Free The Final Word by Liza Marklund Page A

and frowned. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be a bit backward? Lives in a home, or something?’
    ‘Yes,’ Nina said. ‘But she might be able to communicate. I’d like to look into it, anyway.’
    Q hesitated. ‘There are probably good reasons whyshe’s been left alone, as a matter of respect. How old is she?’
    ‘In her fifties,’ Nina said.
    He scratched his head. ‘A middle-aged woman with learning difficulties? Ask to see her medical records and check what’s wrong with her.’ He reached for a file on his desk, indicating that the conversation was over.
    Nina paused in the doorway. ‘There was one other thing, about the murder of Josefin Liljeberg.’
    Her boss looked up in surprise. ‘Josefin?’ he said. ‘That was my case, once upon a time, my first when I got to Violent Crime.’
    Nina straightened. ‘Annika Bengtzon from the
Evening Post
got in touch yesterday. She’s taking another look at the case and is wondering if she can see the preliminary investigation; unofficially, of course.’
    The commissioner drank the rest of his coffee and pulled a face. ‘Why didn’t she call me?’
    ‘You’re the boss, so you haven’t got a direct line. The prosecutor has let her have the list of witnesses, so it clearly isn’t completely off-limits.’
    Q put his mug down with a bang. ‘Have we got the case here?’
    ‘It’s among the stack of confessions Gustaf Holmerud made.’
    The commissioner groaned at the mention of Holmerud’s name. He sat without speaking for a while. ‘I remember Josefin,’ he eventually said. ‘A boiling-hot day, a Saturday. Her boyfriend did it, a nasty piece of work.His friends gave him an alibi, or we would have got him. It might not do any harm to let Bengtzon go through the file.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Quite the contrary, in fact,’ he went on. ‘If the
Evening Post
stir things up a bit, one or two cockroaches might come to the surface. Give her a copy of the file, and remind her about the confidentiality of sources. She’s not to quote from it.’ He leaned over his bundle of papers.
    Nina turned and headed off towards her office.
    ‘By the way,’ he called after her, ‘you said the right thing in court. That bastard’s guilty – let him sweat it out. He’ll know we’re keeping an eye on him.’
    Her boss had read the
Evening Post
. That didn’t improve her mood.
    Anders Schyman sat back in his chair. He had adopted a neutral expression, and was trying to stop himself frowning. He could have saved himself the trouble: Albert Wennergren, the chairman of the board, was standing with his back to him, his silly ponytail swaying gently in the breeze from the air-conditioning. He was gazing out at the newsroom on the other side of the glass wall. The staff were busy absorbing news, checking it, questioning and monitoring it, a silent film in colour with no background music.
    ‘What sort of premises do you think we’ll need after the reorganization?’ Wennergren asked, without turning.
    Reorganization?
Reorganization?
    Schyman took a deep, soundless breath to stop himselfscreaming. ‘I haven’t worked that out yet,’ he said, in a measured tone. ‘First we have to decide how many people will be needed to maintain our digital activities, and for the development of video coverage, as well as our focus on other platforms. We’ll have to compare the cost of moving against scaling back our existing premises and maybe renting out . . .’
    Now the chairman turned round, sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs, and propped his elbows on his knees. ‘And take a look at the cost of any emotional response as well,’ he said.
    Schyman was unsure what the man had meant.
    Wennergren’s gaze was fixed on him. ‘Compromising and dragging the process out, that costs money. A quick strategy, without any compromises, must be cheaper. I’d like to know by how much.’
    ‘You mean the difference?’ Schyman said. ‘A longer process that shields the staff versus . .