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Liza Marklund

Red Wolf

The fifth book in the Annika Bengtzon series, 2003

Translated by Neil Smith

Originally published by Piratförlaget in 2003 as Den Röda Vargen First publication in Great Britain Corgi edition published 2010

Prologue

He had never been able to stand the sight of blood. There was something about the consistency, thick and viscous. He knew it was irrational, especially for someone like him. Recently this revulsion had taken over his dreams, presenting itself in ways he couldn’t control.

He looked down at his hands and saw they were covered in dark-red human blood. It was dripping onto his trousers, still warm and sticky. The smell hit his nose. He jerked back in panic and tried to shake it off-

‘Hey, we’re here. ’

The voice interrupted his sleep. The blood suddenly vanished, but the intense feeling of nausea remained. Sharp, cold air rushed in through the door of the bus. The driver hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to escape it.

‘Unless you want to come down to the garage?’

All the other passengers had got off the airport bus. He stood up with an effort, bent over with pain. He picked up his duffel bag from the seat, muttering, ‘Merci beaucoup. ’

The jolt as his feet hit the ground made him groan. He leaned against the frosted side-panelling of the bus for a moment, rubbing his forehead.

A woman in a crocheted hat was making her way to the local bus-stop a bit further on. She stopped next to his duffel bag; there was genuine concern in her eyes as she leaned towards him.

‘Are you all right? Do you need help?’

He reacted strongly and immediately, waving his hand in her face.

The woman didn’t move, just blinked a few times, open-mouthed.

‘Êtes-vous sourde? Je vous ai dit: laissez-moi tranquille. ’

Her face crumbled at his aggression and she backed away. He watched her go, heavy and thickset, plodding towards the number three with her bulging carrier bags.

I wonder if this is how I sound when I speak Swedish, he thought. Then he realized that his thoughts were actually formulating themselves in his mother tongue.

Indépendence, he thought, forcing his brain back into French. Je suis mon propre maître.

The woman glared at him one last time before getting on the bus.

He stood there in the diesel fumes as the buses slid away and the street emptied of people; listening to the silence of the cold, absorbing the shadowless light.

Nowhere on earth was outer space as close as it was at the Polar Circle. When he was growing up he took the isolation for granted, not realizing the implications of living on the roof of the world. But he could see the buildings, the frozen conifers now, as clearly as if they were engraved on the streets: isolation and exposure, endless distance. So familiar, and yet so alien.

This is a harsh place, he thought, in Swedish once more. A town that’s frozen solid. Just like me.