Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [154]
‘But?’ Annika said.
‘But,’ Q said, ‘because the chief prosecutor in Luleå suspects that the money was the result of criminal activity, he’s considering impounding it.’
‘That’s bad luck,’ Annika said.
‘Hang on a moment, I haven’t finished. So that you don’t fight for the money, the prosecutor has decided to give you the customary ten per cent finder’s reward.’
The carriage, and the world, suddenly went very quiet. Annika saw a shopping mall and a garden centre swirl past.
‘Really?’ she said.
‘You’ll have to wait six months. Then it’s yours.’
She did the calculations in her head, stumbling over the zeros.
‘What happens if someone claims it?’
‘They’d have to describe the object the money was in when it was found, describe roughly where it was found, and naturally how they came to be in possession of it. Are you fond of money?’
‘Not particularly,’ Annika said. ‘It’s really only exciting when you haven’t got any.’
‘True enough.’
‘By the way,’ Annika said, opening the newspaper on the seat beside her, ‘who said Blomberg blew up the plane at F21?’
‘He did, he confessed to it. Why? Do you know otherwise?’
Annika saw Thord Axelsson in front of her, his face turned grey by lifelong secrets.
‘No, no,’ she said quickly, ‘I was just wondering how it all fitted together . . .’
‘Hmm,’ Q said, and hung up.
She was left sitting there with her phone, weighing it in her hand.
Twelve point eight million. Kronor. Almost thirteen million kronor. Thirteen. Million. In six months. Was anyone likely to claim the money? Could anyone? Who could describe the bag it was found in, the place it was found?
Ragnwald and her. No one else.
And who was going to stick their hand up and say: the serial killer’s money is mine?
Thirteen million kronor.
She rang Anne Snapphane.
‘What was the flat on Artillerigatan like, then?’
Anne sighed, only just awake. ‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter past something. Was it stylish?’
‘Pure pornography; I had an orgasm the moment I entered the building.’
‘Put in an offer. You can borrow four million from me. I’ve found a load of money.’
‘Hang on, I need a pee . . .’
Annika heard the receiver hit Anne’s bedside table, as she watched the inner city rear up with its brick buildings and traffic-packed streets, swirling traffic fumes and crowds of commuters.
‘This train will reach Stockholm Central in three minutes,’ a metallic voice announced.
Annika pulled the polar jacket up over her shoulders.
‘What did you say?’ Anne said, back on the line. ‘You found a load of money?’
‘Well, I’m not exactly going to broadcast the fact, but round about Midsummer I’m going to get a reward of several million for handing it in. You can have four of them to help you move to Östermalm.’
She bit her lip and waited. No one needed to know exactly how much she was going to get.
There was a clattering sound on the line.
‘You’re mad; you do know that, right?’
The train slowed down, the rails fanning out as it approached the station.
‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘Then I’ll buy it and you can rent it from me.’
‘Look,’ Anne Snapphane said, ‘I can’t let you do this.’
Annika stood up, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.
‘You haven’t read the papers, then?’
‘You woke me up.’
‘It says in the Evening Post that Karina Björnlund isn’t planning to resign. She wants to carry on as a minister.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s wrong,’ Annika said, bracing herself for the jolt as the train stopped. ‘She’ll resign tomorrow.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I’ve got to go—’ She ended the call, jumped down onto the platform and walked back towards the exit. The air was cold, but still milder and softer than in Luleå and she filled her lungs greedily. The bag slapped against her back, the ground was solid and even.
She would do some shopping, write up the article, email it to Schyman and pick up the children early. They would have time to bake something and rent a film and watch it together as they waited for Daddy. Maybe some crisps, just this once, and a big bottle of cola. Have a meal with a starter