The Final Word Read Online Free PDF Page A

there. A low-energy lamp in the ceiling cast a subdued bluish-white light that seemed unable to reach the corners of the room.
    ‘Ready, Hoffman?’ Svante Crispinsson said, greeting her warmly. ‘His lawyer’s likely to go for you hard. Don’t take it personally.’
    Nina gave a curt nod. She hadn’t been expecting anything else.
    ‘Just keep a clear head.’
    Svante Crispinsson was one of the northern district’s youngest prosecutors, and Nina had had dealings with him before. He was regarded as a little disorganized, as far as investigative work was concerned, but in court he was a great asset, unafraid and combative.
    ‘Let’s see if we can keep the members of the jury awake,’ the prosecutor said. ‘The old boy at the far left has a tendency to doze off.’
    Nina got herself a cup of coffee and sat on a chair close to the door. Crispinsson leafed through his papers, muttering inaudibly to himself. His suit was slightly too large and his hair too long; he gave the impression of being confused and artless, which made him seem honest and likeable.
    She straightened her back and stared at the wall in front of her. Ivar Berglund was guilty. She was certain of it. His timid appearance was an act. There was something extremely disturbing just beneath that unassuming exterior, something impervious and untouchable that only deeply criminal people possessed. She had felt it before, had lived close to it, far too close, when she was far too young.
    The coffee was insipid.
    Giving evidence in court was the part of her job she liked least. The public hearing was a performance in the service of justice. The judge and jury needed to be convinced that the chain of evidence was strong enough for a guilty verdict. But she preferred the darkness behind the scenes, complex investigations, getting closer and closer, tightening the noose.
    A bell rang and the parties were called for the continuation of the main hearing into the case of murder or assisted murder. The prosecutor and his assistant went into the courtroom. Nina sat in the anteroom and waited, motionless. Usual practice was for the accused to be questioned first, followed by the witnesses, but Berglund had asked to be questioned last. That was unusual, but the judge had upheld his request when Crispinsson was given an assurance that he could recall certain witnesses afterwards.
    Control, Nina thought. He doesn’t want to speak until he’s heard what everyone else has to say.
    The door to the courtroom opened. She stood up,stepped into the dazzling daylight and walked straight to the witness stand without looking left or right. Everyone was staring at her as she crossed the floor: the spectators on the other side of the reinforced glass, Berglund, showing no emotion, his lawyer, openly provocative, and Svante Crispinsson, with the trace of a smile.
    She raised her hand to take the oath, and her jacket strained across her back. She had put on a bit of muscle since she’d last worn the outfit, whenever that had been. The last time she’d given evidence, presumably. She, Nina Victoria Hoffman, promised and swore on her honour and conscience to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, with no embellishments or amendments.
    Crispinsson coughed into his hand before he began to speak, and tugged at his hair. ‘Nina Hoffman, what is your job?’
    She was standing absolutely straight. She didn’t really need her suit to make her look like a plain-clothes police officer: she knew she looked like one, restrained and correct, unambiguous but lacking colour. ‘I’m a trained police officer, criminologist and behavioural scientist. I currently work as an operational analyst for the National Crime Unit in Stockholm.’
    The clerk typed, the sunlight reflecting off the strengthened glass. One of the peculiarities of the high-security court was the barrier that separated the public from those involved in the case. She was aware that the reporters behind her were hearing her