Last Will

by Liza Marklund

  The boy’s eyes grew big as saucers and gradually filled with realization and terror.

  She let him go and grabbed hold of the other child.

  “Alexander,” she whispered, her breath enveloping his face. “If you’re ever mean to Kalle again, I’ll come and find you in the night and kill you. Understand?”

  The boy started to tremble, and he stared at her in horror. She let him go and looked at them both.

  “And you know what?” she said quietly. “That doesn’t just go for Kalle, but all the other children as well.”

  Then she stood up, turned her back on them, and walked away. She made her way through the sea of children toward her car at the end of the tunnel.

  She drove into the city with a peculiar feeling that she was piloting a plane, not driving a car. The wheels didn’t seem to be touching the ground; she was steering through clouds and sky.

  Was it stupid, was it stupid, was it stupid?

  Who cares, she thought, feeling the wheels touch the ground. I’d do it all over again if I had to.

  The sky was the color of smoke, and rain was hanging in the air as she parked.

  She made her way up to the newsroom, and was once again struck by the cramped but oddly deserted space.

  Berit was already there; she was sitting writing at her desk with her reading glasses on.

  “Follow-up?” Annika asked.

  “Who knew what?” Berit asked rhetorically. “Who gave permission for what? Who sanctioned the abuse? Who negotiated with the Jordanian government? I’m not going to leave any stone unturned in this horrible mess. How are you getting on?”

  Annika sank onto Patrik’s chair.

  “Something must have happened on Saturday,” she said. “Some sort of Nobel group had a meeting, then there was a seminar, and then a bit of a drinks party, and sometime during that afternoon something must have happened that triggered the murders of Ernst Ericsson and Lars-Henry Svensson.”

  “Can you all listen, please!” Spike yelled from the news desk. Annika and Berit straightened up and looked over at him.

  Schyman clambered onto the news desk, just like in the old days, standing there barefoot, legs apart in the middle of the desk the way people used to when the evening papers appeared in the afternoon and everyone used to spend all their time writing, editing, and taking pictures for a print newspaper whose earliest edition went to press at 4:45 AM somewhere in the basement. In other words, he was behaving the way editors used to.

  It didn’t have quite the same effect now.

  Schyman was standing on top of a much smaller desk, and there were far fewer, and far less enthusiastic, staff standing around to see him do it.

  The editor in chief held a copy of that day’s paper above his head, turning to show it in every direction.

  “This,” he said, “is the best edition in the history of this newspaper. Never before has every single news page been full of global scoops. We’re being cited by AP, AFP, Reuters, and CNN.”

  The staff glanced at each other, slightly embarrassed. Most of them didn’t work on the dusty old print edition at all, but on the online version, local television, commercial radio, or on some shiny supplement. Many of them didn’t even read the actual newspaper.

  “Berit’s revelation that a foreign power has been permitted to operate on Swedish soil is being followed up here today,” Schyman said triumphantly from his lofty position. “You can already see how everyone else is jumping on the story. We’re also going further with Annika’s detailed story of the Nobel murders. Today we’ve got the revelation of who carried out the murders, and the fact that they’re still going on. This is a great day for all of us. Now let’s get back to work!”

  In the past a speech like that would have been greeted by shouting and applause.

  Now people were just standing around confused, looking awkwardly at each other before scuttling away.

  Annika and Berit were sitting, arms crossed, looking worried.

  “He hasn’t really changed with the times,” Berit said. “Sometimes I wonder if he knows what he’s doing at all.”

  “I think he’s starting to get it,” Annika said. “He has to make it work again, what he just tried. He has to get everyone working here to pull in the same direction. He has to shift the focus back onto real journalism again.”

  “What, you mean the important thing is what we say, not what sort of broadband we use?” Berit wondered.

  “More or less,” Annika said. “By the way, do you know what I did this morning? I scared the shit out of some kids who’ve been bullying Kalle.”

  “Uh oh,” Berit said. “That’ll come back to haunt you.”

  Annika sighed.

  “I really don’t care if it does, as long as Kalle doesn’t suffer. So who do you think knew what about the Bandhagen extradition?”

  Berit put her glasses back on and reached for a sheaf of papers.

  “Okay, this is how it looks: the government authorized the extradition itself. They used one of the paragraphs dealing with terrorism, the law about the control of foreign nationals, the one they always fall back on when they don’t want anyone to see what they’re doing. You know, safety of the realm and all that, with the government as the highest authority.”

  “And that’s recent legislation?”

  “No, it’s been around for more than thirty years, and has been used roughly thirty times, so they’re not exactly wearing it out. But every time it makes you just a little bit suspicious, because they very rarely reveal what was actually behind the decision. If the cases aren’t deemed to be particularly urgent, the government is supposed to ask for a report from the Migration Office, and then the process is supposed to be authorized by a district court. But for some reason these cases are almost always particularly urgent …”

  “But surely they can’t just kick people out when they know they’re going to be tortured?” Annika said.

