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  Annika smiled and took a large mouthful.

  ‘So tell me more, what did it look like?’

  Annika thought as she chewed.

  ‘Bare,’ she said. ‘Not properly furnished or decorated. Mattresses on the floor. As if she hadn’t really moved in properly.’

  ‘How the hell did she get a flat on Dalagatan?’

  ‘Her mum pulled some strings and paid handsomely for it. The phone’s listed under the mother’s name.’

  Anne Snapphane leaned back in her chair.

  ‘So why did she die?’

  Annika shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What are the cops saying?’

  ‘Haven’t called them yet.’

  They bought bottles of water and went back to the newsroom. Spike was on the phone; and no one else was there.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ Annika asked.

  ‘There’ve been several more forest fires around the country. I’m putting them all out, personally.’

  Annika laughed.

  Back at her desk she turned on her computer, and quickly typed up the notes from her meeting with Patricia, then saved them to a memory stick and deleted the document from the hard-drive. She put the memory stick in her bottom desk drawer.

  Annika’s phone rang, the ring indicating it was an internal call.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Tore Brand said.

  ‘Who is it?’ Annika asked.

  Tore Brand disappeared from the line, she could hear him shouting in the background.

  ‘Hey, wait! You can’t go through there …’

  Then steps returning to the phone.

  ‘He’s gone up already. I don’t think you need to worry. It was just some bloke.’

  Annika felt herself getting annoyed. Tore Brand was supposed to stop this sort of thing happening. Stupid old fool!

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wanted to talk about something in today’s paper. We’re supposed to listen to our readers,’ Tore Brand said.

  At that moment Annika caught sight of the man out of the corner of her eye. He was storming towards her, his eyes blazing.

  ‘Are you Annika Bengtzon?’ he snarled.

  Annika nodded.

  The man slammed a copy of that day’s Evening Post down on her desk from a great height.

  ‘Why didn’t you call?’ His voice broke in a spasm that seemed to come from deep in his guts.

  Annika stared at the man. She had no idea who he was.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us what you were going to write? Her mother had no idea this was how she died. And as for the fact that something had taken a bite out of her … Good God!’

  The man turned away and sat down on her desk, putting his hands to his face and crying. Annika picked up the paper he had slammed down in front of her. It was the article about what Josefin had looked like when she was found, her soundless scream and bruised breasts, with the picture of her naked leg poking out of the grass. Annika shut her eyes and ran a hand over her forehead.

  This can’t be happening, she thought. Bloody hell, what have I done? She felt shame washing over her like a hot wave, and the floor began to sway. Good grief, what on earth had she done?

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to intrude—’

  ‘Intrude?’ the man screamed. ‘How could anything be more intrusive than this? Did you imagine we wouldn’t see the shit you decided to write? Maybe you hoped we’d die too and never find out? Huh?’

  Annika was on the verge of tears. The angry man was completely red in the face, his mouth dribbling saliva. The few people in the newsroom had noticed what was happening. Spike had turned round and was staring at them. Picture-Pelle was craning his neck to see what was going on.

  ‘I really am very sorry,’ she said.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Berit appeared. Without a word she put her arm round the man and led him off to the cafeteria. He went with her without a word of protest, racked with sobs.

  Annika picked up her bag and hurried towards the rear exit. She was panting for breath and had to make a real effort to walk normally.

  ‘Where are you going, Bengtzon?’ Spike yelled.

  ‘Out,’ she called back, far too shrilly.

  She ran the last steps and threw herself at the back door. Two flights down, on the stairs outside the newspaper’s archive, she sat down.

  I’m a terrible person, she thought. This is never going to work.

  She sat there for a while, then left the building through the print-shop, and went and bought an ice-cream.

  She walked slowly down to the water through Mariaberg Park. Across the water she could hear children shouting at Smedsudden beach. She sat down on a bench to eat her ice-cream, throwing the wrapper into an overflowing bin beside the path.

  This is what it means to be alive, she thought. You hear sounds, you feel the wind and heat, you fail, and you feel ashamed. This is what it’s all about. Living and learning.

  From now on I shall never hesitate to make a call, or establish new contacts. I shall stand for what I write. I shall never feel ashamed of my work, or my words.

  She walked slowly along the shore towards the beach, then turned up the hill and went back towards the office.

  ‘You’re supposed to tell me when you leave the building,’ Tore Brand said crossly as she passed the reception desk.

  She didn’t bother to respond, just took the lift up, praying silently that the furious vicar had disappeared. He had. And so had everyone else, she noticed. Spike and Jansson would be at the handover meeting, the editors hadn’t yet arrived, and Berit wasn’t there.

  She sat heavily on her chair. She hadn’t managed to achieve anything worthwhile today. The only thing left to do was to call the police.

  The press spokesman told her that work on the investigation was proceeding. The crime unit didn’t answer her call. The operations centre hadn’t been involved in the case at all today.

  She hesitated, then decided to call the head of the investigation anyway. He’d just have to get angry if he wanted to.

  He picked up her call to the duty desk in the violent crime unit. Her pulse started to race.

