Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [43]
He was rocked to sleep with the smell of horse manure in his nostrils.
16
Annika was walking through Kronoberg Park breathlessly, her steps crunching in the frost. It was cold, high pressure threatening to bring arctic weather. The tarmac was slippery with ice, the trees smothered in blankets of frost. The grass, yesterday damp and green, was now frozen stiff and swept in silver.
This was as light as it was going to get. The daylight was thin and shadowless. She lifted her head and squinted up at the porcelain-like sky – shades of blue fading to grey, white, pink clouds driven by the north wind high above.
She hurried along, the blades of grass crackling as they were crushed beneath her feet. She approached the Jewish cemetery from the back, near the place where Josefin had famously been found. She stopped by the black iron railing, her glove stroking its curves and stars, frost dusting her shoes like icing sugar.
The cemetery had been renovated a couple of years ago. Fallen, eroded lumps of sandstone had been replaced, the wild shrubbery had been cut back, the trees trimmed. And somehow the magic had vanished, the sense of experiencing a period in time that Annika had always felt there, the sounds of the city encroached in a way that they never did before, the spirits that had owned the place had gone.
Only Josefin’s was left.
She sank to her knees and looked through the railing just as she had done that time so many summers before, that hot summer when the number of wasps broke all records and the election campaign just went on and on. Josefin had been lying there, mouth open in a soundless scream, eyes dull and matt, the young girl with all her dead dreams. There was a rustle in a frozen branch, a siren bounced off the buildings on Hantverkargatan.
He got his comeuppance in the end, Annika thought. Not for what he did to you, but at least he didn’t get away with it.
And Karina Björnlund had gathered enough ammunition to get a ministerial post.
She stretched her legs, looked at the time, then left Josefin with a gentle stroke of the railing. She hurried across Fridhemsplan, the wind hitting her face in Rålambshov Park so that she was fiery-cheeked by the time she reached the entrance of the Evening Post office.
She made it to her aquarium of an office without triggering any tripwires and threw her outdoor clothing in a heap on the couch.
Ragnwald, she thought as her computer whirred into life, forcing herself to concentrate on the present. What does it mean? Who are you?
Once Explorer had started up she Googled the name, only getting a limited number of results. A summary of details about a Folke Ragnwald, died 1963; a genealogical site based in Malta; a Christian Democrat candidate, no indication for which constituency. She read quickly, checked a few more results. A French genealogical site, a German site about royalty, a newsletter about a Danish pop star. She shut down the browser and rang Suup in Luleå instead.
‘We’re a bit tied up at the moment,’ the inspector said. He sounded upset.
‘What’s happened?’
Annika picked up a pen out of reflex, immediately feeling guilty about whatever it was.
‘We don’t know yet,’ the policeman said. ‘Can you call back after lunch, we should know more then?’
Something about his voice struck a chord inside Annika, making her clench all the muscles in her face.
‘It’s Ragnwald,’ she said. ‘It’s something to do with the terrorist.’
‘Not at all. Call back after two. You’ll get nothing out of me now.’ He sounded so surprised by the idea that she didn’t think to challenge his denial.
She looked at her watch; there was no point in pressing him right now, eighteen hours before her deadline. She thanked him and hung up, and laid her notes from their last meeting on the desk in front of her. She needed another cup of coffee before she got going.
She walked along the corridors with her head down, evading people’s gaze, and got two coffees from the machine behind the sports desk. Back at her keyboard, she arranged her material,