Borderline

by Liza Marklund

  He leaned over to his computer to dig out the latest quarterly sales figures from Newspaper Statistics Ltd, the so-called NS numbers, and glanced at the tables. The Evening Post had a way to go to match the sales figures of Gazeta Wyborcza, but the gap between the two biggest-selling papers in Sweden had never been narrower. No matter how the other evening paper tried to cover up its print sales, flooding the market with free copies and complaining about the way the figures were collated, the fact remained: the gap between the two behemoths had been shrinking for years, and was now down to 6,700 copies per day. If he could just hold out a bit longer, the Evening Post would move ahead and become the biggest-selling newspaper in Scandinavia, and he would go down in history.

  He tugged at his moustache. He might have been the first person to receive the Journalist of the Year Award twice, but that wasn’t what he would be remembered for. His legacy would be as the editor who broke new ground, and shifted the ethics of the Swedish media to a new low. There was every chance he would reach that goal with Thomas Samuelsson’s help. Print sales were the only thing that mattered.

  He looked out across the newsroom. Patrik Nilsson was already there. He couldn’t have had much sleep. Schyman had banned the editors from sleeping in the rest room, and demanded they at least go home and shower, but he doubted that Patrik obeyed him. He probably went out and dozed for a while on the back seat of his company car.

  Berit Hamrin was arriving. With her raincoat and briefcase, she looked like his old English teacher at high school. She had only just survived the transition to film and audio reporting: her speaking voice sounded unengaged and her audio- and video-editing skills left a lot to be desired, but she was a walking, talking encyclopedia when it came to facts and background. Besides, she had been working at the paper since the year dot, and would be far too expensive to pay off.

  Sjölander wouldn’t be there for several hours yet: he was a man who guarded his beauty sleep jealously. Elin Michnik had stayed behind to update the later editions for the big cities; he had bumped into her when he arrived that morning.

  He had been there thirty years now, first as head of the newsroom, later as editor-in-chief and legally accountable publisher. People could say what they liked about his contribution, but one thing was clear: he really had tried. He had done what had been expected of him without too much reflection or prevarication along the way, and on a number of levels he had succeeded. The organization functioned like a strongly beating heart; distribution channels and sales outlets were assured, the numbers firmly in the black. He had even cultivated a group of potential heirs. The sense of emptiness that gnawed at him would probably have arisen anyway – at least, that was what he tried to tell himself. His body had got heavier, and his lack of interest in sex had coincided with his diminishing engagement in press ethics, but he couldn’t be bothered to speculate as to whether there was any connection between them.

  He looked at his watch. Three hours until the eleven o’clock meeting.

  He had time to go round to Annika’s and see how his legacy was progressing.

  * * *

  Annika was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her body felt heavy. She had always been blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, but this morning she had been lying awake since 04:18. Her work mobile had rung – the morning editor at Swedish Television wondering if she fancied going to sit on the breakfast television sofa and have a bit of a cry about her kidnapped husband. (Okay, so he hadn’t exactly said ‘have a bit of a cry’ but that was what he’d meant.) Fifteen minutes later TV4 called, and after that she’d switched off the phone.

  She stretched in bed and gazed out of the window.

  The sky was grey, and looked undecided.

  All the media in Sweden would be calling her today, trying to get an interview, and preferably exclusive rights to her story in their particular sphere. The thought of appearing on television to cry her guts out, or turn herself inside out for a fellow journalist with a notebook and a miniature recorder, filled her with unease, which was both illogical and hypocritical. After training at the College of Journalism, three years on the local paper in Katrineholm, and thirteen years on a tabloid in Stockholm, it was actually a dereliction of duty not to agree. How many reluctant interviewees had she herself persuaded (or, to be more honest, threatened or tricked)? She saw them drift past in her memory: victims of muggings, men who’d killed their partners, politicians who’d Skyped with the wrong Russian women, doped sports stars, lazy policemen, tax-fiddling builders, a steady stream of watchful, even scared, eyes. Too many to count.