  “No, they can’t,” Berit said. “According to the same legislation, the government must stop or block the extradition if there is any risk of capital punishment or torture, and instead impose compulsory registration of the suspected terrorist. So he has to report to a police station a certain number of times each week, to prove that he hasn’t got his hands dirty. This can go on for three years, and then the case has to be referred to court.”

  “Much easier just to throw someone out, then,” Annika said.

  “Especially if the Americans just happen to be passing,” Berit said.

  “Who are we pinning this on?”

  Berit tossed the bundle of papers down and took off her glasses.

  “In purely formal terms, the Security Police officer out at the airport buggered it up. His name’s Anton Abrahamsson. He relinquished official control to a foreign police authority. That’s the technical error here, but that isn’t the real scandal. How can we just allow a locksmith from Bandhagen to be labeled a terrorist and chucked out without any evidence at all?”

  “What is the Security Police officer saying?”

  “I haven’t been able to get hold of him,” Berit said. “He’s on paternity leave.”

  “How convenient,” Annika said.

  “Yes, isn’t it just?” Berit said.

  “And what are they saying in the Justice Department?” Annika asked, thinking of Thomas.

  “That the minister was only informed about the extradition on January 7. Several weeks later, in other words.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Berit sighed.

  “It doesn’t really make any difference to Jemal,” she said. “The Foreign Ministry claim that they obtained guarantees that he would be treated fairly. Our ambassador is visiting him once a month and says he’s absolutely fine, whereas Fatima says he’s been deeply scarred by the torture he had to endure.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to go and see him,” Annika said.

  “I’m going to find out from the embassy this afternoon if I can go with them next
time,” Berit said.

  Annika grabbed her bag and headed off to the day-shift reporters’ desks, to let Berit get on and to make a few calls herself.

  Something happened last Saturday, she was absolutely certain of it.

  Something triggered these new Nobel killings—unless she ought to think of them as Karolinska Institute killings? Maybe these ones were nothing to do with Nobel?

  She dialed reception at the Karolinska Institute and asked to speak to Birgitta Larsén.

  The phone rang four, five, six times …

  Birgitta usually answered on the first ring, so Annika was about to hang up when the phone was picked up at the other end and a voice said hesitantly:

  “Hello?”

  “Birgitta? Hello, this is Annika Bengtzon from …”

  A drawn-out sob interrupted her.

  “Birgitta?” Annika said. “How are you? You know about Lars-Henry?”

  “It’s the animals,” Birgitta Larsén said, sounding as though she’d been crying for hours.

  “The animals?” Annika echoed.

  The professor blew her nose loudly and took several panting breaths over the phone.

  “All my test animals are dead,” she said in a shaky voice. “Someone killed them last night.”

  Annika saw the rows of Plexiglas boxes in front of her eyes, little black and white mice making nests with tissues and rearranging their egg cartons.

  “Killed them? How?”

  “The mice had their necks wrung, and the rabbits and rats were beaten to death.”

  “God,” Annika said. “Who would do something like that?”

  “The police suspect one of the animal rights organizations, but I don’t believe that. No one knows where the lab is. There were no signs of a breakin and only my animals were killed, no one else’s. And Lars-Henry, have you heard? It’s so awful!”

  “I was the one who found him,” Annika said.

  Birgitta blew her nose again.

  “Oh, of course you were, they did tell me. Is it true that he was beheaded?”

  Annika gulped hard.

  “Maybe I could come out and see you?” she said tentatively.

  It sounded like Birgitta Larsén was sighing.

  “Well, all right. Yes, why don’t you … ?”

  Annika hung up and went over to see Spike, dragging her bag with her.

  “I’m heading out to the Karolinska Institute,” she said, “then I’ll write it up at home.”

  The news editor grunted something without looking up.

  “And I was wondering if I was going to get any gas money, seeing as I’m driving around in my own car on work business?” Annika asked.

  Spike looked up at her in surprise.

  “I haven’t got a clue,” he said.

  “So who do I ask?” she said.

  He shrugged and reached for a ringing phone.

  “You can use a bicycle for all I care,” he said. “Or swim. Hello, Spike here … Fucking hell, hello!”

  Annika turned away and headed off into the murky gray outside.

  Rain was hanging in the air as Annika parked outside the Black Fox, but it didn’t seem to want to fall properly. The wind was tugging at the trees, sharp and with an odd smell of autumn.

  Has summer already been and gone? Annika wondered.

  She headed over to Birgitta Larsén’s department, Astra’s smart former premises, and was let in by a group of students.

  “So, tell me all about it,” Birgitta said, pulling out a chair for her the moment Annika stepped into the bright office with its radioactivity warning tape.

  The professor of biophysics had evidently been crying for a while; she was putting on a brave face but her façade seemed very thin.

  “Have the police been out here?” Annika asked, settling into the chair. “What did they have to say about the dead animals?”

  “I’ve already been questioned,” the professor said. “They’re down in the lab now. So, what happened last night?”

  “I drove out to Svensson’s summer cottage in Fågelbrolandet to ask him some questions,” Annika said.

