The Final Word by Liza Marklund Page B

means we can never become anything otherthan what we are born into. Imagine how the workers’ movement at the turn of the last century would have sounded if they’d acted like that. “Never mind education, carry on getting drunk! That’s your identity!” ’
    The apple seemed to expand in Annika’s mouth. Who was she? Where could she work, if not here? Was she needed anywhere, except on the ethical fringes of journalism? ‘What’s happening with the Timberman today?’ she asked, pulling her laptop towards her.
    ‘Technical witnesses,’ Berit said. ‘The mobile operator and the National Forensics Lab, then some neighbour, nothing exciting. What are you up to?’
    Annika slumped and pushed her laptop away. What was the point? Should she pack up and go home, or stay and let the tidal wave hit her along with everyone else? ‘Nina Hoffman’s managed to get me the whole preliminary investigation into Josefin’s murder, off the record, so I’m going to go through it this evening. I’ve tracked down all the witnesses: one’s dead, four still live in Stockholm, and the most interesting one, Robin Bertelsson, has moved to Copenhagen. He works for Doomsday, one of those overhyped IT companies that doesn’t have any phone lines, just an anonymous email address.’ Annika looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning, a Tuesday at the start of June, the last week, the last few days. ‘The prosecutor who was in charge of the case has retired. I’ve arranged to see him at his home in Flen.’ She tossed the apple core into the paper-recycling box and walked towards the office manager’s desk.
    The tarmac on the motorway was steaming as Annika drove south in one of the paper’s cars. The traffic was as slow and stop-start as always, which she found oddly reassuring. She was keeping an eye on her mobile, which lay silent on the passenger seat beside her. The catastrophe still hadn’t broken. There were no messages, from her sister or anyone else.
    There was a sort of loneliness in leaving behind everything familiar. She had moved away from Hälleforsnäs, but Birgitta had stayed, at least until she moved to Malmö. Why? And why choose to disappear now? Unless she hadn’t gone of her own free will?
    The turning for Skärholmen appeared ahead, one of the vast concrete housing projects from the 1960s, with a huge shopping centre that she had been to before. She pulled off the motorway and parked in a multi-storey car park the size of a small town. When she switched on the car alarm, the sound echoed off the concrete pillars.
    The mall was air-conditioned, and all the discount brands in the northern hemisphere were gathered in one place. She felt an intense sense of
déjà vu
: all of these shopping centres blurred into a single amorphous mass. She had been here with Valter Wennergren, the chairman’s son, when she had been supervising him on his work-placement. They had interviewed a man who sold a car to Viola Söderland. He’d had a flower stall, hadn’t he? Or was it vegetables? She cruised past the clothes shops and electronics stores with growing lethargy.People streamed past her, their voices scraping the inside of her head.
    She was about to give up when she found what she was looking for: a windowless shop selling phones connected to her old mobile network. She took a numbered ticket from the machine, then stood and read about their various phones and contracts while she waited for her turn. The handsets were ridiculously cheap, almost free, but in return you had to sign up to never-ending contracts for the privilege of making calls. She had fallen for it, and was still paying for a number she hadn’t used for at least six months.
    There was only one customer ahead of her, a man who looked Middle Eastern. He was holding a little girl’s hand, and spoke Arabic to the shop assistant. The child smiled at Annika and waved. She waved back.
    ‘I’ve got a question,’ Annika said, when it was her