  ‘Hello, this is Annika Bengtzon from the—’

  ‘I know.’

  A faint groan.

  ‘Don’t you ever rest?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’m like you, evidently.’ His tone was cold and abrupt.

  ‘I’ve just got a few quick questions—’

  ‘I can’t talk to every single journalist; I’d have no time left to do my job.’ Angry, irritated.

  ‘You don’t have to talk to everyone; you just have to talk to me.’

  ‘Yes, you would say that.’ Tired.

  Annika thought for a few seconds.

  ‘This is wasting time,’ she said. ‘It would be much quicker if you just answered my questions.’

  ‘And it would be quickest of all if I just hung up.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  She could hear him breathing, as if he was wondering the same thing.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said eventually.

  ‘I want to know what you’ve been doing today.’

  ‘Routine stuff. Questions and interviews.’

  ‘Patricia? Joachim? The others at the club? Maybe a few clients? Her parents? The twin brother? The neighbours? The fat old woman with the dog? Who’s Jesper? And who’s the minister?’

  She could sense his surprise down the line.

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said.

  ‘No, just standard research.’

  ‘We’ve found her clothes,’ he said.

  Annika felt the hairs on her arms stand up. This hadn’t been made public yet. He was giving her an exclusive.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the incinerator out in Högdalen.’

  ‘The dump?’

  ‘No, in a compressor together with a load of other rubbish. They must have been dumped in a bin somewhere on Ku
ngsholmen. The bins are emptied onto open trucks each day, then compressed with all the other rubbish picked up off the streets. You can imagine …’

  ‘Can you still use them as evidence?’

  ‘So far our experts have found part of a television, some stuffing from a sofa, pieces of banana skin, and traces of baby faeces in the fibres.’

  He sighed.

  ‘So no use at all?’ Annika said.

  ‘Not yet, at least.’

  ‘Were they torn?’

  ‘Ripped to shreds. By the compressor.’

  ‘So any fingerprints, hairs, small tears – anything that could tell you something – have been destroyed?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Can I write that?’

  ‘Do you think it adds anything?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘The clothes must have been thrown away by the killer. Someone may have seen him.’

  ‘Where? How many people do you think throw rubbish into the bins on Kungsholmen every day? Take a guess!’

  She thought back to the ice-cream wrapper down in the park.

  ‘Well … everyone?’

  ‘Quite! And it might not even have been the killer. The clothes may have been found somewhere else and put in the bin by some civic-minded citizen.’

  She waited in silence.

  ‘At least it would show that the police are doing something,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Well, that would be something.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have to say how badly the clothes have been damaged,’ Annika said. ‘There’s no need to let the killer know that.’

  He laughed again, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘The interviews, then?’

  He clammed up again. ‘I can’t say anything about that. It’s ongoing.’

  ‘With the people I mentioned earlier?’

  ‘That’s just the start.’

  ‘What about the post-mortem? Has that come up with anything?’

  ‘They keep office hours. Tomorrow, in other words.’

  ‘What sort of place is Studio Six, exactly?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and take a look?’

  ‘Do you know what sort of minister the old woman was going on about?’

  ‘What a relief that there are still some things for you to find out,’ he said. ‘I have to go. Goodbye.’

  19

  Annika sat thinking for a while. The business with the clothes was new; they could make something of that. It was a shame the police didn’t think the find more valuable, but at least they knew that the murderer hadn’t kept hold of the clothes.

  Spike, Jansson and Picture-Pelle had emerged from the handover. They were sitting talking over at the newsdesk.

  ‘I’ve got an exclusive. Well, so far, anyway,’ she said.

  The men looked up at her with the same astonished and slightly annoyed expression.

  ‘They’ve found her clothes.’

  The men straightened up and reached for their pens.

  ‘Fuck. Can we get a picture of them?’ the picture editor said.

  ‘No, but we can get one of the place they were found. The incinerator out in Högdalen.’

  ‘And are they any use?’

  Annika considered her answer.

  ‘Not really, but the police don’t want to reveal that,’ she said.

  The men nodded.

  ‘This could be really good,’ Jansson said. ‘Together with everything else we’ve got a good mixture. Look at this.’

  He held his notebook out to Annika.

  ‘I think we’ll kick off with your piece, “new line of inquiry for police”. A picture of Josefin; a picture of the tip. It’ll soon be time to get you a picture byline, Bengtzon!’

  The men laughed, friendly laughter. Annika looked down and blushed.

  ‘Then there’s the father,’ Jansson went on. ‘Berit did a fantastic interview with him.’

  Annika was astonished. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yep, he turned up here shouting about something, so Berit sorted him out. He wanted to talk, he said. She’s working on her piece with the parents as we speak. They wanted to see it first.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Annika muttered.

  ‘Then we need something about the crime-scene. Are there any flowers there yet?’

  ‘There were very few this afternoon.’

  ‘Go and see if there are any more now. Can you do that? Maybe talk to someone bringing flowers, writing a note or lighting a candle?’

