Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [147]
Annika glanced at the receptionist’s inquisitive ears, turned round and stretched the lead as far as she could.
‘Goodness,’ she said.
‘It says you were there when the hitman died. That you were locked up with some of the terrorists. That Minister of Culture Karina Björnlund was one of the members. That you alerted the police so that they could be arrested.’
Annika shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
‘Oops,’ she said
‘What are you planning for tomorrow?’
She glanced at the receptionist over her shoulder, who was trying hard to look as though she wasn’t listening.
‘Nothing, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m not allowed to write about terrorism, that was a direct order. I obey my orders.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Schyman said. ‘But what are you writing? We’ve torn up everything we’ve got, all the way to the centrefold.’
She clenched her jaw.
‘Not one single line. Not in the Evening Post. I’ve got a hell of a lot of material, but because you’ve forbidden me to gather it then of course I won’t be using it.’
There was a short, astonished silence.
‘Now you’re being silly,’ he eventually said. ‘That would be a very bad miscalculation on your part.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but who’s responsible for the miscalculations on this story?’
Silence echoed along the line. She knew the editor-in-chief was fighting against a justifiable instinct to tell her to go to hell and slam the phone down, but with an entirely empty news section he couldn’t afford to.
‘I’m on my way to bed,’ she said. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’
Anders Schyman started to say something, but changed his mind. She could hear him breathing down the line.
‘I’ve had some good news today,’ he said, trying to sound conciliatory.
She swallowed her derision. ‘Oh?’
‘I’m going to be the new chair of the Newspaper Publishers’ Association.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you answering your mobile, by the way?’
‘There’s no coverage up here. Goodnight.’
She handed the phone back to the receptionist.
‘Can I check in now, please?’
The door of the lift was heavy and Annika had to strain to push it open. She stumbled out onto the fourth floor, the thick carpet swallowing her steps.
Home, she thought, home at last.
Her business-class room was off to the left. The hotel corridor was tilting slightly from side to side, and she had to put her hand out to steady herself against the wall twice.
She found her room, pushed the card in, waited for the little bleep and the green light.
She was greeted by a gentle hum, and narrow slivers of light creeping round the closed curtains, her safe haven on earth. She shut the door behind her; it closed with a well-oiled click. She let her bag slide to the floor and switched on the main lamp.
Hans Blomberg was sitting on her bed.
50
She froze to ice, her body utterly rigid. She couldn’t breathe.
‘Good evening, young lady,’ the archivist said, pointing a pistol at her.
She stared at the man, his grey cardigan and friendly face, trying to get her brain to work.
‘What a long time you’ve been. I’ve been waiting for several hours.’
Annika roused her legs and took a step back, fumbling behind her for the door handle.
Hans Blomberg stood up.
‘Don’t even think about it, my dear,’ he said. ‘My trigger finger is terribly itchy tonight.’
Annika stopped and let her arm drop.
‘I can believe that,’ she said, her voice high and very thin. ‘You haven’t hesitated so far.’
He chuckled. ‘How true,’ he said. ‘Where’s the money?’
She leaned against the wall for support.
‘What?’
‘The money? The Dragon’s bequest?’
Her brain rattled into action, her thoughts rushing in a torrent, the day ran past in images and emotions and conclusions.
‘Why do you think there’s money, and why would I know where it is?’
‘Little Annika the Amateur Detective who creeps around the bushes. If anyone knows, it’s you.’
The man approached her with an ingratiating smile. She