Borderline

by Liza Marklund

  Jimmy Halenius had called him just before the meeting and told him that Thomas Samuelsson had probably had his left hand cut off, but the editor-in-chief had no intention of mentioning that now.

  ‘The Spaniard yesterday was good,’ Patrik said, ‘but now we’re running on empty again.’

  ‘We’ve got pictures of him being reunited with his partner and mother,’ Picture-Pelle said.

  ‘Has he said anything else? Anything about Thomas Samuelsson?’ the girl from the online edition asked.

  Schyman closed his eyes in despair, and Patrik groaned. ‘Not a word. He’s put out a statement through some press spokesman that he wants to be left in peace. Have we got any more about the guy in the turban?’

  Schyman blinked uncomprehendingly.

  ‘The Butcher of Cairo,’ Patrik added.

  Anders Schyman could see Thomas Samuelsson’s elegant figure in front of him, wearing a suit but no tie, and tried to imagine him without his left hand.

  Halenius hadn’t been able to judge if the mutilation was a way to exert more pressure about the ransom, or the usual sadistic cruelty. They had agreed that it was probably a mixture of the two.

  ‘I want a double-page spread on the kidnapping,’ Schyman said. ‘Pictures of the victims, maybe, with heavy captions along the bottom: MURDERED, CAPTIVE, FREED. Run the basic facts again, who the hostages are, how they died, all that.’

  He wasn’t about to let it go: it could well prove to be the lead story over the weekend. The handover of the money and release of the hostages constituted the most critical phase of the entire kidnap story, according to Jimmy Halenius. Once the money had been delivered, the victim became a dead weight and no longer served any purpose. The majority of deaths among hostages occurred after the ransom had been paid. Either they never turned up or were found dead.

  Patrik wasn’t impressed. ‘We need something to have happened. That’s just heating up leftovers.’

  ‘Get your saucepans out then,’ Schyman said. ‘What else?’

  Patrik looked down at his notes unhappily. ‘It’s time we did dieting again,’ he said. ‘I’ve put one of the temps on to it.’

  Schyman made a note and nodded, good idea.

  In the past articles had been published because people had contacted the newsroom and tipped them off about different events or stories, such as the fact that they had lost weight on some fantastic new diet. But that was a long time ago. These days, the newspaper’s front pages and fly-sheets were planned to fit a predetermined timetable based upon sales figures (unless something exceptional happened, like Swedish fathers-of-two being kidnapped or serial killers stalking Stockholm’s suburbs). When it was time for a new diet story, they had always started,

  LOSE WEIGHT

  WITH NEW

  MIRACLE

  DIET!

  They had gone out and found the diet. There were always plenty to choose from. Then they found a professor who could verify the miraculous nature of this particular diet. All that was left was to get hold of a really good case-study with before and after pictures, preferably a decent-looking young woman who’d gone from size twenty-four to twelve in three months.

  ‘Anything else?’ Schyman asked.

  ‘It’s the anniversary of Karl the Twelfth’s death tomorrow, so the baby Nazis will probably be out waving their swastikas. We’ve got people on it. It’s also twenty-five years since reactor number one at Chernobyl was shut down. It’s Winston Churchill and Billy Idol’s birthday, and it’s your name-day.’

  Schyman suppressed a yawn. ‘Shall we move on?’

  ‘Media Time called,’ Patrik said. ‘They were asking if you wanted to comment on your concussion.’

  Anders Schyman leaned back carefully in the conference-room chair and felt with every fibre of his being that it was time for him to do something else.

  * * *

  ‘We’ve been to Skansen!’ Ellen said. ‘And do you know what, Mummy? We saw an elk! A great big brown one! It had really big horns and a little calf with it – the baby was super cute.’

  Annika swallowed a sigh. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea that the children were at an American school.

