Red Wolf_ A Novel Part 22

'Laestadian?'

'Laestadianism is a religious movement in Norrbotten, some aspects of which are incredibly strict. No curtains, no television, no birth control.'

'Do you know why he's called Ragnwald?'

'That was his codename in the Maoist groups in Lulea in the late sixties. He kept it as his stage name when he became a professional killer, but his ETA ident.i.ty is probably French. He's most likely been living in a village in the Pyrenees, on the French side, and moving across the border pretty much at will.'

Annika could hear the children fighting it out in the television room.

'So he really did become a professional killer? Someone like Leon?'

'No, people like that don't exist outside Luc Besson films, but we know he was involved in a few a.s.sa.s.sinations for money. I have to go, and it sounds like you need to sort things out there.'

'They're fighting over a stuffed tiger,' Annika said.

'O man, your legacy shall be violence,' Q said, and hung up.

She watched the end of Pippi Pippi with the children, one on each knee, then brushed their teeth and read two chapters from the Bullerby books out loud to them. They sang three songs from the Swedish Songbook together, then went out like lights. She was dizzy with tiredness when she finally sat down to write. The letters floated across the screen, she couldn't seem to focus, and was struck by an intense sense of falling, a short second of complete helplessness. with the children, one on each knee, then brushed their teeth and read two chapters from the Bullerby books out loud to them. They sang three songs from the Swedish Songbook together, then went out like lights. She was dizzy with tiredness when she finally sat down to write. The letters floated across the screen, she couldn't seem to focus, and was struck by an intense sense of falling, a short second of complete helplessness.

She fled from the screen into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, then went into the kitchen and boiled some water, measured four spoons of coffee into the cafetiere, pouring the water on as it boiled, and forcing the metal filter down hard. She took the coffee and a mug from the Federation of Local Councils and sat down at the computer again.

Empty. She had nothing left.

She picked up the phone and called Jansson.

'I can't pull it together,' she said. 'It isn't working.'

'You'll get it together.' Jansson's voice was alive with the adrenalin of the news torrent. 'I need you now. We can help each other out here. Where have you got stuck?'

'Before I've even started.'

'Take it from scratch. One. There's a serial killer on the loose, that's the angle for the front page. Start with the summary, describe the deaths in Norrland, the quotes in the letters.'

'I'm not allowed to,' she said, and typed, 'serial killer, describe Lulea'.

'Well, just balance the information as best you can. Two. Bring in the murder of the osthammar politician, that's new and we've got an exclusive on that. The wife's story, police work. Was it murder?'

'Yep.'

'Good. Three. Then you link osthammar to Lulea and describe the police's desperate search for the killer. You've got the front page, six, seven, eight, nine; and the centrefold for your old terrorist we've already put him in.'

She made no response, just sat there in silence listening to the noises behind the editor's voice, a newsreader speaking on the television, a phone ringing, the tapping of a keyboard. The press a symphony of efficiency and cynicism.

She could see Gunnel Sandstrom in front of her, her wine-coloured cardigan and soft cheeks, and suddenly felt a huge, infinite sense of powerlessness.

'Okay,' she whispered.

'Don't worry about pictures,' Jansson said. 'We'll fix that here. There was a bit of fuss about the fact that you went to osthammar without a photographer, but I explained that you went on a hunch and had no idea you were going to get a hole-in-one. We've sorted pictures of the farm, the old girl didn't want to be in them, but we've got the boy's mother and the editor-in-chief of the Norrland News Norrland News as next-of-kin. That reporter wasn't much of a family man, if I've got that right?' as next-of-kin. That reporter wasn't much of a family man, if I've got that right?'

'That's right,' Annika said quietly.

'Any chance of a shot of the letters?'

'Tonight? Difficult. But it wouldn't be too hard to mock something up, you've got all the details.'

'Pelle!' Jansson yelled in the direction of the picture desk. 'Studio shot of some letters, right away.'

'Ordinary "Sverige" envelopes,' Annika said, 'stamps with an ice-hockey player on. The contents are just lined A4 pages from a pad, with slightly ragged edges like when you can't be bothered to use the perforations, text written in ballpoint, every other line, filling up about half the page.'

'Anything else?'

