The Final Word

by Liza Marklund

  The judge made a note. Crispinsson turned back to Nina. ‘Did you visit the scene of the crime?’

  The pine tree on a rocky outcrop, with a thick trunk and stubby crown. The lower branches were thick as a man’s thighs, long dead, and the wood had taken on the colour and structure of driftwood, grey and silky smooth.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘While the victim was still . . . hanging there?’

  The harsh white light of the forensics team’s lamps, police officers like shadows.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did the crime scene tell you?’

  ‘It was carefully chosen. Isolated, relatively close to a built-up area, but out of earshot.’

  ‘And the victim?’

  Nina looked at Berglund again. He gazed back at her as she answered, evaluating her certainty. ‘Hanging people from their knees like that is an established method of torture, known as La Barra, ‘the Parrot’s Perch’. It’s extremely painful, because the flow of blood to the legs is cut off. If the victim survives, the injuries often lead to gangrene and amputation. Smearing victims with honey and putting them on top of anthills is a tried-and-tested method in Africa, particularly Angola.’

  ‘Where at the crime scene was the perpetrator’s DNA found?’

  She turned to Crispinsson. ‘A fragment of skin was found under the nail of the victim’s right index finger, and the DNA matched Ivar Berglund’s.’

  ‘Was that match confirmed?’

  She replied in a forceful tone to camouflage the deficiency of her answer. ‘That was the information we received from the National Forensics Laboratory.’

  The prosecutor looked down at his papers. The air in the court was quite still. She glanced at the jury. They were alert and wide-eyed. Even the man on the far left was awake.

  ‘The victim, Karl Gustaf Ekblad, where was he living?’ Crispinsson asked.

  Dark wooden panelling that needed varnishing. The crooked letterbox, no flowerbeds. A pair of greyish-white curtains in the big picture window.

  ‘He rented a room in a villa in Orminge, but he was registered as living in Marbella in the south of Spain.’

  ‘What was the next step in your investigation?’

  ‘Considering the victim’s international connections, we asked for the assistance of the Spanish police. This cooperation was formalized via Europol, but I was in direct contact with the Spanish National Police about the case.’

  ‘Spanish is your mother tongue?’

  ‘I grew up on the Canary Islands.’

  The prosecutor smiled at her, then looked at the judge and gathered his papers together. ‘Thank you. No further questions.’

  Nina turned towards Martha Genzélius, Ivar Berglund’s lawyer. She was a slim woman, in her forties, wearing an expensive suit and high heels, with medium-length, shiny blonde hair that had been straightened. It was evidently important to her that she personify the Swedish Career Woman: she would doubtless have looked the same if she’d been a boutique-owner or a bank manager, a fashion designer or a television presenter. She was leafing through her papers, her acrylic nails slipping over the interview transcripts.

  Then she looked up, straight at Nina, without smiling. ‘Nina Hoffman, why did you stop working as a police officer?’

  Just keep a cool head.

  ‘I haven’t stopped working as a police officer.’

  The woman picked up a sheet of paper with exaggerated slowness and studied it for a moment. ‘You told us a little while ago that you work as an operational analyst.’

  Nina made her voice as friendly as she could when she replied. ‘Because I’m a trained police officer and work for the Police Authority, I still have police powers. That means I can arrest and release people, question them, or use force if that should be necessary.’

  The lawyer looked at her patiently. ‘Let me rephrase the question. Why did you resign from your job as a police officer in the Södermalm police district?’

  ‘I requested a leave of absence so that I could study Criminology and Behavioural Science at Stockholm University.’

  Crispinsson leaned forward across his desk, his hair on end. ‘What does this have to do with the matter at hand?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you enjoy working on Södermalm?’

  Nina fought to suppress the sense that she was being insulted: did this lawyer really think she was so easily fooled?

  ‘Where is this line of questioning going?’ the judge asked.

  Martha Genzélius tapped her fountain pen with her varnished thumbnail. ‘That will become apparent later in my questioning,’ she said.

