Exposed Page 12

  The third and fourth cards showed her conscious and unconscious thoughts about her situation. Nothing odd there, either: the nine of swords and the ten of wands. Cruelty and oppression.

  The seventh and eighth cards, on the other hand, made a deep impression on her. The seventh symbolized Patricia herself, and it was the eighteenth card of the Major Arcana, the Moon. That wasn’t good. It meant she would soon face a decisive and very difficult test, and this was somehow linked to the female gender.

  The eighth card made her very thoughtful. It stood for external energies that would influence her situation.

  The Magician, the first card, symbolizing an unscrupulous communicator, a brilliant wordsmith hovering around the margins of the truth. She already had an idea of who this might be.

  The tenth card, the outcome, calmed her down again. The six of wands. Jupiter in Leo. Clarity. Breakthrough. Victory.

  Now she knew she was going to make it.

  Seventeen years, nine months and three days

  Our happiness is so strong. He holds me, always. He’s so incredibly committed, sometimes I have trouble living up to it. He gets disappointed if I don’t tell him, I have to get better at that. Our travels in time and space are endless, I love him so.

  I’ve tried to explain, it isn’t his fault. It’s me; I’m the one who can’t appreciate him the way he deserves. He’s bought me clothes that I’ve hardly worn, symbols of love and devotion. My ingratitude is based on egotism and immaturity, and his disappointment is deep, harsh. There are no excuses; we each have our responsibilities in this universal pairing.

  I cry when I realize how inadequate I am. He forgives me. Then we make love.

  Never leave me,

  he says,

  I can’t live without you.

  And I promise.

  Monday 30 July

  20

  Spike was waiting at her desk, even though she wasn’t due to start work for another hour and a half.

  ‘Berit’s just got a brilliant tip-off about another story,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to cover the murder today with Carl Wennergren.’

  Annika dropped her bag on the floor and wiped the sweat from her brow.

  ‘It just keeps getting hotter,’ she said.

  ‘Carl’s on his way up from Nynäshamn,’ Spike said. ‘Did you hear that he won the Round Gotland Race?’

  Annika sat down and switched on her computer.

  ‘No, but that’s great.’

  Spike perched on her desk and opened the other evening paper.

  ‘Well, we win today,’ he said. ‘They haven’t got the parents, or the recovered clothes. You did a good job yesterday, you and Berit.’

  Annika bowed her head.

  ‘So how do we follow that today?’ she wondered.

  ‘You won’t get the front page,’ Spike said. ‘Sales always slip on the third day. And it would have to be something pretty huge to knock Berit’s story off the front. Try to get some sort of theory out of the police; they ought to have come up with something by now. Do you know if they’re working on a particular theory?’

  Annika hesitated, thinking of Joachim, and she remembered Spike’s dislike of ‘domestic rows’.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said simply.

  ‘If the police don’t come up with something soon, this story will be running on empty,’ Spike continued. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on the murder-scene – today may be the day when the crying friends show up.’

  ‘How about a graphic, with a map of her final hours?’ Annika suggested.

  Spike lit up. ‘You’re right, we haven’t done that yet. Check what we’ve got for that, then have a word with the designers.’

  Annika made some notes.

  ‘Is anything else happening?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re being blessed with a new editor-in-chief. Anders Schyman starts work today. We’ll see how that goes …’

  Annika was cautious in her response. She’d heard the gossip about the new editor-in-chief, a former presenter of a series of documentaries for Swedish Television. She’d never met him, just seen him on television. He was tall and blond. She thought he seemed rather boorish and unpleasant.

  ‘What do you think of him?’ Annika asked warily.

  ‘That we’re in for a rough ride,’ Spike said. ‘How the fuck does some television star think he can waltz in here and teach us how to do our jobs?’

  He seemed to be expressing the general attitude in the newsroom.

  Annika dropped the subject.

  ‘Is Anne Snapphane doing anything special today, or can she help with the murder?’

  Spike got to his feet.

  ‘Miss Snapphane is suffering from a brain tumour again, and is having yet another MRI scan. Ah, Carl, bloody well done!’

