Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [29]
As tears of self-pity started to bubble up, she forced them back with sheer bloody-minded will-power.
He wasn’t worth it.
Annika was clenching her jaw so hard it hurt.
She was not going to cry, not because of this. Not because of the stupid priorities of the nightshift. It was like being a trainee again, only worse. Then, more than nine years ago, she had had no idea of context, was able to excuse errors of judgement and getting trampled on by management by thinking she obviously hadn’t understood. There must have been a higher purpose that she was unaware of, and if she could only concentrate hard enough she’d understand. She had taken pride in being open and willing to learn, not smug, ignorant and critical like a lot of beginners.
Now she knew how things worked, and the knowledge paralysed her.
Sometimes she got the impression that it was just about money. If it was just as lucrative to sell drugs, the proprietors would have done that instead. Other days things felt better. She could see the connections in the way she had been taught, commercialism guaranteed freedom of expression and democracy, the newspaper was produced according to the wishes of the readers, and the income secured continued publication.
She eased her rigid grip of the steering wheel, forcing herself to calm down. F21 disappeared behind her as she pulled onto the long straight leading to the main road. She dialled the police station, but Inspector Suup’s line was busy, and he already had calls waiting.
It doesn’t matter how good I am, she thought, failing to stifle her bitterness. The thought grew and blossomed into a sentence before she could stop it: The truth isn’t interesting, only the fantasy it can construct.
To stop herself wallowing in self-pity, and to stay on the line, she started asking the poor and increasingly stressed receptionist a pointless series of questions about the organization of the police station. The trick was to keep talking to the receptionist until the extension was free.
‘I can put you in the queue now,’ the receptionist said when Suup had ended one of his calls.
She was put on hold, but at least it was silent. An electronic version of ‘Für Elise’ would have pushed her over the edge.
She had already passed the roundabout at Bergnäset before there was a click on the line and it was her turn.
‘Well, I owe you a debt of thanks,’ Inspector Suup said. ‘Linus Gustafsson’s mother called us at seven this morning to say that her son is the secret witness in the Norrland News today. She said you’d tried to persuade the boy to talk to the police or another adult about what he’d seen; she was pleased about that. She said that the boy hadn’t been himself since Sunday night – not sleeping or eating properly, not wanting to go to school . . .’
She felt a tentative sense of calm. ‘That’s good to hear. What do you think about his story?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him myself, I’ve been stuck on the phone since you released the story to the agencies, but our officers have been at the scene with him and he seems credible.’
‘Quick work,’ Annika said, trying to sound impressed.
‘They wanted to strike while it was still dark, to get the same conditions as the time of the crime, and before the media storm broke. They seem to have made it.’
‘And . . . ?’ she said, braking at a red light just before the Bergnäs bridge.
‘Let’s just say that the investigation has gone from hit-and-run to premeditated murder.’
‘Are you going to call in the national murder unit?’
The reply was ambiguous. ‘We’ll have to see what we turn up after the first day or so . . .’
The traffic light turned green. She slid over the junction with Granuddsvägen.
‘Benny had written a whole series of articles on terrorism in recent months,’ Annika said. ‘I’m actually on my way back from F21 right now. Do you think his death could have something to do with the article he wrote about the attack out there, or anything else he wrote?’
‘I don