  She didn’t want to sit there with the children in her arms, missing their daddy. Didn’t want to talk about the day before he’d left (she had been angry and uptight), didn’t want to be the poor wife everyone felt sorry for. The children were still asleep. They would have to stay at home today, or some overambitious freelance photographer would find them at school and try to get them to cry on camera.

  I don’t have to participate in this media circus, she thought. She could already hear the whispering behind her back: ‘Look, it’s her, the woman whose husband has been kidnapped in Somalia, and that must be their children, poor little things – don’t they look pale?’ And then the whisperers would move on, feeling a bit happier because whatever happened to them that day wouldn’t be as bad as that.

  Then she felt ashamed of herself – so self-centred. To atone, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to think of Africa and Liboi, to conjure up an image of Thomas at that moment, where he was, what state he was in, but she couldn’t. In her memory she roamed across the yellow satellite picture from Google Maps, but she had no frame of reference, nothing to relate to. She had no idea.

  A moment later the doorbell rang and she jerked bolt upright. Confused, she stumbled out with her dressing-gown more or less fastened round her, made her way into the hall and put her ear to the door. It might be some zealous editor who’d come up with the idea of paying her a visit. That was what she would have done.

  It was Halenius. He stepped inside, rather bleary-eyed and unkempt. She pulled the dressing-gown tighter, feeling naked and embarrassed. She also needed to go to the toilet. The under-secretary of state glanced at her, shrugged off his coat, said, ‘Nice pyjamas’, then disappeared into the unaired bedroom with his briefcase. She heard him cough as he poked about in there. The whole situation felt bizarre.

  She went for a pee and put some water on to boil, then took two mugs of instant coffee in to Halenius, one for each of them. He had set up his computer and was staring intently at the screen.

  ‘Where are the children?’ he asked, pushing it aside.

  ‘Asleep.’

  He reached for his notes. ‘The man who called last night used your landline. Did Thomas give him the number, or could he have got hold of it in some other way?’

  She gave him his coffee, then felt unsure as to what to do. There were two chairs in the room. The under-secretary of state was sitting on one, and the other was hidden under yesterday’s clothes. Instead of moving them, she went to the bed and got back in, spilling some coffee on the duvet.

  ‘His business card,’ she said, trying to rub away the stain. ‘He has a load in his wallet, with his mobile number and the landline. We argued about it, because our home number is unlisted and I didn’t think he should put it on his cards. I thought people who wanted to get hold of him about work could call him on his office number or mobile.’

  ‘Your mobile number wasn’t on the card?’

  ‘On his business card? Why on earth would it be?’

  ‘So we can assume that the kidnappers will go on using your landline. We can also be fairly confident that we’re negotiating with the right people.’ He reached for his computer again.

  ‘The right people?’

  He turned to her, and she pulled the duvet up to her chin.

  ‘It’s not unusual for people who aren’t involved to pretend to be kidnappers. Some fairly big rans
om payments have even been paid to the wrong people. But we’ve got witnesses saying that Thomas was taken hostage, we’ve got the official video confirming the fact, and they’ve got his unlisted home phone number.’ He went back to his computer and tapped at it.

  Annika drank her coffee, strong and bitter. ‘What happens today?’ she asked.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the screen. ‘I spoke to Superintendent Q at National Crime on the way here. The Joint Investigation Team at Interpol is up and running, and the two officers from National Crime will be joining them today. Hans and Hans-Erik are co-ordinating things in the department, and soon there’ll be so many cooks involved in this particular soup that they’ll be tripping over each other.’

  He turned to her again. ‘You ought to see how much money you can get hold of. How much can you borrow? Does either Doris or your mother have any savings?’

  She put her mug on the bedside table.

