Without a Trace (Annika Bengtzon 10) Page 4

  ‘Annika, one more thing.’ Nilsson was back at her desk. ‘What’s the Ministry of Justice saying about this case? They’re bound to be keeping informed. Can you look into it?’

  ‘Do you think I should call the under-secretary of state?’ she asked blithely.

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  Annika sighed and opened her notes. Her partner, Jimmy Halenius, was under-secretary of state at the Ministry of Justice and the minister’s closest associate.

  Nilsson would know full well that she wasn’t going to call him to ask about a work-related matter. He tilted his head and looked at her slyly. ‘You place a lot of importance on ethics, facts and relevance, don’t you?’

  Annika arched an eyebrow. What was he up to now?

  He waved his right hand expressively. ‘I mean, you’re always going on about that sort of thing, telling us not to devalue words, to show all sides of an issue, take responsibility for the people we interview, not try to act as prosecutor, judge and executioner all at the same time …’

  ‘You make me sound like some sort of union boss pontificating on national radio.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m right, aren’t I?’

  She shrugged. Jimmy would be home around six, and he’d offered to make elk stew.

  Nilsson stood up and waved to someone at the news-desk. ‘Valter, come over here.’

  Annika craned her neck and saw a young man heading towards them.

  ‘Annika, this is Valter Wennergren. He’s on placement from the College of Journalism and will be with us over the summer. It’s really important that the younger generation gets a firm grasp of ethics right from the start, so I was thinking that you could look after him, show him the ropes, let him follow you in your day-to-day work …’

  Nilsson was smiling at her. Looking after trainees was a form of punishment. It took time, energy and engagement, without any professional compensation.

  The young man shook her hand and introduced himself politely. He was dark, tall and thin, almost skinny, with spiky black hair and a little goatee beard. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing how you work here in the newsroom.’ He spoke a very pronounced upper-class Stockholm Swedish.

  Annika smiled at him. She hated the idea of Nilsson getting the better of her. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘You’re not related to the Wennergren family that owns the paper, are you?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘Son of Albert,’ he said.

  Ah, the new chairman of the board.

  ‘But I’m adopted,’ he added quickly, as if that somehow made him less culpable. ‘From Iran.’

  ‘Well, we don’t choose our parents,’ Annika said.

  Valter unbuttoned his jacket. ‘I hope I won’t be too much of a nuisance.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Annika said. ‘It’s always great to meet new colleagues and have a chance to discuss and analyse what we do. There’s far too little of that sort of thing in the newsroom, these days.’

  She smiled at Nilsson. His expression was now rather strained.

  ‘Well, then. Valter, from now on you follow Annika wherever she goes. Hope you both get a lot out of your time together.’ He went back to the newsdesk.

  Now the young man seemed at something of a loss.

  ‘There’s no point in sitting down,’ Annika said. ‘We’re going out on a job.’ She called for a taxi.

  Anders Schyman watched Annika Bengtzon disappear in the direction of the caretakers’ office. She seemed so carefree, with her easy stride and messy hair, and that hideous bag slung over her shoulder. For a moment he felt envious. Maybe she was the smart one, having turned down the chance to join the management, choosing instead to stay at the front-line of reporting.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’ The voice of Albert Wennergren echoed from the speaker-phone.

  Schyman coughed. ‘I’m quite sure there’s no one inside the organization who could take over,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to recruit from outside.’

  ‘And you’re still certain you want to go?’

  If there was one thing in life he was sure of, it was that. ‘The decision’s been taken,’ he said simply, as if it had been beyond his control.

  ‘What’s the position with our competitors? Any unacknowledged talent that’s starting to feel bitter?’

  Bound to be. But who wanted to appoint an embittered, unacknowledged competitor to lead the organization? What a uniquely stupid idea. ‘Difficult to say,’ Schyman said.

  ‘It’s going to be tricky finding someone of your calibre,’ Albert Wennergren said.

  There it was, at last. Recognition. Tricky. Calibre. Schyman didn’t know what to say.

  ‘That blogger’s got me a bit worried,’ the chairman went on. ‘There’ve been a number of comments this afternoon. Have you seen them?’

  Oh, yes. All twenty-eight of them.

  ‘Have you thought about responding?’

  Schyman shifted uncomfortably in his chair, which squeaked and groaned. ‘Not at the moment. That would only lend credibility to his claims.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on developments. Have you ever had any contact with her? I mean, did you ever meet her, talk to her face to face?’

  Anders Schyman stared at the phone, bewildered. ‘Who?’

  ‘Viola Söderland. After the documentary was broadcast, I mean. Since then. Anything confirming that you were right, that she’s alive and disappeared of her own volition?’

  After it was broadcast? No, he hadn’t.

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine the story’s got legs,’ Albert Wennergren said dismissively. ‘Can you do me a favour and look through your contacts one more time, see if you can come up with anyone who might be a potential successor?’

  He promised he would.

  Once they’d hung up he went back to the blog, the Light of Truth. Pretentious name. Still only twenty-eight comments. He breathed out and went back to the official page on planning regulations.