  Nina made an effort not to show any sign of irritation: the woman’s response was a typical lawyer’s manoeuvre, designed to unsettle the judge and worry the witness.

  ‘Ask the witness a question, or move on,’ the judge said.

  The lawyer turned towards Nina. ‘How did you come to re-examine the Viola Söderland case after twenty years?’

  ‘Her disappearance was still an open case. We received fresh information that justified a re-examination of the evidence.’

  ‘Information from a reporter at the Evening Post newspaper?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Behind the reflection of the toughened glass, Nina could see the journalists, focused and straining to hear, a united group defending freedom of expression, but also bitter rivals. She knew that a number of them were reporting live from the trial, sending her words out into the world the moment she said them, interpreting and occasionally misrepresenting them. She had no control over her words: they had a life of their own.

  ‘Why did the investigation become active again?’ Martha Genzélius asked.

  ‘As I said, we received new information that led to the case becoming active again,’ Nina said.

  ‘Was it not the case that a newspaper wrote about the investigation, and that this so-called “new information” came from the media?’

  Easy, now, Nina thought. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a serious way of conducting a police investigation, letting it be governed by a sensationalist tabloid?’

  The question came like the crack of a whip, and Crispinsson stood up. ‘This is harassment!’

  Nina raised her chin and looked at him, signalling that the question was okay. Then she caught the defence lawyer’s gaze and held it firmly. ‘Information from the general public, including all forms of media, constitutes a significant contribution to our ability to solve crimes.’ She managed to sound smooth as silk, a professional who was gently explaining how the police worked to an ignorant outsider.

  The lawyer adopted a triumphant smile, as though she had just won a great victory, then picked up a different document from the table in front of her. ‘You claim that my client’s DNA was found at a crime scene in Orminge in May last year. Is that right?’

  ‘According to the National Forensics Laboratory, yes.’

  The lawyer raised her voice. ‘Is that really correct?’

  Nina took a shallow breath. This was the cornerstone of the prosecution’s case, its foundation. She opened her mouth to reply, but Martha Genzélius cut her off. ‘Please bear in mind that you’re under oath!’

  Her hostility hit Nina like a sledgehammer. Genzélius was pulling out all the tricks of her trade, interrupting and confusing, changing the tempo of her questions, and then that particular remark, so absurdly insulting, yet so horribly effective. She had been saving it specifically for that moment, because that was what the defence was based on: that the DNA match hadn’t been utterly perfect.

  Nina took pains not to change her expression, not to blink, not to seem bothered. Summoning all of her authority, she replied, ‘It was so close a match that only a vanishingly small number of people on the entire planet could have been considered alternative perpetrators.’

  Martha Genzélius threw out her hands. ‘Thank you! “Alternative perpetrators”! And have you made any genuine attempts to look for them?’ />
  ‘This is a disgrace!’ Crispinsson cried. ‘Is the defendant’s lawyer calling the witness’s professional honour into question? Is she trying to imply that the National Criminal Police did not keep an open mind in this investigation?’

  The judge struck his gavel. ‘That’s enough! Let the defence lawyer proceed.’

  Nina let her shoulders sink. Calling her evidence into question was the point of this cross-examination, but she couldn’t help being grateful to Crispinsson.

  Martha Genzélius turned back towards her. ‘So, what have you all been doing during the protracted period of time that my client has been in custody?’

  The lawyer obviously knew the answer to her question: she was trying to provoke a response.

  Nina’s unit at National Crime had searched through practically the whole of criminal history in Sweden, and she herself had spoken to police forces right across Europe, in every language imaginable, persuading and pleading, instructing and cajoling: look, check, compare! ‘The victim was of Finnish extraction, grew up in Sweden, and had just become a Spanish citizen when he was murdered,’ Nina replied calmly. ‘We required the assistance of our Spanish colleagues, and several other police forces, in order to coordinate the investigation.’

