Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [142]
Annika looked at her, this powerful woman in her thick fur, the girl who had hung out with her cousin, first sport, then politics, who got together with the leader of the gang, strong, charismatic, but then finished with him when he lost his power.
‘Shutting down TV Scandinavia to sweep it all under the carpet was a huge bloody mistake,’ she said.
Karina Björnlund looked at her like she hadn’t understood what she’d just heard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve got the email that Herman Wennergren sent you. I know why you changed the culture proposal.’
The Minister of Culture got to her feet and took three quick steps over to Annika, her swollen eyes narrow slits.
‘You, you shitty little gutter reporter,’ she said, her bloody face right in front of Annika’s. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
Annika didn’t back down, but looked into her bloodshot eyes.
‘Don’t you know?’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken before. A long time ago, almost ten years now.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I contacted you for a comment about Christer Lundgren’s trip to Tallinn the night Josefin Liljeberg was murdered. I told you what had happened to the lost archive. I told you the government was being blackmailed to conduct illegal weapons exports, and I asked you to pass on my questions to the Trade Minister. But you didn’t go to him; you went to the Prime Minister, didn’t you?’
Karina Björnlund had turned white as Annika spoke, staring at her like she’d seen a ghost.
‘That was you?’ she said.
‘You used the information to get a cabinet post, didn’t you?’
The Minister of Culture gasped loudly, suddenly colouring again.
‘How dare you?’ she yelled. ‘I’ll sue you for this.’
‘I’ve only got one question,’ Annika said. ‘Why are you getting so upset?’
‘You come here and make terrible insinuations like that? Am I supposed to have called the Prime Minister in Harpsund and forced my way into a ministerial post?’
‘Oh,’ Annika said. ‘So you got hold of him out at Harpsund? How did he react? Was he angry? Or is he really as pragmatic and rational as people say?’
Karina Björnlund fell silent, her eyes bulging.
A moment later the silence was shattered by Yngve’s empty bottle hitting the cement floor and splintering into a thousand pieces. The alcoholic slid, unconscious, down the wall and slumped on the floor.
Annika stopped focusing on the Minister of Culture and ran over to Yngve.
‘Hello!’ she shouted, slapping him lightly on the cheek with her glove. ‘Up you get!’
The man blinked. ‘What?’
She tugged open her coat, grabbed the man by the armpits and dragged him to his feet.
‘Hold on to me,’ she said, wrapping the polar jacket round him at the same time as she clasped her arms round his back. The man breathed warmly and damply against her neck, he was so skinny that she could almost fasten the coat behind his back.
‘Can you move your feet? We have to keep moving.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ the Minister of Culture said, but Annika paid her no attention, putting all her effort into getting the drunk to shuffle across the floor in a macabre and ice-cold dance.
‘Which one are you?’ Annika said quietly to Yngve. ‘Lion or Tiger?’
‘The Lion of Freedom,’ the man said through chattering teeth.
‘So where’s the Tiger?’
‘Don’t know,’ the drunk muttered, almost asleep.
‘He had the sense not to come,’ Karina said. ‘He always was the smartest one of us.’
Suddenly, over by the wall, Göran Nilsson moved, trying to get up, kicking with his good leg, his eyes staring as he tried to take his jacket off.
‘C’est très chaud,’ he said, lying down again.
‘Put your coat back on,’ Annika said, trying to go over to him, but the alcoholic had his arms round her and wouldn’t let go.
‘Listen to me, Göran, put your coat on.’
But the man slumped beneath the poster of Mao, his legs jerked spasmodically before settling, and he fell asleep. His chest was fluttering lightly under his ivory-coloured linen shirt.
‘You’ve got