Without a Trace (Annika Bengtzon 10) Page 3

  ‘Do you remember Viola Söderland?’ he asked.

  Nilsson’s face shifted from expressionless to confused. ‘Who?’

  Schyman stood up and went to the sofa. ‘The billionairess. Golden Spire.’ He sank down on the worn cushions.

  Nilsson hitched up his jeans under his burgeoning beer-gut and glanced out at the newsroom on the other side of the glass wall. ‘The woman who disappeared? The one with the massive tax debt?’

  At first Schyman was offended, then relieved. The Light of Truth had evidently over-estimated the level of general awareness of his journalistic triumph. No one cared any more. It wasn’t an issue. ‘The woman who disappeared,’ he confirmed.

  ‘What about her? Has she turned up?’

  ‘In a way. Is Lerberg going to make it?’ he asked.

  ‘What about the billionairess? Have I missed something.’

  Schyman stood up again. Why could he never learn to keep his mouth shut? ‘So we’re not dealing with a murdered politician?’

  ‘He might die before we go to print,’ Nilsson said hopefully. ‘We’ll hold the front page for the time being.’

  A somewhat premature front page on which the man was declared dead was evidently ready to print. Well, it wasn’t up for debate: meeting the deadline was the only thing that mattered.

  ‘We’ll just have to hope we need a new one,’ Schyman said, which Nilsson took as a sign that it was time to go back to work. He slid the door open and left, failing to close it properly behind him. The sounds of the newsroom flowed in through the narrow gap: a discordant jumble of voices, keyboards, the jingles of television news channels, the dull whirr of the ventilation system.

  And soon it would be over, at least for him. The newspaper’s board had been informed and had accepted his resignation. In little more than a week his departure would be made public, and the hunt for his successor would roll into action.

  He wasn’t leaving things in a bad state. The figures from the past year had remained strong, confirming the Evening Post as the biggest newspaper in Sweden. He’d beaten off the competition and now it was time to relax.

  Schyman went back to his computer and looked at the screen-saver, a black-and-white photograph taken by his wife of the rocks on their island out in Rödlöga archipelago. It wasn’t much more than an outcrop. No water or drainage, electricity supplied from a generator at the back of the house, but for them it was Paradise.

  Maybe a wind turbine down by the shore, he mused. Then they could live there all year round. A satellite dish to keep in touch with the rest of the world. A jetty for a larger boat. A few solar panels on the roof to heat water, and a satellite phone for emergencies.

  He decided to look into planning permission for a wind turbine.

  *

  Nina parked the car in a reserved space next to the main entrance to Södermalm Hospital. It was pouring with rain. The hospital was the largest emergency medical centre in Scandinavia, and during her time as a sergeant on Södermalm she had been there several times each month, sometimes several times a week – everything tended to blur together, with the exception of the morning of 3 June almost five years ago. The morning when David Lindholm, the most famous police officer in Sweden, had been found dead (when she had found David dead), and his wife Julia was admitted to intensive care in a catatonic state.

  She got out of the car and walked through the vast foyer, with its glass roof and polished stone floor, showed her ID at Reception, explained why she was there, and was referred to a Dr Kararei, the senior consultant in the intensive-care unit. Fourth floor, lift B.

  It smelt as it always did. The corridors were scrubbed clean and poorly lit. She passed medics in rustling coats and patients shuffling along in slippers.

  She rang the bell outside ICU and had to wait several minutes before it was opened by Dr Kararei himself. He turned out to be a large man with short fingers and only a trace of an accent.

  Nina introduced herself. It felt odd saying she was from National Crime – the words didn’t seem to sit right in her mouth. ‘Is it possible to conduct a short interview with the victim?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in private,’ the doctor said, and ushered her into an empty consulting room. It was cool, almost cold. The doctor didn’t switch the lights on. The light from the window was heavy and grey.

  ‘The patient is still in the operating theatre,’ he said, sitting heavily on a small desk. He gestured to Nina to take the patient’s chair.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘I’d say his chances of survival are extremely uncertain.’

  If Lerberg died, the police would have the murder of a politician to deal with. Not a prime minister or foreign minister, admittedly, but a high-profile violent crime. She mustn’t mess up. She shifted on the chair, cleared her throat, took out the brand new mobile, provided by Lamia, and searched for the recording function. Her fingers seemed to swell above the screen and she did something wrong. She went back to the start menu and began again.

  ‘So his injuries are life-threatening?’ she said, once the timer indicated that the phone was recording properly.

  ‘Possibly not in themselves. But it’s the combination that makes his condition so complicated, along with severe dehydration.’

  He reached for a chart containing the patient’s notes.

  ‘So the victim had gone without food and water for some time?’ Nina said, glancing at her phone’s screen. ‘How long?’ She put the phone on the desk beside the doctor.

  He turned a page and studied the information, then read some out quietly to himself: ‘Severe metabolic disruption, principally electrolytes and salts, sodium and potassium, as well as erratic base oxygen values … At least three days, I’d say.’

  Nina counted backwards in her head. So the assault had taken place late on Thursday or early on Friday. ‘How much longer would he have lasted if he hadn’t been found?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Another hour or so. He wouldn’t have survived the morning.’