  ‘ “Several other police forces”, you say. Which might those be?’

  ‘After we contacted the Spanish police,’ Nina said, ‘and then Europol, it turned out that there were a number of other unsolved murders in different countries, which show similarities to the case in Orminge. In the past year, Ivar Berglund’s DNA profile has been compared against other open investigations both in the Nordic countries and elsewhere in Europe. That isn’t the reason for the long period the accused spent in custody, but work on the investigation has been extensive, and has made significant progress throughout that period.’

  ‘And what was the result?’

  ‘The work of comparing samples is ongoing, so I am unable to answer that question.’

  ‘You haven’t found a single match, have you?’

  Nina managed not to let her sense of bitter disappointment show. There hadn’t been any DNA to make comparisons with: the crime scenes that had been checked so far had been clean, at least where comparable forensic evidence was concerned. ‘Not so far.’

  ‘So the only thing you’ve got is one poor match in Orminge. Tell me, exactly where was this supposed DNA found?’

  Back to hard facts: excellent.

  ‘Under the victim’s fingernail.’

  ‘Which was found where?’

  Nina looked at her. That question could be a mistake: it could leave the lawyer floundering.

  ‘The victim’s fingernails were pulled out while he was still alive. He tried to resist, and managed to scratch his killer before the nail was removed.’

  Martha Genzélius appeared unconcerned by the uncomfortable answer. ‘This alleged piece of evidence was found in an anthill, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Karl Gustaf Ekblad was naked and smeared with honey. He was little more than an anthill when he was found.’

  Using the victim’s name was an obvious move, making him a human being. Had she succeeded in building a bit of empathy, some identification with him among the jury?

  The lawyer jotted some notes, then looked up. ‘Tell me, what exactly does an anthill consist of, apart from ants? Mould? Spores of fungus? Formic acid? How can you be sure that the microscopic trace of skin that was found down in the anthill wasn’t contaminated?’

  Crispinsson raised his hand. ‘The witness is not a forensic crime-scene investigator.’

  The defence lawyer looked at Crispinsson in surprise. ‘But the prosecution called this witness. Aren’t I allowed to question her?’

  The judge nodded to Genzélius. ‘Go on.’

  The lawyer turned to Nina. ‘No, you’re not a forensic crime-scene investigator. Your task is merely to analyse material and write reports, isn’t it?’

  Nina straightened her back again. She had no intention of allowing herself to be belittled.

  Martha Genzélius picked up a bundle of papers and flipped through them. She read, then leafed back a few pages. A wave of unease ran down Nina’s spine. ‘If we could return briefly to the case of Viola Söderland,’ the lawyer eventually said, putting her papers down. ‘The witness with the dog, who made a note of the number plate of the car parked outside his neighbour’s house on the twenty-third of September, twenty-one years ago, did he give any specific time for his observation?’

  ‘It was around midnight.’

  ‘Exactly. And how reliable is that recollection, twenty-one years on?’

  ‘The witness can’t know that,’ Crispinsson said.

  ‘Let the defence lawyer finish,’ the judge said.

  Nina waited while the defence lawyer tilted her head.

  ‘The lecture in Sandviken,’ she went on, ‘didn’t finish until just after ten p.m. My client stayed behind to sort out the hall with the organizers, had a cup of coffee and refuelled his car. Do we agree on that?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Which means that he is supposed to have driven from Sandviken to Stockholm in less than forty-five minutes, which in turn implies an average speed of approximately two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.’

  Nina was about to reply when she was cut off again. Martha Genzélius was addressing the judge: ‘I would like to remind the court that there wasn’t even a motorway between Gävle and Uppsala in those days. The E4 ran through the centre of various built-up areas with speed limits of both seventy and fifty kilometres per hour.’ She looked at Nina again. ‘Do you think that sounds plausible?’

  There was nothing she could do, except get it over with as smoothly and quickly as possible. ‘No,’ Nina said.