  Carl Wennergren was strolling into the newsroom, clutching his trophy. Spike hurried over to him and slapped him on the back. Annika stayed where she was, dumbfounded. Good grief, poor Anne, a brain tumour!

  Her hands were shaking as she lifted the receiver and dialled Anne’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  ‘How on earth are you?’ Annika said, her voice cracking.

  ‘I’m so fucking worried,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘I feel so giddy, so weak. I keep seeing flashes when I close my eyes.’

  ‘Spike told me. Bloody hell – why didn’t you tell me?’

  Anne lost her train of thought. ‘What?’

  ‘That you’ve got a brain tumour!’

  ‘But I’ve never had a brain tumour.’ Anne Snapphane sounded confused. ‘I’ve had loads of check-ups, but they’ve never found anything.’

  Annika didn’t get it.

  ‘But Spike said … So there’s nothing wrong with your brain?’

  ‘Look, it’s like this,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘I suppose you could say that I have a fairly lively imagination when it comes to illness. I’m perfectly aware that this is the case, but it still doesn’t stop me being absolutely convinced that I’m dying at least twice a year. Last winter I nagged my doctors so much that I actually got an MRI scan. Spike thought that was hilarious.’

  Annika leaned back in her chair.

  ‘So you’re a hypochondriac …’ she said.

  Anne Snapphane gave a sad little laugh.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s the word for it. Well, I’ve still got a doctor’s appointment at half past three this afternoon. You never know …’

  ‘So how are you going to spend your days off?’

  ‘If they don’t think I need to stay in hospital, I’ll be going up to Piteå with the cats. I’m booked on the night train.’

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘See you when you get back.’

  They ended the call and Annika sat thinking about her own time off work. Today was the last of a five-day shift for her, followed by four days off. She was planning to go home to Hälleforsnäs, meet up with Sven, go and see Whiskas. She sighed. She would soon have to make a decision. Either hang around in Stockholm and try to find another job or give up the flat and move home again.

  She looked around the newsroom. Because it was Monday there were people everywhere. It made her feel clumsy and insecure. She didn’t know the names of half of them. The warm sense of belonging she had felt over the weekend had vanished. Somehow it seemed to be connected to the night-time atmosphere: strip-lights, dark windows, empty corridors and the gentle hum of the air-conditioning.

  During the day it was a completely different place, full of light and noise and confident people. She didn’t feel in control, and she didn’t feel she belonged.

  ‘Well, things have certainly been happening here while I’ve been away,’ Carl Wennergren said, sitting down rather presumptuously on Annika’s desk. Annika demonstratively pulled out a computer printout that he was sitting on.

  ‘It’s such a tragic story,’ she said.

  Carl Wennergren put the trophy down on the printout.

  ‘It’s a challenge cup,’ he said. ‘Not bad, eh?’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s lovely,’ Annika said.

  ‘The boat’s owner gets the trophy, and the others get some sort of diploma. IOR Class One, the big boats, that’s my arena.’

  ‘There are a lot of different classes, aren’t there?’ Annika said as she opened one of the news agencies’ website.

  Carl Wennergren looked at her for a few seconds without saying anything.

  ‘You’re not really that keen on boats, are you?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Annika said. ‘I often take Grandma’s rowing-boat out on the lake. I love doing that, it’s all so beautiful.’

  She didn’t look up as he got up and walked away, forcing herself to shut him and the rest of the newsroom out. She reached for a copy of the other paper. They hadn’t come up with much about the murder. She saw that they had made a fuss about a note left at the scene of the crime: We miss you. Annika shook her head and leafed through the rest of the paper, until she came to an article about what happens to relationships when the holidays are over. The number of divorces always goes up dramatically in the autumn, she read, once any hopes of keeping the marriage alive over the winter have been crushed during summer holidays. She thought of herself and her own relationship and sighed.

  ‘Goodness, you look miserable. Time for a coffee?’

  Berit was grinning at her, and Annika tried to smile back.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a scoop,’ Annika said, fishing in her bag for her purse.