  ‘Was it really the elk with the horns that had the calf with it?’ she said, into the phone (she had read somewhere that you shouldn’t point out when a child made a mistake, just repeat the words in the right way). ‘It’s usually bull elks that have horns, and the calves normally go with the cow elks …’

  ‘And Sophia bought fizzy drinks for us. Kalle had Coke and I had a lemon Fanta.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re having fun.’

  ‘And tonight we’re going to watch a film, Ice Age 2 – The Meltdown. Have you seen it, Mummy?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Here’s Kalle.’ She passed the receiver to her brother.

  ‘Hello, darling, are you having a nice time?’

  ‘I miss you, Mummy.’

  She smiled and felt tears welling up. He was so incredibly loyal. He probably hadn’t thought about her all day, but he wanted to reassure her that she was the most important person to him. ‘I miss you too,’ she said, ‘but I’m really happy that you can spend a few days with Sophia while we try to get Daddy home.’

  ‘Have you talked to the kidnappers?’

  Where had he learned all the phrases?

  ‘Jimmy has. We hope they’re going to let him go soon.’

  ‘They killed that woman,’ he said.

  She shut her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they did. We don’t know why. But they let a man go yesterday, a Spanish man called Alvaro, and the last time he saw Daddy he … was all right.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘He was alive.’

  Kalle sniffed. ‘I miss Daddy too,’ he whispered.

  ‘So do I,’ Annika said. ‘I hope he’ll soon be coming home.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t? What if they kill him too?’

  Annika gulped. Even at the post-natal clinic they had said you should never tell children something didn’t hurt if it did. ‘Darling, sometimes people get kidnapped, but they usually get back home to their families. We just have to hope that happens with Daddy.’

  ‘But if?’

  She dried her eyes. ‘In that case we’ll have each other. You and me and Ellen, Sophia too.’

  ‘I like Sophia,’ Kalle said.

  ‘Me too,’ Annika said, and it might well have been true.

  She let herself slowly sink back to earth. She had made a meal that she hadn’t been able to eat. She had written some more of her article, trying to capture the feeling of receiving incomprehensible news. She had watched the news and Antiques Roadshow without understanding what they were talking about.

  Halenius was talking English in the bedroom, she didn’t know who to.

  She could just give in to this. She could stay on the sofa and sink down to the basement, then through the rock, past the underground tunnels and sewage pipes. Stockholm’s underworld was like Swiss cheese, full of passageways and cubbyholes. She didn’t have any sense of direction and could wander around down there for all eternity, hopelessly lost among the drains and water-damaged electricity cables.

  She took a deep breath, got to her feet and went into the children’s room. She ran her hand over their toys and duvets, picked up Kalle’s pyjamas from the floor. The aftermath of her attempt to clear their wardrobes was piled against the wall.

  She paused, absorbing the children’s presence from the walls and bedclothes, feeling their breath as a pulse in her stomach.

  It was going on, and on, and on.

  Human beings were not their disabilities. They were not defined by them. A disability was a circumstance, a condition, not a characteristic.

  ‘Annika? Can you come?’

  She dropped the pyjamas and went to Halenius in the other bedroom. He had put his mobile down and was sitting with headphones on, typing something on his computer.

  ‘I heard you mention the German woman’s name,’ sh
e said, sitting on the bed.

  He switched off the audio file, pulled off the headphones and turned towards her. ‘She’s been released,’ he said. ‘At the roadblock where they were kidnapped. She followed the road back towards Liboi and was found by a military patrol just outside the town.’

  Annika tucked her hands under her thighs and tried to work out what she was feeling. Relief? Injustice? Ambivalence? She couldn’t tell.

  ‘She was subjected to some of the same treatment as the British woman. The guards raped her and the remaining male hostages were forced to … but Thomas refused. The leader chopped his left hand off with his machete.’

  Annika was staring at the window. All she could see was her own reflection.

  ‘This morning she was taken to a car, driven around for several hours, then thrown out by the roadblock.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘The rape? Yesterday morning.’

