Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [136]
They walked under the viaduct, the train thundered past, dunkdunk dunkdunk dunkdunk, wagon after wagon after wagon, casting black shadows from the railway track.
Then the last one disappeared, the end of a long tail heading towards the fiery heat of the blast-furnace.
Annika swallowed hard and found that her hands were shaking.
They reached the transformer box where Göran Nilsson had hidden his duffel bag. She glanced at the box; it was closed, sealed up.
‘Down to the left here,’ Hans Blomberg said, pushing her towards the gap in the undergrowth.
She slipped and was on the verge of falling down the slope, but grabbed hold of some branches and managed to stay upright.
‘Take it easy,’ she said lamely and walked towards the brick building.
The windows were sealed with metal shutters, a half-collapsed flight of wooden steps led up to the door, which was slightly open. Annika stopped, but Blomberg shoved her in the back.
‘Go on, in you go. It’s just an old compressor shed.’
She took hold of the door and pulled it open, noting that its lock consisted of two welded metal hasps, one with a rusty old padlock hanging from it. The same terrible stench that she had smelled behind the pine trees poured out through the door.
Ragnwald was in there.
She stepped into the solid darkness, blinking, hearing people breathing. It was icy cold inside; paradoxically it felt even colder than outside.
‘Who are you?’ Karina Björnlund said from the far left corner.
‘We have an important guest,’ Hans Blomberg said, shoving Annika further into the room, then stepping inside.
The Minister of Culture ignited her cigarette lighter. A weak flame illuminated the shed, the shadows cast across her nose and eyes made her look monstrous. Yngve the alcoholic was next to her, Göran Nilsson leaning against the wall to the right. On the wall beside him hung a picture of Chairman Mao.
Annika could feel panic rising at the sight of the murderer, the characteristic itch in her fingers, giddiness and numbness.
Calm down, she thought. Don’t hyperventilate. Hold your breath.
Karina Björnlund bent down and lit a small candle at her feet, put the lighter down, then stood up holding the candle.
‘What’s this?’ she said, looking at Hans Blomberg. ‘Why have you brought her here?’
She put the candle on a piece of rusty machinery that may have been the old compressor. Their breath hung like clouds around each of them.
I’m not alone, Annika thought. This isn’t the same as the tunnel.
‘May I present Miss Annika Bengtzon,’ Hans Blomberg said, ‘snooping reporter from the Evening Post.’
Karina Björnlund started and stepped back a step.
‘Are you mad?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Bringing a journalist here? Don’t you understand what you’re exposing me to?’
Göran Nilsson looked at them, his eyes cloudy and tired.
‘This isn’t for outsiders,’ he said, surprisingly sharply. ‘Panther, what on earth are you thinking?’
Hans Blomberg, the Black Panther, pulled the door firmly shut behind him and smiled.
‘Miss Bengtzon already knows about us,’ he said. ‘She was standing outside, so I couldn’t let her run around telling anyone.’
Karina Björnlund stepped closer to Blomberg.
‘It’s all ruined now,’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘Everything I’ve worked for all these years. Damn you all.’
She picked up her bag and turned towards the door, and Göran Nilsson stepped into the small circle of light. Annika could see no sign of a weapon. The man’s face was sunken and drawn, he looked weak and ill.
Yet Karina Björnlund still stopped mid-pace, frightened and uncertain.
‘Wait,’ he said to the minister, then turned to Blomberg. ‘Do you accept responsibility for her? Do you guarantee the safety of the group?’
Annika stared at the killer, noting his shabby appearance and slow sentences, as if he had to search for the words before he found them.
‘No problem,’ the archivist said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take care of her afterwards.’
Annika felt her feet turn to lead; her body grew heavy and turned to stone. Inside her she heard a pleading, whimpering