It was the woman.
“It makes a lot of sense. They want the public’s help to solve the crime and as soon as this web of lies is publicized they’re sure to get some information.”
He pointed at her. “You can draw your own conclusions. I know that you have been a fantastic help but if you can’t support me completely it’s better for you to go home. I need you more than ever, just not halfhearted.”
The woman did not conceal the fact that she considered this option. His pulse was throbbing in his temples as he waited. Not because of her—he was indifferent to her personally—but she could be the first pebble in what could become an avalanche. After what seemed like half an eternity she had made up her mind.
“If this is published, I’ll leave. There have also been some other things as of late that I don’t care for. People who have been beaten up and such. But this…” she pointed at the pages, “I can’t live with.”
Many others indicated that they shared this opinion.
M?rk did not have a lot of options, but with as much confidence as he could muster, he said, “It won’t be published.”
That promise would not be easy to keep, M?rk realized a couple of hours later. He was at the bar at the restaurant Andrikken in the center of town and Anni Staal’s mistrust was almost tangible.
“I’m not impressed that you know about Chelsea. You could have found this out from any number of places and there’s nothing that proves that you were the one who mailed me the videos, and not even your supposed outtakes change my mind.”
She held up the flash drive that he had given her.
“And it’s for the same reason. Because you could have been sent these by your supporters, but naturally I want to peek at this material. To be honest, I also have to say I couldn’t care less about your talk of a police conspiracy. The bottom line, Erik: I don’t believe you. You may have been misled yourself, who knows. I can’t be sure of your role in all of this. The only thing I know is that you haven’t said a single thing that would make me pull my article.”
Anni Staal was enjoying the situation. It was eminently clear that she held all the aces and it was equally clear that the man did not know about Konrad Simonsen’s clause. Maybe this could be used to her advantage, in case he actually had something to contribute.
“But I’m a busy woman. We have a deadline soon and it won’t help either of us to sit here and waste any more time. If we do, the decisions will be made for us. You can start by telling me who gave you a copy of my interview. That much I want to know.”
M?rk resembled the hard-pressed man that he was. The only reason he did not give Anita Dahlgren away was that he had forgotten what her name was. He did, however, remember the name of the secretary from the Dagbladet who had contacted him about the matter. Without having a copy of the interview itself. Anni Staal listened to the name.
“What do you know. Well, the next and last question on the agenda—what can you give me? You tell me that I’ve been tricked, but you have no way to prove it. For my part I’ve confirmed this information from a number of different sources. Try to see the situation from my side. Do you or do you not have anything? To put it bluntly, Erik, shit or get off the pot.”
Somewhere inside him he had known that what followed would be the eventual outcome.
“If I arrange an interview with the man who did these things, then will you wait to hear what he has to say before printing your conversation with the chief inspector? He knows what happened to the money and he’ll be able to prove it.”
“An interview with the killer himself. Not bad.”
He didn’t reply, or consider that she might be frightened.
“One day. I’ll wait one day. I want a confirmation later this evening and the interview has to be tomorrow. And one more thing. It would be best if he contacts me himself and I’m going to test him to make sure it’s him. Agreed?”
M?rk agreed. The bartender brought them a couple of drinks that they hadn’t ordered. It was a gift from a customer who had recognized Staal. She took a sip and then raised her glass to a bald older man a little farther down the bar. He smiled back at her, half drunk. M?rk toasted him as well, foolishly, then he said, “He’ll only talk to you. No cops.”
“Well what do you know. Killers are often like that. Let’s say that I’ll hear from him around eleven on my cell phone.”
She finished her drink and put her cigarettes away in her purse, then slid elegantly down from the stool and started to leave the restaurant. On her way out she gave the bald man a kiss on the forehead. Her lipstick left a mark. M?rk found it grotesque but the man smiled happily and looked very much like a pig.
CHAPTER 70