  The lawyer looked directly at her, in complete silence, for a long time. Then she very slowly put her pen down on the table. ‘Thank you. No further questions.’

  Elegant.

  The judge turned towards Nina and asked if she had incurred any expenses as a result of her attendance in court. Nina said she hadn’t, then got to her feet and left the courtroom through a tunnel that led to the prosecution’s windowless anteroom. An intangible feeling of anxiety and powerlessness went with her as she left the court.

  Because a heatwave was supposedly on its way, the air-conditioning in the newsroom had been switched on. Evidently it only had one setting, somewhere just below freezing, and Annika had to put her jacket on before she switched on her laptop.

  In spite of the cold, her fingers were burning as she looked through the notes and list of witnesses. Here they were, the liars who’d seen to it that Josefin had never got any justice. She recognized some of the men’s names, but others were new to her. Ludvig Emmanuel Eriksson must be Ludde, who used to work behind the bar at the club, and Robin Oscar Bertelsson was presumably the Robin responsible for security there, but who had left shortly after Josefin was murdered. Annika had never met him, but Joachim had mentioned him several times. She had always suspected he was one of the witnesses, and now she knew.

  She remembered Ludvig Emmanuel Eriksson as a fairly quiet, sullen guy. He had thin blond hair and pale eyes, and used to stare at her breasts shamelessly. She looked him up on Google and found him at once. Cancer Research, donation via debit card or PayPal. A picture showed him already marked by the disease, his hair cropped and his eyes exhausted. He had lived to be just thirty-two, horribly sad.

  Berit put her bag down on the desk. ‘Why’s it so cold in here?’

  Annika looked away from poor dead Ludde, and gestured towards the ventilation unit in the corner. ‘Did Nina have anything interesting to contribute?’

  ‘She did, actually. There are similar cases in other countries. The investigations are being coordinated.’

  ‘And she said that in the witness stand? Brilliant. Do you think he’ll be found guilty?’

  Berit settled on her chair. ‘The entire case rests on one DNA result,’ she said. ‘It might
not be enough.’

  ‘Berglund’s never been linked to any other violent crime,’ Annika said.

  ‘And now there’s actually reasonable doubt,’ Berit said.

  ‘Has he talked?’ Patrik Nilsson asked, materializing next to them.

  ‘He used to pan-fry his victims’ livers and eat them with capers and garlic,’ Annika said.

  Patrik looked as irritated as she had hoped.

  ‘There’s one new piece of evidence,’ Berit said. ‘National Crime and Europol are sharing the investigation with police forces in other countries. That’s why it’s taken so long to come to trial.’

  Red circles appeared on Patrik’s cheeks. ‘SUSPECTED OF SERIAL KILLINGS ALL OVER EUROPE!’ he said, in capital letters.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Berit said. ‘He hasn’t been convicted yet.’

  ‘That’s just a matter of how you phrase it,’ Patrik said, and bounced off towards the newsdesk.

  ‘Did you get anything from your prosecutor?’ Berit asked.

  Annika handed her the list of witnesses as her intercom crackled into life.

  ‘Can you come into my office for a moment?’ editor-in-chief Anders Schyman asked, through the tinny speaker.

  ‘Now?’ Annika said. ‘Right away?’

  ‘Preferably.’

  The intercom crackled and died.

  ‘Great news,’ Berit said, passing the list back. ‘Imagine if you could get them to talk.’

  Annika stood up and went over to Schyman’s glass box. He was sitting there looking at her so she didn’t bother to knock, just walked in and closed the door firmly behind her. It was never left open, these days.

  ‘What did the prosecutor say?’ her boss asked. He was seated behind his desk, looking heavier than ever.

  ‘I got the list of witnesses. Why do we have to have the air-conditioning set to below freezing?’

  He looked at her quizzically. On the desk in front of him lay bundles of notes, printouts, Post-its and something Annika thought might, with a bit of imagination, be a flowchart.

  ‘What witnesses? There were witnesses to the murder?’