  ‘Now that the story’s out in the media, there’s no reason to keep quiet about the kidnapping,’ Halenius went on. ‘You’ll have to decide if you want to join in with the mass media. If you do agree to be interviewed, we’ll have to go through what you can and can’t say. You mustn’t breathe a word about me being here, for instance. Or let on that we’re in touch with the kidnappers.’

  She raised a hand. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. What else?’

  ‘There’s a chance that we might get another call this evening, but it’s far from certain. You need to think about what to do with the children, particularly in the short term.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Are they going to school? Is there anyone who could look after them if we have to go anywhere?’

  She stiffened. ‘Like where?’

  ‘We need to plan for the eventuality that the ransom will have to be paid, and the perpetrators are hardly likely to fly up to Stockholm to collect it.’

  In her mind’s eye she saw the brownish-yellow satellite image of Liboi. The whole situation felt ridiculous. ‘So, you’re assuming that we just give these bastards a load of money?’ she said. ‘Isn’t there any other solution?’

  ‘The video’s already online, so the Brits and Americans are probably working on other solutions.’

  Annika blinked.

  ‘The American Army has a massive base not all that far from Liboi,’ Halenius said. ‘Obviously it isn’t on any maps, but they’ve got more than five thousand men on the border with southern Somalia. The British are there as well. I’m trying to find their contact details, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I put them.’

  She couldn’t help smiling.

  He knew where the Americans had their secret military bases, but he couldn’t find their phone number in his own computer.

  She reached for the mug of coffee and got out of bed. Her dressing-gown slid open, revealing her thighs, but Halenius didn’t notice. ‘Nice pyjamas,’ he had said. Yes, they were nice: thick, cream-coloured silk, she’d bought them as a birthday present to herself in the Pentagon City shopping centre. Thomas had got her a chrome, fifties-style toaster. It needed a 110-volt power supply, so she’d had to leave it behind when they moved back to Europe.

  What stupid things we remember, she thought, as she headed towards the bathroom for a shower. She stopped in the living room and turned back towards the bedroom or, rather, Kidnap Control.

  ‘What about your children?’ she said. He had twins, didn’t he? A boy and a girl, the same age as Ellen.

  He didn’t look up from the screen. ‘My partner will look after them,’ he said.

  The words scorched her face. His partner. He had a partner. Of course he had a partner. ‘I thought you were divorced?’ she heard herself say.

  ‘New girlfriend,’ he said. ‘Here it is. I’ll give them a call straight away.’

  She drifted towards the bathroom, her feet barely touching the floor.

  The children woke up while she was in the shower. Kalle was standing in the hallway looking thunderous when she came out with a towel wrapped round her head. ‘Why is he still here?’ he said quietly.

  Through the wall she could hear Halenius talking loudly and quickly in English. Annika crouched beside Kalle and gave him a hug. ‘Jimmy’s talking to some people who might be able to help us free Daddy,’ she said. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’

  ‘Not scrambled eggs,’ Kalle said.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said, standing up. ‘You can have them boiled. Or Greek yoghurt with walnuts.’

  ‘Have we got any raspberries?’

  She’d given the last of them to Halenius with his cake the previous evening. ‘You can have jam,’ she said.

  Ellen was sitting in bed, playing with her stuffed toys. She had eighteen, and they all lived on her bed, although only Poppy was allowed to lie on the pillow with her. Annika got into bed beside her, tickled her tummy, and they agreed it was time for breakfast. She went into the kitchen to get it ready.

  The phone rang in the bedroom: the landline, their home number.

  Annika froze mid-stride. They had been expecting the kidnappers to call that evening, if at all. She strained her ears to hear what Halenius was saying, and thought she could hear him muttering in Swedish. Then he hung up.

  ‘You’ll have to tell Anne Snapphane to stop calling the landline,’ Halenius said, then went into the bathroom. She could hear him peeing behind the thin wooden door as she got out the yoghurt.

  ‘Put the dishes in the sink when you’ve finished,’ she told the children, then went into the living room with her work mobile.