'For G.o.d's sake, make sure you say that the picture's a mock-up.'

'Yeah, yeah. When do we get your stuff?'

She looked at the time, on solid ground again.

'When do you want it?'

26.

Thomas emerged from the pitch-black interior of the jazz club onto the illuminated street, his legs soft with beer and his brain vibrating with music. He wasn't really into jazz, was more of a Beatles man, but the band tonight were good, talented, tuneful, and had real feeling in their music.

Behind him he heard Sophia's ringing laughter, her response to something the guy in the cloakroom had said. She knew everyone there, was a real regular, which is how they got the best table. He let the door swing shut, b.u.t.toned his coat and turned his back to the wind as he waited for her. The noise of the city had no rhythm, it sounded out of tune after the soft jazz. He looked up at the neon lights of the signs above him, feeling his skin reflecting pink and green and blue, fumes in his hair.

She was so at ease with life, so happy her laughter ran like a silvery spring stream over the dark floor of the club, over the heavy conference table. She was ambitious and dutiful and quietly spoken and grateful for what life gave her. With her he felt happy, satisfied. She respected him, listened to him, took him seriously. He never had to justify who he was, she never moaned or nagged, she seemed genuinely interested when he talked about his parents and childhood in Vaxholm. And she sailed as well; her family had a place on Moja.

He turned round to see her step out of the darkness and take a few tentative moves down the steps in her neat little boots and tight skirt.

'There's going to be a jam on Friday,' Sophia said. 'That gets ma.s.sive sometimes. Once I was here until half six the next morning. It was brilliant.'

He smiled into her warm eyes, sucked into the sheer blueness of them. She stood in front of him and pulled up her shoulders, put her feet close together and burrowed her hands deep into her coat pockets, smiling up at his face.

'Are you cold?' he asked, noticing that his mouth was completely dry.

She carried on smiling as she shook her head. 'Not at all,' she said. 'I'm perfectly warm.'

He gave in and pulled her to him. Her head was just under his nose. She was taller than Annika. Her hair smelled of apples. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. A violent jolt went through his body, so hot and rigid that it took his breath away, making him gasp.

'Thomas,' she whispered against his chest, 'if only you knew how much I've been longing for this.'

He gulped and closed his eyes, holding her even tighter, absorbing her smell, apples and perfume and the wool of her coat, then relaxed and saw her turn her face to his. He was breathing through his mouth as he stared into her eyes, saw the pupils contract, noticing that she was panting.

If I do this there's no way back, he thought. If I give in now I'm lost If I give in now I'm lost.

And he leaned forward and kissed her, endlessly slowly and carefully. Her lips were cold and tasted of gin and menthol cigarettes. Shivers ran up and down his spine. Then she took a little step towards him, almost imperceptible, but their teeth met and the warmth from her mouth entered his and a moment later he thought he was going to explode. Good G.o.d, he had to have this woman now.

'Do you want to come home with me?' she whispered against his neck.

He could only nod.

She let go of him and hailed a taxi, with her usual success. They stepped apart, she adopted a look that said sensible Federation of County Councils representative, adjusted her hair, and simultaneously sent him a radiant glance across the roof of the car. They climbed in their respective back doors; she gave the driver the address of her flat on ostermalm. Then they sat in their corners of the back seat with their hands clasped hard together beneath her handbag as the taxi rattled them through the city centre and up towards Karlaplan.

He paid with his business account, signing with trembling fingers.

She lived at the top of a magnificent building from 1898. The marble staircase was discreetly lit by soft bra.s.s lamps; a thick carpet swallowed their steps as she quickly pulled him towards the lift. They closed the ornamental gate and she pressed the b.u.t.ton for the sixth floor, then pulled off his coat. He let it fall to the floor, not caring if it got dirty, and took off her coat and jacket and blouse, filling his hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She moaned gently against his shoulder, both of her hands ma.s.saging his groin. Then she found the zip, opened it and pulled his erection out of his underwear. He couldn't help closing his eyes and leaning back, afraid he was going to faint.

Then the lift stopped with a jolt, she kissed him and laughed into his mouth.

'Well, project leader, come on. We're nearly there.'

