Without a Trace by Liza Marklund Page B

television documentary eighteen years ago about a missing billionairess, in which I listed all the evidence that suggested she was still alive. I didn’t claim she was, though.’
    ‘Oh,’ Annika said. ‘I remember that programme – they used to use it as course material at the College of Journalism. You did claim she was alive, didn’t you?’
    ‘I said that everything pointed towards the
likelihood
that she was alive,’ Schyman said.
    ‘It doesn’t sound like the Light of Truth is interested in linguistic niceties,’ Annika said. ‘“He has intentionally lied and deceived the entire Swedish people, this self-appointed crusader for honour—”’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ he interrupted. ‘How should I deal with it?’
    ‘Seriously?’ Annika said. ‘Ignore it. After all, there isn’t anything you can do about it.’ She stood up.
    The editor-in-chief’s shoulders tightened in frustration. ‘He claims I was bribed by the insurance company, and that I bought my “luxury villa” in Saltsjöbaden with the money! That’s insane. It used to belong to my wife’s parents and we bought it more than thirty years ago, twelve years before I made that documentary!’
    ‘If you start to fight him, you’ll only make him look legitimate,’ Annika said.
    ‘But he’s wrong! I can prove it – I’ve still got the deed of purchase and—’
    ‘“Speak in anger and you will deliver the greatest speech you will ever live to regret.”’
    He closed his eyes. Dear God, she was quoting Churchill at him. ‘You have a very low opinion of my ability to express myself,’ he said.
    ‘As long as the established media don’t jump on the story, there’s no need for you to worry,’ she said. She walked out of his office, closing the door behind her. He watched her go across to the desk where Albert Wennergren’s boy was waiting. Why on earth did the lad want to become a journalist when he had every opportunity to pick a well-paid, respected profession with a decent future?
    He sighed and decided to check the weather in the Rödlöga archipelago.
     
    Nina’s room was cramped, with thin, bluish-grey curtains, pale wood furniture from Kinnarp, and a window facing an internal courtyard and the brown panelling of the building opposite. She shared it with a man called Jesper Wou, whom she hadn’t met yet – he was away on international business in Asia.
    She put her gym-bag on the floor next to the bookshelf, on her side of the shared desk. Even if her colleague was away, she wasn’t about to start invading his space – that sort of thing quickly became a habit, and she’d soon find herself thinking that all his things belonged to her, that he was in the way, even when he was just sitting on his own chair.
    Her thoughts were going in circles. The violence to which Lerberg had been subjected was so precise, the torture methods used so specific that they had to mean something. She had seen violence at close quarters as a child, had grown up with it: violence as an instrument of power, a way to crack helplessness and frustration, to claim territory. But this was something different.
    She opened the most recent working document on her computer.
    ‘Nina Hoffman?’ Another colleague was looking in at the doorway, keen to say hello. This one was very tall and thin, and was wearing a baseball cap. They shook hands. ‘Welcome to National Crime.’
    His name was Oscar Gyllensköld, a police investigator with an office three doors down on the left.
    Lovely to meet you, yes, she was sure she was going to enjoy working there.
    When he shuffled away in his Birkenstocks she contemplated closing the door, but decided against it. She’d just have to put up with the introductions for a while.
    She went back to her notes, and the collection of documents, search results and extracts in the digital folder.
    Looking for answers about Lerberg’s attackers using an analytical approach was pointless. People were capable of doing anything to each