  Thomas had been without his left hand for a day and a half.

  Annika went into the living room for the video-camera. ‘Can you say that again, please?’ She raised the camera, located Halenius in the fold-out screen, and gave him a thumbs-up to begin.

  ‘My name is Jimmy Halenius,’ he said, looking into the lens. ‘I’m sitting in Annika Bengtzon’s bedroom, where we’re trying to get her husband back home.’

  ‘I was thinking more the bit about the German woman,’ Annika said.

  ‘I’ve often imagined myself here,’ he said, ‘in her bedroom, but not under these circumstances.’

  She kept the camera where it was, wary now.

  He looked away for a moment, then back, and their eyes met through the screen.

  ‘Helga Wolff has been found outside Liboi this evening, exhausted and dehydrated, but without any other physical injuries. It isn’t clear whether or not any ransom was paid to secure her release, but it seems likely.’

  ‘You sound like a block of wood,’ Annika said, lowering the camera.

  Halenius switched off his computer. ‘I think I’ll go home and get some sleep,’ he said.

  She kept hold of the camera, but lowered it to her side. ‘But what if they call?’

  ‘I can forward calls on your landline to my mobile.’ He started to gather his things.

  She went into the living room, switching off the camera and putting it on the coffee-table. ‘Have you talked to your children today?’ she asked.

  He came into the room, pulling his jacket on. ‘Twice. They’ve been swimming out at Camps Bay.’

  ‘Your girlfriend,’ Annika said. ‘Who is she?’

  He stopped in front of her. ‘Tanya? She’s an analyst at the Institute of International Affairs. Why?’

  ‘Do you live together?’

  His face was in shadow so she couldn’t see his eyes. ‘She hasn’t let go of her flat.’

  He radiated warmth, like a stove. She stood where she was, even though she was getting burned. ‘Do you love her?’

  He stepped aside to get past her, but she followed him and put a hand on his chest. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to stay.’ She put her other hand against his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble, then took a step closer and kissed him. He was standing completely still, but she could feel how fast his heart was beating. She moved closer to him, laid her cheek against his neck and put her arms round his shoulders.

  If he pushed her away now she’d die.

  But his hands found the base of her spine and he pulled her towards him with one hand, letting the other slide up under her hair and stop at her neck. His arm was broad and hard across her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him again. This time he responded. He tasted of salt and resin and his teeth were sharp. She caught her breath and met his gaze through the shadows, heavy and dark. He brushed her hair from her face. His fingers were dry and warm. She undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled his jacket off. It landed on top of the video-camera.

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, we should,’ she said.

  If there was one thing she was sure of, it was this. She pulled her top off, undid her bra and let them fall to the floor, then put one hand against his cheek as the other caressed the base of his spine. She felt his hand cup one of her breasts. He squeezed her nipple and her vision went black. Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy from Himmelstalundsvägen in Norrköping, the cousin of Roland who always had a picture of her in his wallet. He pulled her jeans off, laid her on the sofa and caressed her thighs and stomach with hard, warm hands, and when he pushed into her she forced herself to relax and breathe through her mouth to stop herself going to pieces. She let herself be rocked by his rhythm until she couldn’t float any longer and she came, she came and came, until her head was singing and the darkness dissolved and disappeared.

  DAY 8

  WEDNESDAY, 30 NOVEMBER

  Chapter 17

  The man was arrested in his home on Byälvsvägen in Bagarmossen at six thirty-two a.m. He had just made himself some porridge, with lingonberry jam and semi-skimmed milk, two open sandwiches, with smoked German salami, and a cup of proper coffee with three sugar-lumps when the police rang the doorbell. The arrest was entirely without drama. The man’s only objection to going with them was that his breakfast would be cold by the time he got back.

  It’ll have had time to get more than just cold, Anders Schyman thought, as he put down the printout of the article. The Evening Post had done a thorough and systematic job, both with the creation of the serial killer and its coverage of his capture. Schyman had already ordered a new edition of the paper’s print version for the city and surrounding area, but the rest of the country would have to enjoy the details about the sandwiches and sugar-lumps online.