They gathered their clothes and bags and briefcases and tumbled out of the lift. She hunted for the keys in her handbag, and he ran his tongue over the back of her neck as she unlocked the door.

'I have to turn the alarm off,' she whispered.

After a few bleeping sounds they were in her hallway, his hands caressing her naked waist. They moved upwards and found her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she pressed her body against him before turning round and pulling him with her onto the floor of the hall.

Her eyes were radiant, her breathing light and urgent, and as he pushed into her she held his gaze and he was lost, drowning, wanted to carry on drowning until he died, then he died and everything went black for a moment when he came.

All of a sudden he was conscious of his own panting. He was lying with his knee in one of her shoes, and realized that they hadn't even closed the door. A cold draught was making his sweaty skin shiver.

'We can't stay like this,' he said, sliding out of her.

'Oh, Thomas,' Sophia said, 'I think I'm in love with you.'

He looked at her lying beneath him with her blond hair spread over the parquet floor, lipstick smeared on her cheek, her mascara under her eyes. A sense of incredible awkwardness suddenly came over him, and he looked away and stood up. The room swayed a little. He must have drunk more than he thought. From the corner of his eye he saw her get up beside him, still wearing her bra, her skirt awry.

'That was wonderful, wasn't it, Thomas?'

He gulped and made himself look at her, slender, slightly fragile in her half-nakedness, defenceless and breathless as a small child. He forced himself to smile at her, she was so sweet.

'You're wonderful,' he said, and she stroked her hand quickly against his cheek.

'Do you want coffee?' she asked, closing the front door and unzipping the back of her skirt, letting it fall to the ground along with her bra.

'Please,' he said as she walked naked through the apartment. 'Thanks.'

A moment later she was back, wrapped in an ivory dressing gown, and holding another one, wine-red.

'Here,' she said. 'The shower's on the left at the end.'

He took the dressing gown and considered the shower for a moment. Even if Annika was asleep when he got home, it wasn't worth taking the risk.

Sophia had disappeared off to the right somewhere; he thought he could hear the hiss of an espresso machine. Cautiously he stepped into the room in front of him, and found himself in a studio with an eight-metre ceiling and huge windows facing the dull city sky. The walls were brick, the floor the same oiled oak as in the hall.

He couldn't help being impressed. This was what an apartment should really look like.

'Sugar?' Sophia called from the kitchen.

'Please,' he said, and hurried towards the bathroom.

He showered quickly and thoroughly, using the most neutrally scented soap he could find, scrubbing his crotch with a sponge. Took care not to get his hair wet.

She was sitting at a table of smoked gla.s.s in the designer kitchen when he came in wrapped in his wine-red dressing gown; she was smoking one of her menthol cigarettes.

'You have to go home?' she said, framing it as a question.

He nodded and sat down, wondering what he was feeling. Mostly he felt pleased. He smiled at her, touching her hand.

'Right away?'

He sat for a moment, then nodded. She put the cigarette out, pulled her hands away and put them in her lap.

'Do you love your wife?' she asked, staring at the table.

He swallowed. He didn't know what to say, didn't actually know whether he did or not.

'Yes,' he said, 'I think so.'

He let his subconscious conjure up images of Annika, and his response to her.

Once, when he was still living with Eleonor, he had dreamed about her, and in the dream she had had burning hair. Her head had been covered with flames, singing and dancing around her face, and she was quite unconcerned about it. Fire was her natural element, it ran like silk along her back and shoulders.

After that night he had often imagined her like that, as someone who dwelled in fire.

'She's boundless, somehow,' he said. 'Has none of the barriers normal people have, can put herself through pretty much anything if she's set her mind to it.'

'Sounds a bit uncomfortable,' Sophia said.

He nodded slowly. 'And fascinating,' he said. 'I've never met anyone like her.'

Sophia Grenborg smiled at him, a careful, friendly smile. 'I'm glad you came.'

He smiled back. 'So am I.'

'Shall I call a taxi?'

He nodded again, then looked down at his hands, waiting quietly as she went out to the phone.

'Five minutes,' she said.

He drank his coffee; it was too strong and too sweet. Then he stood up and put the cup on the draining-board. He went out into the hall and quickly gathered together his clothes, pulling them on with concise, efficient movements.