  She glanced at the phone and hoped their voices were being stored on the memory chip. She’d have to make sure afterwards that she’d saved the recording properly. ‘What injuries have you managed to identify?’

  The doctor carried on reading. ‘The patient had extensive bleeding and tissue damage to his groin and the surrounding musculature, as well as multiple torn ligaments …’ He looked up at her over his glasses. ‘We’ve had to open him up to drain the blood and reduce the risk of compartment syndrome.’

  Nina looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘The bleeding in his groin was extensive, but confined, which leads to increased pressure and the risk of tissue death. The surgeon’s doing her best to reconnect his torn muscles and ligaments, but it’s a very sensitive job …’

  ‘So his legs had been pulled apart until the muscles ruptured?’ Nina said.

  The doctor looked down at the notes again and read in silence for a few moments. The room smelt of fresh disinfectant. When he spoke again, he described how the victim’s shoulders had been dislocated bilaterally, with extensive swelling in the surrounding tissue, rotator cuffs and joints, which needed to be brought down. ‘That means his shoulders have had to be put back in place,’ he said. ‘We’re also having to reconnect torn muscles and ligaments there as well.’

  ‘Does he have any injuries around his wrists?’

  The doctor looked down at his notes, and read out, ‘Circular ulceration and laceration, approximately one centimetre across.’

  Nina checked that the recording was still working. ‘So they tied his hands behind his back, then strung him up by his wrists,’ she said.

  Dr Kararei looked at the window for a moment, as if he were trying to imagine the scene. Then he returned to the notes. ‘The tissue of the plantar fascia in his feet has been dislodged, and exhibits centimetre-wide haematomas in various stages of discoloration.’

  Repeated blows to the soles of hi
s feet with a blunt instrument, over a protracted period of time, Nina thought.

  ‘We’ve found pinprick bleeding in the whites of his eyes, as well as in his mouth, inside his cheeks and under his tongue.’

  Nina nodded. ‘Attempted strangulation?’

  ‘Probably not,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s no bruising on his neck, no marks from fingers or a noose.’

  ‘But it does suggest suffocation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nina took a few deep breaths. ‘There was a plastic bag at the crime scene,’ she said. ‘On the floor in the children’s room. I saw it.’

  ‘His face exhibits both haematomas and red oedemas.’

  ‘So he was beaten, which resulted in bleeding and swelling,’ Nina said.

  ‘Five ribs in the lower right-hand side of his ribcage have been broken, and his lung collapsed. His left eyeball was punctured with a pointed instrument …’

  Nina’s hands lay motionless on her lap. The air felt ice-cold on the back of her throat as she breathed in.

  The doctor put the notes down.

  Nina raised her chin and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘These are means of torture,’ she said. ‘Classics, tried and tested. These methods have names.’

  His face was calm but serious as he gazed at her. ‘I’ve seen them in other parts of the world,’ he said, ‘but never before in Sweden.’

  She said nothing for a while. Then: ‘If he does survive, will he ever make a full recovery?’

  ‘The soles of his feet will heal, even if it takes a few weeks. His groin will be extremely painful for a month or so, and he’ll probably be left with some degree of chronic aching and weakness. We’ve stitched his eye back together, and the fluid will gradually build up again, but there’s a risk of permanent sight impairment. There’s also a risk of limited function in his shoulders, besides ongoing pain … The unknown factor is really the shortage of oxygen. We don’t yet know if he’s suffered any brain damage.’

  Nina sat where she was, unable to move. ‘And mentally?’

  ‘Long-term rehabilitation,’ the doctor said, getting to his feet.

  Nina reached for her mobile, switched off the recording, then saved the file. She seemed to be moving slightly awkwardly, as if the chair had made her stiff. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Can I see him? Just through the door of the operating theatre?’

  The doctor shook his head.

  ‘When will he regain consciousness, to the point at which he can be questioned?’

  He gave her his card, with the direct number of his mobile, and said she was welcome to call at any time. ‘I keep expecting the patient’s wife to get in touch,’ he said, as they left the room. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Nina glanced at him. How much did he know? How much could she tell him?

  She stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. The door of the consulting room slid shut with a hiss. Dr Kararei gave the impression that he was the sort of man you could trust.

  ‘This must stay between us for the time being,’ she said, ‘but Nora Lerberg is missing.’

  The doctor started to head towards the exit, and Nina walked alongside him. ‘We’ve located the three children,’ she went on. ‘They’re with an aunt in Vikingshill, but we haven’t managed to track down his wife. No one knows where she is.’

  They reached the entrance to the department.

  ‘Could she have been responsible for this?’ Nina asked.

  ‘If she had help, then theoretically it’s possible,’ the doctor said. ‘But I’d say it’s extremely unlikely.’

  They shook hands.

  She clutched her mobile all the way through the building. Images danced before her eyes: bound hands, strung up, suffocated, beaten … These methods have names.

  She walked quickly through the wide entrance hall, past the information desk, the flower shop and the cafeteria, past the patients’ toilets and taxi phones.

  When her mobile rang she jumped, as if it had burned her.

