Without a Trace Read Online Free Page B

about the billionairess? Have I missed something.’
    Schyman stood up again. Why could he never learn to keep his mouth shut? ‘So we’re not dealing with a murdered politician?’
    ‘He might die before we go to print,’ Nilsson said hopefully. ‘We’ll hold the front page for the time being.’
    A somewhat premature front page on which the man was declared dead was evidently ready to print. Well, it wasn’t up for debate: meeting the deadline was the only thing that mattered.
    ‘We’ll just have to hope we need a new one,’ Schyman said, which Nilsson took as a sign that it was time to go back to work. He slid the door open and left, failing to close it properly behind him. The sounds of the newsroom flowed in through the narrow gap: a discordant jumble of voices, keyboards, the jingles of television news channels, the dull whirr of the ventilation system.
    And soon it would be over, at least for him. The newspaper’s board had been informed and had accepted his resignation. In little more than a week his departure would be made public, and the hunt for his successor would roll into action.
    He wasn’t leaving things in a bad state. The figures from the past year had remained strong, confirming the
Evening Post
as the biggest newspaper in Sweden. He’d beaten off the competition and now it was time to relax.
    Schyman went back to his computer and looked at the screen-saver, a black-and-white photograph taken by his wife of the rocks on their island out in Rödlöga archipelago. It wasn’t much more than an outcrop. No water or drainage, electricity supplied from a generator at the back of the house, but for them it was Paradise.
    Maybe a wind turbine down by the shore, he mused. Then they could live there all year round. A satellite dish to keep in touch with the rest of the world. A jetty for a larger boat. A few solar panels on the roof to heat water, and a satellite phone for emergencies.
    He decided to look into planning permission for a wind turbine.
     
    *
     
    Nina parked the car in a reserved space next to the main entrance to Södermalm Hospital. It was pouring with rain. The hospital was the largest emergency medical centre in Scandinavia, and during her time as a sergeant on Södermalm she had been there several times each month, sometimes several times a week – everything tended to blur together, with the exception of the morning of 3 June almost five years ago. The morning when David Lindholm, the most famous police officer in Sweden, had been found dead (
when she had found David dead
), and his wife Julia was admitted to intensive care in a catatonic state.
    She got out of the car and walked through the vast foyer, with its glass roof and polished stone floor, showed her ID at Reception, explained why she was there, and was referred to a Dr Kararei, the senior consultant in the intensive-care unit. Fourth floor, lift B.
    It smelt as it always did. The corridors were scrubbed clean and poorly lit. She passed medics in rustling coats and patients shuffling along in slippers.
    She rang the bell outside ICU and had to wait several minutes before it was opened by Dr Kararei himself. He turned out to be a large man with short fingers and only a trace of an accent.
    Nina introduced herself. It felt odd saying she was from National Crime – the words didn’t seem to sit right in her mouth. ‘Is it possible to conduct a short interview with the victim?’ she asked.
    ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in private,’ the doctor said, and ushered her into an empty consulting room. It was cool, almost cold. The doctor didn’t switch the lights on. The light from the window was heavy and grey.
    ‘The patient is still in the operating theatre,’ he said, sitting heavily on a small desk. He gestured to Nina to take the patient’s chair.
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘I’d say his chances of survival are extremely uncertain.’
    If Lerberg died, the police would have the murder of a politician to deal with. Not