  Wind turbines didn’t need planning permission if they were less than twenty metres high, or lower than the distance to the boundary of the property. However, there were local rules for the Stockholm archipelago, stipulating that turbines mustn’t be erected within a kilometre of the nearest building – perhaps that applied only to bigger turbines of a more industrial nature.

  He’d have to call the planning office the following morning and find out.

  A young man with floppy hair and narrow glasses was sitting behind the oversized reception desk at the Christian Democrats’ headquarters, smiling the pious smile that people of faith sometimes hid behind. Annika walked up to him, trailed by Valter. ‘We’re from—’

  ‘The Evening Post,’ the receptionist filled in. ‘We’re running a little behind schedule. Would you mind waiting a few minutes?’

  They were evidently holding court, one appointment after another. The receptionist raised his shoulders apologetically. ‘Can I get you some coffee while you wait? We’ve got freshly baked lemon muffins.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be—’ Valter began.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Annika said. ‘Don’t go to any trouble on our account.’

  ‘Some water, perhaps?’

  ‘Thanks, but we’re fine,’ Annika said.

  Valter looked at the floor. The receptionist sat down, effectively disappearing behind the desk.

  Offering a journalist something to eat or drink had a calming effect on the subject of the interview, making them feel simultaneously relaxed and occupied. It increased the subject’s confidence, which could be good or bad, depending on the situation. Obviously they weren’t there to interview the receptionist, but it was difficult to exude any sort of authority while you were eating.

  Annika took a pen and notepad from her bag, and dug out her digital recorder. This interview wasn’t going to be sufficiently visual for television – old men in offices were banned, unless you were demanding explanations from a real bigwig – so she was aiming for an online audio broadcast.

&nb
sp; A moment later a door behind the desk opened and Bosse from the other evening paper stepped out into the foyer with a photographer.

  ‘Have you had a chance to check out the Light of Truth?’ Bosse asked, as he passed her.

  ‘Your turn now,’ the receptionist said to Annika and Valter. He showed them into a conference room, complete with whiteboard and a modern IT set-up.

  The party’s management committee, with the exception of the party leader, was grouped around an oval table, made of birch, and stood up as Annika and Valter walked in. The party leader was the opposition’s spokesman on international aid and, according to Jimmy, he was making the most of every opportunity to travel to as many exotic places as possible before he lost the next election and had to stand down.

  There were three men and one woman. The party secretary, Klas Borsthammar, welcomed them, and introduced his colleagues: Hans Olovsson, Bert Tingström and Marianne Berg-Holmlund. They looked sombre, as befitted the circumstances.

  ‘Please, have a seat,’ Klas Borsthammar said.

  They sat at the table. Annika started the recorder and put it down on the table.

  ‘Terrible business,’ Klas Borsthammar said, looking at Valter. ‘Incomprehensible that something like this should happen to one of our politicians, one of our most prominent representatives—’

  ‘Is that how you see Ingemar Lerberg, these days?’ Annika interrupted.

  The party secretary lost his thread and looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Is Ingemar Lerberg still one of your most prominent representatives?’ she asked. ‘I thought he’d been a local politician out in Nacka for the past seven years.’

  Borsthammar cleared his throat. Marianne Berg-Holmlund gazed at her hands, which were clasped on her lap as if in prayer.

  ‘I saw that he’s been a keen advocate of changes to social services in Nacka,’ Annika said. ‘What does the party leadership think of his opinions?’

  Hans Olovsson leaned across the table and looked straight at Valter. ‘Ingemar’s a great chap. His attitudes can be controversial, but he’s very tolerant of people who don’t share them. He’s never judgemental. I’m from Stockholm as well, and I know that Ingemar is very highly regarded in the area.’

  ‘And he’s an excellent businessman,’ Bert Tingström added.

  ‘If Sweden had more men like him, we wouldn’t have any unemployment in this country,’ Klas Borsthammar said.

  The other men nodded at the trainee. The woman turned her face to the wall. She seemed to be fighting back tears.

  ‘He was personally responsible for developing the system of coordinating maritime transport,’ Bert Tingström said. ‘It’s unique – there’s nothing like it anywhere else in the world, and he’s planning to expand it hugely over the next few years.’

  ‘And so tragic for his family,’ Hans Olovsson said. ‘Ingemar is devoted to his wife and children. This must have hit them incredibly hard.’

  The three men nodded again. The woman wiped her nose. Valter glanced at Annika, who was sitting quite still, observing the situation. When she was younger, she occasionally found that she became invisible when she was out on a job, especially if she happened to be accompanied by a male photographer who felt the need to assert himself, but it had been years since that had happened.

  ‘When was the last time any of you spoke to Ingemar Lerberg?’ she asked.

  The three men turned towards her, then looked at each other questioningly.

  ‘Well,’ said Hans Olovsson, ‘we’re in touch all the time, so it’s a bit hard to—’

  ‘Do you see each other regularly?’ Annika asked. ‘At local meetings, or at party conferences?’

  All three nodded, now looking at her and Valter. Yes, at meetings and conferences, definitely.

  ‘What does his wife say? Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No, presumably she’s at the hospital,’ Bert Tingström said. ‘At her husband’s side.’

  ‘So you haven’t spoken to her?’