  ‘Nina? Nina Hoffman?’

  ‘Annika Bengtzon. What can I do for you?’ She walked out into the rain, not bothered that she was getting wet.

  ‘I just wanted to say hi. That was you I saw outside Lerberg’s house earlier today, wasn’t it? Out in Solsidan?’

  Nina unlocked her car with the remote and slid into the driver’s seat. ‘I can’t tell you anything about the case, I hope you understand that,’ she said, and shut her eyes.

  Shoulders dislocated bilaterally, with extensive swelling in the surrounding tissue.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  Nina opened her eyes and looked up at the façade of the main hospital building.

  Hands tied behind his back, then strung up by the wrists.

  ‘I thought you were in Washington,’ she said.

  Annika Bengtzon laughed – unless it was a sigh? ‘The paper can’t afford that sort of thing any more. I’m back on the shop-floor, these days. A news reporter for the print and online editions. The police at the scene said that Lerberg might not survive. Do you know what the situation is?’

  Nina didn’t answer.

  She started the car. ‘Now isn’t a good time,’ she said.

  ‘When did you start at National Crime?’ Annika asked.

  Nina put the car into reverse and turned to look out of the rear windscreen. It was smeared with wet and grime. ‘Goodbye, Annika,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve still got the same mobile number, so if you ever want to get in touch you only have to—’

  Nina clicked to end the call.

  What did Ingemar Lerberg know that he shouldn’t have known?

  Why hadn’t he revealed it?

  And why had he been left alive?

  It was afternoon by the time Annika got back to the newsroom. The southern link road had been blocked and traffic on the Essinge motorway had ground to a halt, as usual. She had spent the time stuck in traffic researching Ingemar Lerberg and putting the material together in her head. She took out her laptop, downloaded the recordings from the video-camera to the server, logged them in slightly haphazardly, then emailed the picture editor to give him the time-codes where he could find usable stills for the print edition. She stood up to fetch a cup of coffee from the machine, then put together a piece for the online news channel, one minute and twenty-five seconds, about Ingemar Lerberg. The pictures weren’t particularly good. Too dark and grainy, just as they had been throughout this miserable spring. The wind meant that the frame swayed during her to-camera piece, and she looked greasy and hollow-eyed, but there was nothing unusual about that. The angle she was putting on the story was a bit tenuous, but she thought it just about held together.

  ‘The police are facing a total mystery after the attempted murder of former MP Ingemar Lerberg,’ she began. ‘There are currently no credible motives for the brutal assault. No threats had been received, and it isn’t clear how the perpetrator got into the house. According to the Evening Post’s sources, police haven’t found any signs of a break-in at the scene, which is located in the fashionable suburb of Solsidan in Saltsjöbaden …’

  ‘He’s still alive, then?’ Nilsson said above her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Annika said. ‘Shall we send someone to the hospital to finish him off?’

  He sat down on her desk. ‘We’ve had a call from the Christian Democrats. They’re going to be making a statement about their colleague at their headquarters in half an hour. Can you take it?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Has the prosecutor confirmed that the crime’s being classified as attempted murder?’

  ‘I called her from the car.’

  ‘Are you dealing with the dog?’

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Stefan, four years old,’ Nilsson said. ‘Found dead in the hall, according to the main news agency. Can you do an overview of his background as well?’

  ‘The dog’s?’

  ‘Was Lerberg controversial? Any threats? Maybe
a list of possible motives? And check out why he was forced to resign, even if we’ll probably have to wait and see if he’s going to survive before we publish it.’

  Annika did a quick search for ingemar lerberg politician.

  Nilsson leaned in front of her screen. ‘And call him a leading politician throughout. After all, he was in the running to be party leader at one point.’

  ‘Yes,’ Annika said. ‘For a whole afternoon, long enough to warrant a leader column in the Evening Post …’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Nilsson said, and stalked back to the newsdesk.

  She glanced through the list of headings on the screen. How quickly things were forgotten. She knew she’d read about Ingemar Lerberg in the days when he was newsworthy but, apart from a few hazy memories of a tax scandal, she really didn’t know anything about him. And why should she?

  She clicked on the link that looked the most interesting.

  The Christian Democrat had certainly been a colourful character on the political scene eight or ten years ago. He had arrived in Parliament with the sort of political beliefs that could probably best be compared to those of the American Tea Party movement: dismantling the state, individual freedom, unquestioning faith in God and capitalism. Among other things, he had suggested reorganizing regional councils and privatizing social services.

  Ingemar Lerberg believed that Christianity should be made an obligatory subject in school, and taxes halved. State benefits should be automatically tied to some sort of ‘service to society’, an idea described by his critics as ‘unpaid slave labour’. He backed up this proposal with a quote from the Book of Genesis: In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.

  The Bible turned out to be a recurring theme in Lerberg’s politics. That some people were richer than others was perfectly acceptable, according to Matthew: For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance.

  He must have missed the bit about the camel and the eye of a needle, Annika thought.

  She saw the time on her laptop. The Christian Democrats’ headquarters were in Gamla stan, in the centre of Stockholm where it was impossible to park: she’d have to get a taxi if she was going to get there in time.