The badger, p.3
The Badger, page 3
“What did the press say, by the way?” said Jonas, focusing on the coffee that was pouring from the machine and into his mug. The scent was dispersing in the steam.
Cecilia shook her head. “The usual stuff,” she said, cricking her neck. Her legs felt a little jittery, like they always did when she was reminded of interviews and press conferences. Each time she stood there, answering questions, she felt like a wild animal caught in the headlights. The harsh lights and camera flashes dazzled her, erasing the faces of the reporters, which allowed her to focus on their questions until she was able to make her excuses and leave. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she added.
“I’m impressed that you’ve got a hold on this, I wouldn’t be able to handle the press. If you see what I mean.” Jonas removed his cup from the machine.
“Ha, ha,” said Cecilia. “I’d give anything not to have to sit there again, telling them yet another person’s vanished without a trace from their home in the Gothenburg area. That alone would make catching the bastard worth it.”
“Definitely. But in the meantime, can’t you find a way to liven it up a bit? I don’t know, shock them, tell them the rumours about the tunnel are true or something?”
“Are you for real?” Cecilia shot him a cold glance. “Then I’d never get out of there.”
Jonas sipped his coffee. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“But anyway. There is one press conference I’m actually looking forward to holding.” Cecilia tilted her head and met Jonas’s gaze. “The one where we finally get to tell them we’ve got him. But, unfortunately, we’re never going to get there if we don’t get back to work. And be bloody thorough in our efforts.”
“I’ll make a call and ask them to take samples from upstairs,” said Jonas.
“And I’ll bring the ground workers in for questioning.”
4
TUESDAY 9 NOVEMBER
Ever wonder how I select my victims? How I go about burrowing my way into their houses, how I’m able to smash through the thick concrete beneath the basement floor? What I do with them once I’ve hauled them down into the underworld?
The following morning began like the one before. The rain was falling relentlessly from the low clouds which almost seemed to be skimming the rooftops of the brick buildings along Linnégatan. The wind was chasing away the faint memories of a nasty dream which had kept Annika awake. It blew her umbrella into a cone, making the fabric come off its spokes. She stuffed the remnants into the litter bin outside the small newsagent’s kiosk in the middle of Järntorget and gritted her teeth against the beating rain, while she trudged the rest of the way to the office.
The lock was still broken. The stairwell smelt of beer and cigarette smoke. Annika wrinkled her nose at the stench and peered under the stairs. It was vacant, apart from an upturned beer can and a few dog-ends in the beer spill. The tips had swollen into small yellow slugs in the bitter liquid. She noticed some clumps of clay on the stairs. As she made her way up, she saw more. There was a partially decayed root fragment sticking out of one of them. Someone has to mention the lock, she thought. We can’t have this. But she brushed her annoyance aside as she walked into the publishing house. There were more important things to think about. The meeting with the crisis team was supposed to start at any minute and, miraculously enough, she was on time for once.
Tobias and Katrin were already waiting in the meeting room. Rebecka came in after Annika. They merely nodded to each other instead of saying hello. Nobody liked the situation. They all acted as if everything was going to be fine, as long as they didn’t talk about the issue.
“Where’s Jesper?” asked Katrin.
“I saw him in the kitchen,” said Tobias. “He’s probably on his way.” He looked anxiously at Annika. She understood.
Jesper could be moody. In recent times he had become increasingly tetchy. He had called in sick more often than usual, although he would usually come back after a few days. But now wasn’t the time for any of them to lose focus.
“Should we start in the meantime?” said Rebecka, looking at her narrow wristwatch.
Tobias shrugged. “Sure. Maybe we should go through what we’ve got.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Annika. “So, what do we have?”
The table went silent. Nervous glances were exchanged. Bodies fidgeted. Jesper opened the door and sat down without a word. He sipped a cup of steaming hot coffee.
“Let’s get going,” said Tobias. “I’ve got von Gryning anyway, although she is asking for more time. Her stuff does sell well. That should give us something to kick off with, in any case. Doesn’t anyone have anything else?”
“Yes, before all of this I was working on a poetry collection and two new children’s books,” said Rebecka Collin. Her long pendant, shaped in the form of an oak leaf, jangled on the tabletop as she leaned forward, looking at Jesper to give him the floor.
He put his coffee cup down. “I’m almost ready with Olausson’s book on wild boar hunting. But that’s all I can come up with.”
“Not exactly a blockbuster,” said Tobias, scowling. He scratched his scalp with his pen.
“We need another Turwall,” said Katrin. “Annika, didn’t you read part three before Jan disappeared?”
“I did, unfortunately,” said Annika, drinking a little coffee. “The Easter Man. It was dire. Apelgren was already tired of his characters. All he would talk about was wanting to write a horror novel instead. I tried convincing him to give Turwall another spin, but it wasn’t an easy task. It didn’t help with his wife pressurising him a lot over it.”
For some reason or other, she happened to think about Martin. They hadn’t said goodbye to each other that morning. She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. With each month that passed with no sign of a baby, their relationship grew colder. She wrapped her dark green cardigan closer to her body as if it might warm her from the inside.