  No answer. Annika looked at her notepad. She hadn’t written anything. ‘Why did you arrange this meeting?’ she asked quietly. ‘What do you want? Really?’

  Silence descended around the table. Valter squirmed. The ventilation hummed. Klas Borsthammar stared at her – she certainly had his attention now. He straightened his shoulders slightly.

  ‘We know that the media will be interested in the party leadership’s comments about what’s happened,’ he said.

  Annika met his eye. He glared back.

  ‘So what has happened?’ she said. ‘Could you describe it to me?’

  The three men glanced at each other, and the woman sniffed loudly.

  ‘Our party colleague has been grievously assaulted in his own home,’ the party secretary said, rather uncertainly.

  ‘Yes,’ Annika said. ‘That much is already clear. But what else? How did it happen? Is he going to pull through? What sort of injuries did he suffer? What can you say that we don’t already know?’

  There were several seconds of silence. Then Bert Tingström cleared his throat. ‘His arms and legs have been dislocated. And he was severely beaten as well.’

  Annika’s throat contracted. Arms and legs dislocated? There was something very odd about this business. ‘What are your thoughts on the assault? Could it have been politically motivated?’

  The men exchanged glances again.

  ‘Possibly,’ Klas Borsthammar said. ‘There are so many violent lunatics on the extreme left. One of them could certainly have attacked him. Like that man in Tucson, Arizona, the one who shot that congresswoman in the head …’

  ‘You mean the man who shot Gabrielle Giffords?’ Annika said. ‘He was hardly left-wing, surely.’

  ‘Unless there was a financial motive,’ Hans Olovsson said. ‘A successful businessman like Ingemar always runs the risk of extortion. Criminals in this country are crossing the line more and more.’

  ‘Was there anything in his political activities in recent years that was controversial enough to provoke an attack of this nature?’ Annika asked.

  ‘How controversial were the young people on Utøya?’ Bert Tingström wondered.

  He had her there, Annika thought.

  ‘Has anything happened to his business recently? Anything that could have prompted the assault?’

  They all looked at Bert Tingström. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if the expansion of the company was imminent, but Ingemar had talked about it …’

  The woman hadn’t said a word. Annika wondered what she was doing there if she didn’t have anything to contribute. She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, thanks for taking the time to see us,’ she said, reaching for the recorder.

  ‘Can I ask something of you?’ Hans Olovsson said.

  Annika stopped, and the three men stared at her.

  ‘What you did to Ingemar seven years ago was deeply dishonourable,’ Hans Olovsson said. ‘He was entirely innocent, and you in the media destroyed his political career. Bear that in mind when you write about him now.’

  They were addressing her personally, of course. Eve enticing Adam to commit sin. Even though he was the one who had bitten into the apple, it was all her fault. Annika looked the man in the eye. ‘I observe the law regarding the confidentiality of sources,’ she said. ‘I never go digging into the sources of our stories. So I don’t know how that information reached us at the paper.’ She had the impression that Hans Olovsson blushed slightly.

  She picked up her belongings, shook their hands and left the room, Valter trailing after her.

  *

  They got onto a bus outside the Palace of Nobility. Valter ended up standing next to a pushchair while she squeezed into a seat at the back. She pulled out her mobile and called the prosecutor in Nacka, Diana Rosenberg. (Making professional calls from a taxi was out of the question: in the past she had read the contents of her conversations in trade magazines and on gossip sites. Buses, on the other hand, worked fine.)

  The
prosecutor answered on the fourth ring, sounding abrupt and stressed. She couldn’t comment on the victim’s injuries and she asked for a degree of reticence in any information that was published.

  ‘Is it true that his arms and legs had been dislocated?’ Annika asked, glancing at the passengers around her. No one was taking any notice but she still took care to speak quietly.

  The prosecutor fell silent. ‘I can’t confirm anything,’ she said eventually.

  ‘What does his wife say?’ Annika asked, holding her digital recorder close to the phone.

  ‘We haven’t managed to get hold of her yet,’ Diana Rosenberg said.

  ‘No? Where is she?’

  The prosecutor didn’t answer, and Annika was struck by a flash of realization. ‘You don’t know where she is. She’s disappeared. Could the perpetrator have taken her? Has there been any ransom demand?’

  Now the young man on the seat next to her was staring at her.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ the prosecutor said.

  Her phone started to vibrate in her hand – another call waiting. She glanced at the screen: Thomas, her ex-husband. The prosecutor hung up and Annika clicked to answer him.

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  Since he had got back from Somalia where he had been kidnapped, he hadn’t been in very good shape. She felt guilt wrench at her stomach. The kidnappers had amputated his left hand, and when he was finally discharged from hospital she had left him and moved in with his boss.

  ‘I’m in a lot of pain,’ Thomas said, ‘and I’ve got loads to do at work. Can you have the children this week?’

  She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. ‘You know I can, but they’ll be disappointed. Especially Kalle.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Thomas, we’ve talked about this before …’

  ‘Can you or can’t you?’

  She swallowed. ‘Sure. But that’ll mean they’re with me this week, then all next as well.’

  ‘It’s probably for the best.’