guard said, then stepped aside to let the prisoner in.

  She stood up to introduce herself and stared at the man who walked into the room.

  Who the hell is this?

  Pictures of the trial had shown a long-haired man, pretty muscular, with suntanned skin and a curl to his lip. This was an old man with cropped, greying hair and a serious beer-gut. He wore washed-out prison clothing and plastic slippers on his feet.

  Was such a transformation possible in just four years?

  He held out his hand. ‘I hope they weren’t too hard on you with all the security checks,’ he said.

  Annika had to stifle an impulse to curtsy.

  This place does weird things to people.

  ‘No worse than flying to Gothenburg,’ she said.

  ‘U
s inmates come from the other direction, and go through the same thing,’ he said, without letting go of her hand. ‘I agree, it’s not that bad, although we have to change our shoes. Apparently there’s a risk that we might hollow out the soles of our trainers and fill them with drugs.’

  Annika pulled her hand away.

  ‘Mind you, it’s worse when we leave here and go back to our sections. We have to strip off. Then go naked through the metal detector. They have to check that we haven’t hidden any weapons up our backsides, of course.’

  She sat down in the chair, leaving the bed for him. He sat down, and their knees almost collided. She pulled back.

  ‘They check the metal detector every day,’ Filip Andersson said. ‘That might seem a bit extreme, but the fact is that it works. Kumla’s a damn good prison, in the eyes of society. Hardly any drugs here. Very few escapes. None since the break-out that summer, and we don’t kill each other very often either.’

  Annika gulped so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls.

  He’s trying to shock me. Nothing to worry about.

  ‘A life sentence,’ she said. ‘How does anyone deal with that?’ It wasn’t the question she had planned to start with, but it popped out anyway.

  He looked at her in silence for a few seconds. There was something watery about his gaze.

  Is he on happy pills?

  ‘I’ve got some information for you,’ he said. ‘New information about the case. I’ve applied for a retrial in the Supreme Court.’

  He said it as if he had just detonated the news story of the century. Annika looked at him and tried not to blink. What did he mean? How was she supposed to react? Really? How exciting! Or what? Every small-time criminal tried to get a retrial in the Supreme Court.

  She fumbled in the silence of the room, trying to think of something polite to say to move things on. ‘What sort of new information?’ she asked, and he gestured for her to pick up her pen and notepad, which she did.