  She had had it switched off since TV4 had called, and once the phone picked up a signal thirty-seven new text messages flooded in. She clicked to mark all as read, then called Anne.

  ‘Bloody hell, Annika!’ Anne said. ‘This is terrible. Absolutely ghastly! And who was that man who answered your phone?’

  Halenius came out of the bathroom and passed her on his way to the bedroom.

  ‘Someone from Telia, here to fix the phone,’ she said, watching him as he passed. ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘The papers? So old-fashioned!’ Anne said. ‘You’re out of touch.’

  Their ongoing argument about the internet revolution and social media was almost as old as the papers themselves. Annika smiled. ‘What are the soothsayers on the blogs saying?’

  ‘Well, do you know what they usually do to people they kidnap down there? It’s outrageous!’

  Annika got up from the sofa and went over to the window. The thermometer outside said it was minus fifteen. ‘I’m not sure I really want to know. I only care about my own husband right now. Do any of the bloggers know where he is?’

  ‘Very funny. The Kenyan government’s Facebook page has got more than fifty-one thousand likes. We’re everywhere.’

  ‘I feel much safer knowing that,’ Annika said, and realized she sounded like an advert for nappies.

  ‘Okay, I’ve been thinking,’ Anne said. ‘It’s in your name, isn’t it?’

  Kalle came into the living room with yoghurt on his top lip. ‘I’ve finished,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Annika said. ‘What’s in my name? Go and wash, Kalle, brush your teeth, then put some clothes on.’

  ‘The flat, because you’re not actually married, are you? The divorce went through, but you never remarried, did you?’

  ‘Aren’t we going to school today?’ Kalle said.

  ‘Housing associations are completely unscrupulous,’ Anne said. ‘If they get a chance to chuck you out, they’ll do it, then sell the contract to the highest bidder. Everyone knows that’s how it works.’

  Anne had just bought a contract on the black market, so she probably knew what she was talking about.

  ‘You can have the day off,’ Annika told Kalle. ‘And maybe you could go and stay with someone this weekend, one of your grandmothers.’

  Ellen, who had yoghurt on her fingers, grasped one of Annika’s legs. ‘I
want to stay with you, Mummy.’

  ‘Annika! Do you know what else occurred to me? You’re not married so everything will go to his brother and mother. Have you thought about that? It could end up like Stieg Larsson all over again if he hasn’t got a will. Has he got one?’

  ‘Ellen, you’ve got yoghurt all over my dressing-gown. Go and wash, do your teeth, then get dressed. Quick march!’ She shepherded her out into the hall.

  ‘Do you know if he’s got a solicitor? Or a safe-deposit box in a bank? You’ll have to go through his computer and personal papers.’

  The doorbell rang.

  Halenius came out into the living room and pointed towards the hall. ‘Anders Schyman,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘The children would inherit everything,’ Annika said into her mobile. ‘I’ve got to go – there’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Ah, of course. Yes, Stieg didn’t have any children.’

  ‘And, Anne,’ Annika said, ‘could you call me on my work mobile from now on? There’s something wrong with the landline. Got to run.’

  Schyman wasn’t alone: Berit Hamrin had come with him.

  Annika hurried into the bedroom, shut the door and threw on the previous day’s clothes. Oddly, it seemed far more reasonable for the under-secretary of state at the Ministry of Justice to see her half naked than her boss.

  The editor-in-chief had brought a bundle of newspapers with him: their own, the main competition, the two morning papers and a couple of the free-sheets. He dropped them all on to the coffee-table; they landed with a dusty thud. The Evening Post was on top, with Thomas smiling at her from the front page, a tie knotted tightly round his neck.

  It was his official photograph from the department. He always said he thought it made him look pushy.

  ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ Schyman said to Annika. ‘There’s no hurry. You don’t have to give me an answer until tomorrow.’

  Annika picked up the paper. Swedish father of two, Thomas, hostage in Kenya.

  The floor started to sway and she let go of the paper as if it were burning her.