Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [56]
With heavy limbs she got up to see if she could find any coffee anywhere when her phone rang. The screen told her it was Thomas. She stopped where she was, hesitating as it buzzed at her.
‘I’m going to be late tonight,’ he said. The words were familiar, expected, but this time they sounded strained, not as nonchalant as they usually did.
‘Why?’ she asked, looking blindly out at the newsroom.
‘A meeting of the working group,’ he said, following the familiar track. ‘I know it’s my turn to pick up the kids, but could you?’
She sat down and put her feet up on the desk, peering out at the dull floor of the newsroom, the endless day rolling ahead of her, until her eyes reached the caretaker’s booth.
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I’ll get them. Has anything happened?’
His reply came a bit too late and a bit too loud. ‘No, nothing,’ he said. ‘What made you think that?’
She listened to the silence after his words.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she said quietly.
When he spoke his voice sounded harassed. ‘A woman rang about an hour ago,’ he said. ‘She and her husband filled in my questionnaire back in the spring. They were both councillors for the Centre Party, and now her husband has died. I’ve been on the phone ever since, trying to get the group together . . .’
Annika listened quietly, hearing her husband’s slightly strained breathing forming pulses on the line.
‘Why did she phone to tell you that?’
‘The project,’ he said. ‘They’d kept the papers we sent out about threats to politicians, and I was listed as the contact. She thinks her husband was murdered.’
Annika’s feet dropped to the floor.
‘Why does she think that?’
Thomas gave a deep sigh. ‘Annika, I don’t know if I can do this.’
‘Just tell me what happened.’ She spoke in the voice she used when the children were hysterical.
Another sigh. ‘Okay. Her husband was shot in the head with his civil defence rifle, sitting in an armchair. And that’s the problem, according to his wife, because it was her armchair. He never sat in it. If he was going to shoot himself, he would have done it in his own chair.’
Annika searched for a pen.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Do you think he could have been murdered? What do you think they’ll do to the project? Are they likely to shut us down? If they think we contributed in any way—’
‘Where does the woman live?’
He fell silent; a surprised sullenness hit her ear.
‘Huh?’
She bit her pen, hesitated and rattled it against her teeth.
‘That sounds a bit shallow,’ she said. ‘A man is dead and you’re worrying about your job.’
His reply came quick as a flash. ‘And what do you do whenever there’s a murder? All you do is moan about your bosses and your miserable colleagues.’
She held the pen still, then put it down on the desk, and there was a faint click in her left ear. She wondered if he had hung up on her.
‘Outside Östhammar,’ he said; ‘a little village in northern Uppland. They’re farmers. I don’t know how late I’m going to be – it depends on what we decide, and naturally on what the police say.’
She left his sense of grievance well alone.
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
‘To begin with they thought it was suicide, but as the wife objected they’re looking into it more closely.’
Annika put her feet back up on the desk.
‘Even if the man was killed,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t necessarily mean he was shot because he was a politician, if you get what I mean. He may have had debts, addictions, rejected children, mad neighbours, anything.’
‘I know,’ Thomas said curtly. ‘Don’t wait up.’
‘By the way,’ Annika said to the curtains, ‘what’s her name?’
A short, buzzing silence.
‘Who?’
‘The woman, of course; the wife who called you.’
‘I don’t want you getting involved with this.’
They had a silent stand-off, until Annika capitulated. ‘Your job isn’t on the line,’ she said. ‘If he was murdered then your project only becomes more important. If anyone’s going to end up in the shit it’s the politicians, because they should have started your work much earlier. With a bit of luck you can stop this sort of thing