Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [26]
The time she had spent at home had given Thomas space which he had soon made his own. In three months he had got used to total service from her, with the children as accessories; his evenings free for tennis and work meetings, weekends for hunting and hockey trips. Since she had started work again, she was still doing most of the work at home. He criticized her for working, under the pretext that she needed to rest.
In fact, he just wanted to avoid heating up the meals she had prepared, she thought, surprised at how angry the idea made her.
She threw open the car door, picked up her bag and laptop and stepped onto the snowy street.
‘Pekkari?’ she said over the intercom. ‘It’s Bengtzon. There’s something I have to talk to you about.’
She was let in, and felt her way through the dark entrance hall. The night editor met her at the top of the stairs.
‘What’s this about?’
She recoiled from the smell of stale alcohol on his breath, but stood as close as she could and said quietly, ‘Benny may have come across something he shouldn’t have.’
The man’s eyes opened wide, the broken veins evidence of genuine sorrow.
‘F21?’
She shrugged. ‘Not sure yet. I need to check with Suup.’
‘He always goes home at five sharp.’
‘He isn’t dead as well, is he?’ Annika said.
She was shown to the letters-page editor’s room, where she cleared away the neat piles of angry handwritten correspondence on the desk and unpacked her laptop. She switched it on as she called the police station; Inspector Suup had indeed left at precisely 17.00.
‘What’s his first name?’ Annika asked.
The duty officer sounded surprised by his own reply: ‘I don’t actually know.’
She heard him call, ‘Hey, what’s Suup’s name, apart from Suup?’ Muttering, the scraping of chairs.
‘He’s down as L.G. on the files.’
She called directory inquiries from the phone on the desk, only to find that the number was blocked. It had been the same on the Katrineholm Post, too, a subscription to a number service had been too expensive. She pulled the plug out of the back of the phone and connected her laptop instead, changing the settings to get a connection, then went in on the Evening Post’s server.
On Telia’s website she discovered there was no Suup with the initials L.G. in the phonebook for Luleå, Piteå, Boden, Kalix or Älvsbyn. He could hardly commute further than that each day, she reasoned. Instead she went into the national census results, which, thank God, were now online. There was a Suup, Lars-Gunnar, born 1941, on Kronvägen in Luleå. Back to Telia again, Kronvägen in the address box, and voilà! A Suup had two lines at number 19. She signed out, unplugged the lead and put it back in the phone.
No sooner had she done that than her mobile rang, and she put a hand to her forehead.
‘I’m so fucked up,’ she said to Anne Snapphane. ‘Why on earth don’t I call from this phone instead?’
‘Que?’ Anne said.
The noises behind her suggested alcohol and minimalist décor.
‘Where are you?’ Annika asked.
The line crackled and hissed.
‘What?’ Anne said. ‘Hello? Are you in the middle of something?’
Annika spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’ve uncovered the murder of a reporter. Call me at midnight if you’re still awake.’
She hung up and called the first of Suup’s numbers, but reached a fax machine. She called the second and heard the theme-music of the evening news.
‘So you’re the sort of person who disturbs people at home?’ Inspector Suup said, not sounding particularly upset.
Like Benny Ekland, Annika thought, shutting her eyes as she asked: ‘That Volvo you found in Malmhamnen, was it a V70? Gold?’
The newsreader’s reliable tones filled the line for a few seconds, then the volume of the television was abruptly turned down.
‘Okay, you’ve got me really curious now,’ the inspector said.
‘There’s no leak,’ Annika said. ‘I spoke to a potential witness. Is the information correct?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Can I switch phones?’
He hung up. Annika waited for an eternity before he picked up again,