  He picked up the printout of the picture on the front page: Gustaf Holmerud, forty-eight, being led away by six uniformed and heavily armed police officers. The expression on the serial killer’s face could almost be described as one of surprise. The police officers’ clenched jaws were more likely their response to the Evening Post’s photographer than any danger posed by the arrested suspect.

  Schyman hadn’t hesitated. They had printed the man’s name, age, where he lived, and complete details about his insignificant life and career (abandoned secondary-school education, back problems, incapacity benefit). Obviously there would be a debate about that as well, that they were identifying someone who hadn’t been convicted, but he could give the counter-argument in his sleep.

  If they weren’t allowed to name criminals until they had been found definitively guilty in the eyes of the law, then to this day no one would know the name of the man who had been found guilty in the district court of the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme. Anders Schyman could see Christer Pettersson’s furrowed face before him: the old alcoholic was later released by the Court of Appeal and never served his sentence.

  Besides, technological developments had outstripped the established and more responsible media: accusations, rumours and bare-faced lies spread like wildfire across the internet just minutes after people were arrested and taken into custody. At least the Evening Post checked its sources before going to print, and there was a publisher who could be held legally accountable for any errors – himself. And the newspaper had been careful to point out several times that the man was still only a suspect.

  He examined the (suspected) serial killer’s face and remembered his conversation with the mother of the murdered Lena. It was Gustaf … He’s been stalking her ever since she finished with him …

  He leaned back cautiously in his new office chair. The company nurse had said he could remove the big bandage that afternoon and replace it with a compress. His head still hurt, and he didn’t usually suffer from headaches. He put his hand to the wound and thought he could feel the knots of the stitches beneath the bandage.

  His eyes fell on the description of the man who had been seen walking away from the edge of the forest in Sätra: about 1.75 metres tall, average build, dar
k blond hair, clean-shaven, dark jacket and trousers. If he was honest, that description could apply to something like 80 per cent of all middle-aged men in Sweden. The notion that the paper might be heading into choppy waters drifted into his aching head, stayed long enough for him to dismiss it, then swirled away. The police investigated. The media observed and dramatized.

  And while he waited for something to happen in the kidnap story in East Africa he picked up the letter he had written to the board and read the opening once more: ‘I hereby tender my resignation from my position as editor-in-chief of the Evening Post newspaper.’

  * * *

  She was woken by the pale light of dawn and knew at once that they had overslept. Kenya was two hours ahead of Sweden, and anything could have happened during the morning.

  It was definitely too late for something, but she didn’t know what.

  Her body was still heavy and warm under the duvet. She turned her head and found herself staring at the shock of brown hair on the pillow beside her. She reached out her hand and ran her fingers through it, strangely soft, like a small child’s.

  Too late, or possibly far too early. She didn’t know.

  She curled up next to him, twining her legs round his and stroking his shoulder. He woke up and kissed her. They lay there quite still, just looking at each other.

  ‘It’s eight o’clock,’ she whispered.

  He pulled her to him, tight, and with a gasp she felt him slip inside her again. She came almost immediately, but it took longer for him – she felt him grow and met his movements until his shoulders tensed and he gasped.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate for a piss.’

  She laughed, perhaps out of embarrassment.

  They had breakfast together at the kitchen table, yoghurt with walnuts, and fruit-bread with liver pâté, coffee and blood-orange juice. He’d put his jeans and shirt on, but hadn’t buttoned it, and was reading Dagens Nyheter as he fumbled for his mug of coffee and dropped crumbs on the floor.

  She looked down at her yoghurt. It all felt so fragile, like glass: she didn’t dare touch it because it might break – his hair in the morning light, the hardness of his chest, his total concentration on the editorial, the fact that he was there, that he had held her so close.