Red Wolf

if I speculated like that at this point. If the witness information is correct, and I mean if, then obviously we’d be open to any possible motive.’

‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’

‘No, I’m only the PR guy these days, but I’m the one you need to talk to. The preliminary investigation was allocated to Andersson, in the prosecutor’s office, I think, but she’s been in court all day so I don’t imagine she knows anything about this yet.’

When they had hung up Annika found her way to the newsroom. In a narrow room full of long tables and static electricity she found a group of lethargic editors, all white faces and evasive eyes.

‘We have to talk,’ she told the night editor.

With surprising ease the fat man got up and walked ahead of her through the room, past the sports desk, and opened the door to a small space that functioned as the smoking area.

Annika stopped in the doorway; the stench was awful. The man lit a cigarette and coughed violently.

‘I gave up nine years ago,’ he said, ‘but yesterday morning I started again.’

She took a step forward, leaving the door ajar. The walls closed in around her. She was having difficulty breathing.

‘What’s this about?’ Pekkari said, blowing a sad little plume of smoke towards the ventilation unit.

‘Benny was murdered,’ Annika said, her heart racing. ‘I have a witness who saw how he died. The police have confirmed that the witness’s story matches what they know so far. Do we have to stay in here?’

The editor stared at her like he’d seen a ghost, holding his cigarette motionless, halfway to his mouth.

‘Please?’ Annika said, unable to wait, as she pushed the door open and staggered through it.

She went over to the other corner of the almost empty sports section; one lone reporter looked up anxiously from his large computer screen.

‘Hi,’ Annika said.

‘Hi,’ the man replied, then looked down again.

‘Murdered?’ Pekkari whispered in her ear. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘Not at all. I’ll write the article, and you can publish it in its entirety, but you don’t get to release it to the agencies. We get to do that.’

‘Why would you give away something like that?’

‘Call it solidarity,’ Annika said, concentrating on getting her pulse rate down. ‘Besides, we don’t exactly share the same readers. We’re not competitors, we complement each other.’

‘I’ll get our guy onto it,’ the editor said.

‘No,’ Annika said. ‘My byline. This is my story, but you can publish it.’

He looked at her in astonishment.

‘That’s one I owe you,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Annika said, and went back to her laptop.

Thursday 12 November

11

Anne Snapphane woke up with a dull ache in her head and white lights in her eyes. Her mouth tasted disgusting and there was a terrible noise coming from under the bed. After much confusion, her brain finally worked out that it was the phone ringing. Her hand fumbled clumsily beside the bed and eventually caught the spiral cord of the receiver. She lifted it to her mouth with a groan.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ Annika said on the other end. ‘It’s fucked. If I didn’t have a mortgage I’d resign today. No, make that yesterday.’

Her voice had a strange echo, like it was hitting a glass wall.

‘What?’ Anne said, a croak that bounced off the ceiling.

‘Paula from Pop Factory forced into oral sex,’ Annika read with her echoing voice.

Anne tried to sit up.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know if there’s any point in doing this any more,’ Annika said. ‘I’ve uncovered the murder of a reporter, possibly with links to terrorism, we’re the only ones with the story, and what happens? Radio and television news have led all morning with Benny Ekland, giving us the credit, and what do we decide to run on the front fucking page? A fucking blowjob!’

Anne gave up, slumping back onto the pillows, and laid an arm over her eyes. Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer, making her break out in a sweat. A vague feeling of anxiety was turning her stomach.

I shouldn’t have had that last one, she thought vaguely.

‘Anne?’

She cleared her throat.

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten or so. I’ve come out to that bloody museum on the airbase again, and do you think the bastard who runs it is back at work? Like fuck he is, so I’m sat out here like an idiot.’

She made no effort to understand, merely accepted that she had lost it. Again.

‘That’s bad,’ she agreed.

‘Are you coming this evening?’

Anne rubbed her forehead several times, trying to remember what they’d agreed.

‘Can we talk later? I was just-’

‘I’ll be home after five.’

She dropped the receiver on the floor, where it lay emitting a dead buzzing sound. Carefully she opened her eyes again, forced herself to look at the empty space beside her.

He wasn’t there. Not any more. She looked up at the ceiling, then across at the window. She remembered his smell, his laughter, and those angry little wrinkles. The gradual realization that he would no longer be with her had left her stiff, numb and cold. They had a deal, an agreement. A wonderful child, a shared life, the perfect mix of freedom and responsibility. No guilt, no demands, just care and support. Separate homes, their daughter spending a week at one, then the other, with a few shared evenings and weekends, Christmases and birthdays.

She had kept her part of the bargain; never let any other man get too close.

But then he went and moved in with a radically monogamous woman from Swedish Television who believed in coupledom and true love.

If only the other woman had been different, Anne thought vaguely. If only she’d been nice and petite and blond and pretty and inoffensive. If only he’d picked someone for something I didn’t have, but she was the same. Same sort of look, even pretty much the same job. The sense of betrayal was somehow magnified. It wasn’t because there was anything superficially wrong with her, Anne. No, she was wrong as a person. Her attitude to life was wrong, her affections and loyalties.

As tears of self-pity started to bubble up, she forced them back with sheer bloody-minded will-power.

He wasn’t worth it.

Annika was clenching her jaw so hard it hurt.

She was not going to cry, not because of this. Not because of the stupid priorities of the nightshift. It was like being a trainee again, only worse. Then, more than nine years ago, she had had no idea of context, was able to excuse errors of judgement and getting trampled on by management by thinking she obviously hadn’t understood. There must have been a higher purpose that she was unaware of, and if she could only concentrate hard enough she’d understand. She had taken pride in being open and willing to learn, not smug, ignorant and critical like a lot of beginners.