  Annika sighed and nodded.

  ‘How did you get on with her classmates?’ she wondered.

  ‘Berit couldn’t find anyone, apart from your Charlotta. We’ve got a picture of her at home in her bedroom. Some of the others will probably be coming home this evening, now that the main holiday month is almost over, but we can’t worry about that. We’ve got enough for today. And we’ve got the fires, and the Middle East as well. Looks like we’ll get a war down there again …’

  The editors rolled in, keen to get working. Annika went back to her desk and wrote her piece about the police’s new line of inquiry, then packed her bag ready to head back to the scene of the murder again.

  Bertil Strand wasn’t in, so she turned on the television hanging from the ceiling. There wasn’t even a mention of Josefin on the local news.

  The main evening news devoted half its programme to the Middle East. Seven Israelis and fifteen Palestinians had been killed in fighting today. Three of them were young children. Annika shuddered.

  Then came the spokesperson of the Green Party, demanding an official inquiry into the registration of political interests and the Information Bureau debacle. Annika yawned.

  At the end of the programme came the second part of the Russian correspondent’s report on the conflict in the Caucasus. They had carried an interview with the Swedish-speaking president yesterday, and today the reporter was with the alarmingly well-equipped guerrillas.

  ‘We’re fighting for our freedom,’ their leader said, holding a Kalashnikov in each hand. ‘The President is a hypocrite and a traitor.’

  The guerrillas’ base contained women and children. The kids were laughing and playing, dusty and barefoot. The women pulled shawls over their heads and disappeared into the dark doorways of their homes. The guerrilla leader opened the door to an underground cellar and the reporter followed him into the earth. The harsh light of the camera lit up row after row of Russian weapons, boxes of mines, anti-aircraft guns, automatic rifles, hand grenades, shells and bazookas.

  Annika suddenly felt very low. She was tired and hungry. What did it matter what she wrote about a dead Swedish girl when people in other parts of the world did nothing but kill each other?

  She went to the cafeteria and bought a bag of sweets. She ate the whole lot on her way back to her desk and immediately felt sick.

  ‘How’s it going, Annika?’

  It was Berit.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Annika said. ‘The world just looks a bit bleak, that’s all. How did you get on with the parents?’

  ‘Fine,’ Berit said. ‘They had a few comments about some of it, but we agreed on most things. I got a picture of them, sitting on the bed in Josefin’s old room.’

  ‘They haven’t changed anything?’ Annika wondered.

  ‘It looks completely untouched.’

  Berit went over towards the newsdesk to tell them how she had got on. At that moment Bertil Strand appeared.

  ‘Have you got time to take a trip down to the murder-scene?’ Annika asked, grabbing her bag.

  ‘I’ve only just put the car away in the garage. Couldn’t you have mentioned it earlier?’

  Patricia was lying on the mattress behind her black curtains, sweating in the dark. Her legs ached, and she was so tired she felt sick. She didn’t have the energy to spy on Joachim. They couldn’t ask her to do that. Even the thought of it gave her goosebumps.

  She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the sounds of the city. It was evening outside
now; people were on their way to restaurants and out on dates, all short skirts and wine, beer and sweat. She focused inwards, trying to find the truth inside herself, listening to the sound of her own breathing, and sank into a state of gentle self-hypnosis.

  She conjured up Josefin’s voice from the darkness, from deep within herself. To start with the voice was bubbly and happy, rising and falling. Patricia smiled. Josie hummed and sang, light and clear. When the screams came Patricia was ready for them. She listened patiently to the thuds and blows, at Joachim’s bellowing. She hid in the shadows until he fell silent and disappeared, waiting for the crying and despair from Josie’s room. She had no feelings of guilt; there was nothing she could have done to stop it. She didn’t even feel horrified, and she wasn’t frightened. He couldn’t do any more damage now. Not to Josie.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself up to the surface. Reality came back, dull and hot.

  I must consult the cards, she thought.

  Slowly she got up, but her blood pressure didn’t keep up and she felt giddy. From her sports bag over in the corner she took out a small balsa-wood box. She opened the lid and ran her fingers over the black velvet. This was where her cards lived.

  She sat on the floor in the lotus position and shuffled the cards reverently. Then she cut them three times. She repeated this procedure twice more, just as the energies demanded. After the final cut she didn’t put the cards back together, but chose one half, picking it up with her left hand and then shuffling the cards one more time.

  Finally she laid out a Celtic cross on the wooden floor, ten cards symbolizing the qualities of the moment from different perspectives. The Celtic cross was the most perfect layout when you were faced with great changes, and she was aware that this applied to her right now.

  She held back from studying and analysing the cards until the cross was complete. Then she carefully considered her situation. Her central card was the three of swords, which stood for Saturn in Libra. She nodded, it was actually fairly obvious. The three of swords stood for sorrow, and tension in a triangular relationship. She was being encouraged to make clear and unambiguous decisions.

  The card crossing the central card, representing the obstacle, was naturally the fifteenth card of the Major Arcana, the Devil, the male gender. It could hardly be any clearer.