  “Ah, I see,” Birgitta Larsén said, putting a packet of cookies on the desk between them. “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought something had happened here on Saturday and I wanted to talk to him about it,” Annika said, turning down the offer of a cookie. “Something happened, either at the meeting or during the seminar, or at the buffet afterward, something that triggered Ernst’s murder, and then Lars-Henry’s as well. I’m even more convinced that was the case today.”

  “Yes, well,” Birgitta Larsén said, wiping her fingers on her white lab coat, “but I was there the whole time and I didn’t notice anything unusual. What could it have been?”

  Something in the woman’s tone of voice was too animated. She was a bit too forced, her eyes too anxious.

  “That was what I was hoping to ask you about,” Annika said.

  “Oh, I don’t know anything,” she said, staring at her chocolate cookie. Annika followed her instincts and leaned closer to her.

  “Birgitta,” Annika said, looking the woman in the eye the way she usually did with Kalle when he was acting up. “There’s something you’re not telling me, something about Caroline, and I think you’re starting to get very scared about the fact that you know it. Ernst is dead, Lars-Henry is dead, and do you know how they died? Someone murdered them, and then they mutilated the bodies. He drove a nine-inch nail through one eye, right into their brains, and then another nail through their throat and into the spinal cord. Same thing with both of them. What does that tell you?”

  Annika didn’t look away from the woman, and as she spoke she could see the terror in her eyes grow until they were overflowing with tears.

  “Oh my God …” Birgitta Larsén said.

  “Now your animals are dead, and what does that say to you, Birgitta? It’s a warning, wouldn’t you say? What is it you know, Birgitta—what’s so important?”

  The professor blinked a few times; then her face crumpled and she hid it in her hands and wept.

  Annika waited without saying anything until the outburst was over.

  “It’s got nothing to do with this,” Birgitta Larsén said once she had calmed down. “It was so long ago and only Carrie and I knew—it only concerns us—we’re the only ones who …”

  “What?” Annika said.

  Birgitta Larsén sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped.

  “I don’t want you to make this public,” she said. “It could destroy Caroline’s reputation and sabotage my own career.”

  Her voice sounded different. Deeper, calmer.

  “You’re my source,” Annika said. “Your identity is protected by law. I can’t write anything without your express permission.”

  Birgitta Larsén nodded, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.

  “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “I’ve kept quiet about it for twenty years.”

  Annika said nothing.

  The professor sighed deeply and closed her eyes for a few moments, collecting herself.

  “Carrie’s big, international breakthrough came when she developed Hood and Tonegawa’s discovery of the identification of immunoglobulin genes,” she finally said in a quiet voice. “Her research was published in Science in October 1986, and that was the article that led to her appointment as professor, and to her joining the Nobel Assembly.”

  Annika nodded, she had heard this before.

  “The problem was that Science didn’t accept her first version of the article,” Birgitta said, her voice suddenly thin and dull. “They wanted her to replicate the results, a common routine control, but Carrie knew they were strong enough.”

  “The same thing as with the results of Ernst’s research into MS,” Annika said.

  “Exactly,” Birgitta said without looking up. “So why should she spend three months doing something when she was absolutely confident of her results?”

  All
of a sudden Annika realized what she was being told as she met Birgitta’s eyes.

  “Caroline cheated,” Annika said. “She didn’t replicate her findings, and submitted false results instead.”

  Birgitta Larsén looked down again and nodded.

  “It wasn’t that the research was incomplete or inaccurate. Everything held up. She just skipped the routine control. And she wasn’t the one who fabricated it, I was. During the week in question Carrie was at a conference in Helsinki, so I filled in her test results and sent them off.”

  Annika stared at the woman, unable to believe what she was hearing.

  If you spent years working on something, why take risks right at the end?

  “Why?” she asked.

  Birgitta blew her nose.

  “There was nothing wrong with the research,” she said. “Carrie knew it was absolutely watertight. The people at Science were just being overzealous, and she really wanted to attend that Finnish conference.”

  “But someone found out,” Annika said.

  Birgitta hesitated, then nodded.

  “I don’t know who—Carrie never told me. But she did something that she was extremely ashamed of, to make sure that person never said anything. I don’t know what it was.”

  “Someone was blackmailing Caroline,” Annika said. “Someone demanded something in exchange for not speaking out about her fabricating those results.”

  Birgitta sighed and nodded again.

  “I don’t know when it happened, but the person in question must have gotten in touch again, not long before Carrie died.”

  “What makes you think that?” Annika said.

  “Last autumn she once said that she ‘wasn’t going to give in to threats anymore. Not again.’ That’s what she said. She had allowed herself to be frightened into doing it once, but she wasn’t going to do it again.”

  “When was this?”

  “Right after the names of last year’s prize winners, Wiesel and Watson, were announced.”

  “Are they gay, by the way?” Annika asked. “And a couple?”

  The professor looked up in surprise.

  “Of course they are,” she said. “Didn’t you know?”