“Would it be possible to rescue the manuscript we do have, in any way?” said Katrin. “We could bring a ghostwriter in to take the helm.”
Jesper gritted his teeth before hiding his face behind his coffee mug. Annika folded her arms and prepared herself for a barbed comment or two. None came.
“But who’ll sign the publishing contract?” she said instead. “See, in that case it’d be better to do what Norstedts did with Millennium and bring in an established author who can take it on and start afresh.”
“Sure, I’ll call Lagercrantz. How much money have we got, did you say?” Tobias laughed. Nobody laughed with him and he promptly stopped.
“I think that would be difficult anyway,” said Annika. “Say what you like about Apelgren, but he had a style few can match.” The others around the table nodded in agreement. Jesper fidgeted awkwardly.
“We’ll have to come up with something else,” said Tobias. “Was there anything viable in the pile from yesterday?”
They all shook their heads. Rebecka Collin held her finger in the air. “I’ve got an idea. Sitting around this table, we’ve all got a pretty good take on what’s required to make a book a success. Couldn’t any of us write under a pseudonym?”
“Yes,” said Katrin, brightening up. “I’ve always dreamt of writing.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s too difficult to get people to buy into pseudonyms,” said Tobias.
“And besides, how are you going to manage to write an entire book in just a few months?” Jesper chipped in. “It’ll take a little bit more than the writing exercises they dish out at my evening course.”
Katrin sank into her chair. “No, you’re right about that,” she said. “But it would be fun.”
Jesper glared at Katrin, but Annika decided not to give him any attention while he was in that mood. Instead, she met Katrin’s gaze with a warm and heartening smile. “You can still write, though, Katrin,” said Annika. “But Tobias is correct I’m afraid, getting the public to buy into a pseudonym is a tough call. Especially if we’re to turn them around quickly. We need a celebrity. What about a biography?”
Rebecka Collin’s face lit up across the table and there was a glint behind her slightly oversized glasses. “What a brilliant idea! We’ve got time for that. All we need is someone with an exciting life we can put some more spin on.”
“We might have something there,” said Tobias, nodding approvingly. “A footballer, perhaps?”
“No, that’s all been done,” said Rebecka. “And our competition’s probably too strong there. But I did read about Niklas Granath in the paper not so long ago.”
“Sorry, who’s that?” said Katrin.
“He used to be married to Jaqueline Fransson, you know, the model who’s been in all of those reality TV shows. As it turns out, he had a career as a bodybuilder and model himself until they became an item. He claims she took him to the cleaners, making off with all of the money in the divorce, so he’s trying to pick himself up again by doing loads of reality TV in his own right.”
Katrin shook her head. “Does anyone really want to read about that?”
Annika secretly agreed. It didn’t sound that intriguing. But biographies were where it was at. People seemed to like them, and if what Rebecka said was true, then it might work.
“It’s got to be worth a try,” said Tobias. “Annika, didn’t you publish that celebrity chef’s autobiography a few years ago? Fancy tackling something along those lines?”
Annika sighed. “Sure, though I might’ve hoped for something better than a reality TV star.”
Rebecka raised her jet-black painted eyebrows. “But he’s still on our screens.”
“True,” said Tobias, looking at Rebecka. “No offence, but I agree with Annika. We really ought to go for someone with a higher profile, but we probably haven’t got the funds. Don’t forget that someone’s got to be paid for writing it as well.”
“Leave it to me,” said Rebecka. “Annika, if you can get hold of Niklas, I’ve got a few people who’ll probably be happy enough to put pen to paper for little to no pay.”
“Sure, that’ll be fine. But we need more than this,” said Annika. “If I go ahead, what about the rest of you?”
“I’ve got to focus on Stina von Gryning,” said Tobias. “She did deliver a semi-finished manuscript before she got bogged down after all, so I’ll see if I can’t help her polish it off any quicker.”
“I’ll make sure we’re ready with what we’ve still got in the pipeline,” said Rebecka.
There was a scraping of chair legs and a rustling of notepaper as they gathered their things and rose from their seats.
“This feels quite hopeful,” said Katrin, pushing her round glasses back up. Annika could see the irony etched in her face.
“No point in being disheartened,” Annika attempted. “Working on biographies can be quite a laugh,” she said.
“So, you and me?” Katrin’s face lit up in a smile.
“I was thinking that,” said Annika. She placed her notepad in her arms and shrugged a shoulder. “Well, we usually do work well together. By the way, Katrin, have you been thinking that there’s been rather a lot of earth on the stairs lately?”
Katrin shook her head. “No, not that I’ve noticed. How come?”
“Ah, I was just wondering.”
5
SUNDAY 14 NOVEMBER
Most of all you’re probably wondering who I am. Keep reading. Maybe you’ll get your answer.
Martin stopped the car. The hand brake creaked as he applied it a little too hard. The air inside the car felt chilly even though they had driven across almost half of the city to reach the property. They hadn’t exchanged many words during the ride. Annika wasn’t in the mood. She was worrying about what was going on at the publishing company, yet she was determined their property viewings would continue.
“Is this it?” said Annika, nodding towards the house they had pulled up alongside.
“No,” said Martin. “It’s over there. The yellow wooden house.”
The sight of it gave her a start. This was exactly the type of house she had been longing to find. Wooden fronted, yellow, with white sills, frames and gables. She smiled. It was as if the sun was emerging from behind the clouds and shining down on the little home. Her joy, however, was overshadowed by an inkling of loss in the pit of her stomach. The company might not exist in a few months. She could just as easily be out of work.
“Well, it does look nice,” she said. Her voice trailed away when she uttered the words. What if she was looking at her dream and would never be able to afford it?
“I thought you’d like it.”
They stepped out of the car. Annika buttoned up her coat and shivered. The time had come to bring the winter clothes down from the attic.
The traffic was whizzing along the E20 motorway in the background, but not enough to bother them. A few straggly thornbushes were rambling just behind the wooden gate. Annika cast a grim eye over the loathsome plants. “Well, their days are numbered,” she said.
“You can do what you want with the garden,” said Martin. “Just keep an open mind during the viewing.”
“Why do you say that? Don’t I always?”
“I’m just asking you to, while we look around,” said Martin.
They went up a few whitewashed wooden steps and opened the door. There was a muffled murmur of voices inside. Several pairs of shoes had been left any old how in the hall. An older man was busy struggling to get his thickly stockinged feet into a pair of winter boots and they were obliged to wait outside for him to finish.
A woman in a grey suit and a scarf tied around her neck peered out, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Welcome,” she said, holding out her hand. “My name’s Louise, I’m from Partille Properties. If I can just tick you off my list, you can look around the house at your own leisure.”
Annika shook Louise’s hand, attempting not to give her the once-over. The woman reminded Annika of how she used to look herself a few years ago when she had met Martin. True enough, Louise wore her hair down around her longish face, while Annika preferred hers up in a slide, but it was almost the same shade as Annika’s. Lively blue eyes glittered against her auburn hair. A hint of freckles, faded since the summer, highlighted her cheekbones like a fine layer of rouge. Louise could have been Annika’s younger sister, minus the needless love pounds she realised, looking at Louise’s narrow waist.
Martin sounded far too chummy as he said hello and took a brochure. Annika tried not to care. Jealousy was like poison to a relationship, even worse than childlessness which she couldn’t stop dwelling on. Her face managed to cloud over all the same, until Martin placed his hand between her shoulder blades and guided her towards the kitchen. That made her feel better, although she did make a mental note to start training again.
“Well, it’s not large,” she whispered in Martin’s ear.
Martin giggled a little, showing a photo from the brochure that Louise had given out. “No, but it’s spacious. Look.”
In the picture the photographer had moved the kitchen table against the wall, jamming the backs of the chairs directly against the wallpaper. In fact, there was no question of actually sitting there, or of even pulling the chairs out and there was hardly room to move towards the kitchen counter on the other side.
Annika laughed. “Lucky they got a smaller table for the viewing. Although we can probably just have a little breakfast table in the kitchen. There is a dining room after all.”
“Well, that’s the living room. But we can have the dining table there.”
Annika nodded. They continued to the living room, which was shaped like an L around the stone chimney breast and the narrow stairs leading to the floor above. Upstairs was just one bedroom and a small toilet.
“Isn’t it rather cramped?” said Annika. “I mean, down here’s just the hall, that poky kitchen and the living room. Where’s your office going to be? Or the nursery, for that matter?”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Martin. “But the location’s unrivalled and we could actually afford to develop the place.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then nodded towards a door that Annika hadn’t noticed. It was narrow enough to be confused with a wardrobe door. “And there’s one tiny detail that I forgot to mention.”
“Forgot? Like what?”
“You know what I said about keeping an open mind.” Martin smiled knowingly and opened the door. On the other side was an even narrower staircase. Leading down to a basement. A blast of damp air rushed out through the opening.
Annika’s heart was beating faster. The sight of the steps going down beneath the house caught her off guard. A cold hand was gripping at her heart. She could swear she heard a prolonged scraping sound at the foot of the stairs. She closed her eyes and swallowed while feeling her anger bubble up, fixed her eyes on Martin and pointed down the stairs.
“What have we said about basements?” she said as calmly as she could through tight lips, a sign that she was seething inside.
“Just hang on and listen, I’ll explain.”
“Why should I? I don’t want a basement.”
Over Martin’s shoulder she could see Louise eavesdropping on their conversation. Several prospective buyers were studying their brochures a little more carefully, trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed anything.
“I know,” said Martin. “But it isn’t easy finding houses which match all our requirements that we can afford. This one looked so welcoming from the outside I thought it might make up for it.”
Her cheeks flushed red. Martin was right. But he wasn’t to understand. He didn’t know anything about the things in the earth which… she forced herself to think about something else.
In the meantime, Martin had continued talking. “It’s just one room and a boiler room down there. It can be my man cave, you’d never even need to go down. We’ll develop the place and build the nursery up here. We’ll make it as cosy as you like.”