  ‘Yep, a really good one,’ Berit said. ‘You know about the Information Bureau scandal, the IB affair?’

  Annika was counting her change, and making a mental note to get some more cash out today.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘That Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt found out that the government was keeping an illegal register of political affiliations during the seventies?’

  They headed towards the cafeteria.

  ‘Exactly,’ Berit said. ‘The Social Democrats panicked. They arrested the journalists and basically behaved completely irrationally. And they destroyed their archives, both the domestic one and the one covering other countries. Coffee please, and a Danish.’

  They sat by one of the windows, not for the view, but to be close to the air-conditioning.

  ‘So there’s no way of finding out what really happened at IB?’ Annika said.

  ‘Quite,’ Berit said. ‘The fact that the archives were missing put a stop to any thorough investigation. The Social Democrats have been sitting pretty. Until now.’

  Annika stopped chewing.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  Berit lowered her voice subconsciously. ‘I got a tip-off yesterday, in the middle of the night. The foreign archive has turned up.’

  Annika’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  Berit sighed. ‘Well, sort of,’ she said. ‘Suddenly a copy of the archive has been found in the Defence Ministry. There are no sources, and the original documentation is missing, but even so …’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean that the originals still exist,’ Annika said, blowing on her coffee.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but it does make it more likely. Until last night there was no proof that anything remained of the archive. These copies cover a lot of the material, so obviously they’re extremely valuable.’

  ‘Have you had a look yet?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Yes, I went over there first thing this morning. It’s all in the public domain, after all.’

  Annika nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘This is big,’ she said. ‘And right in the middle of the election campaign.’

  ‘You’ll never guess where it turned up,’ Berit said.

  ‘In the Gents?’ Annika said.

  ‘Nope. Incoming post,’ Berit said.

  21

  The minister pulled the swing back as far as he could.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he cried.

  ‘Yes!’ his daughter squeaked.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he yelled again.

  ‘Yeeees!’ the child shouted.

  With the sound of his daughter’s cry ringing in his ears, he pushed the wooden seat in front of him, then dodged underneath it as it sailed up into the air.

  ‘Aaaaaah!’ the child cried.

  ‘Me too, Daddy, me too!’

  He smiled at his son and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘Okay, cowboy,’ he said. ‘But this is the last time.’

  He went round the tree, tickling his daughter on the stomach in passing, grabbed hold of his son’s swing and went through his ‘are you ready?’ routine again. Then he gave a decent push, but not as hard as he had pushed his daughter: the boy was smaller and not as fearless as his twin sister.

  ‘Daddy, push me again!’ his daughter cried.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got any energy left,’ he said. ‘When you’ve stopped swinging, come and sit with me on the bench.’

  ‘But Daddy, Daddy …’

  He walked over to where his wife was sitting under the big parasol. The blue-stained garden furniture was made of sustainably grown pine. Sometimes he felt unbearably predictable.

  ‘When do you have to go?’ she said.

  He kissed her hair and settled onto the bench beside her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll be able to stay for the rest of the week.’

  The phone rang, and he started to get up.

  ‘No, you stay here, I’ll get it …’

  She got up and ran lightly over to the veranda, where the cordless phone was ringing. Her skirt flapped around her legs, her hair dancing over her suntanned shoulders. He felt a sudden wave of tenderness towards her. He could see her talking, then she turned and looked at him, a look of surprise on her face.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, loud enough for him to hear. ‘He’ll take the call in the office.’

  She put the phone down and went over to him.

  ‘Christer,’ she said. ‘It’s the police.’

  She couldn’t get hold of Q. He was conducting interviews. She tried all the other numbers. Central control had nothing new, the crime unit were annoyed, and the press spokesman was busy. And there was no answer when she called Patricia.

  She found a number for Studio Six in the phone book, but got nothing but an answering machine. A young girl’s voice, trying to sound sensual, explained the opening hours, from 1 p.m. to 5 a.m. You could meet nice young ladies, offer them champagne, watch a show or a private viewing, or watch and buy erotic films. Anyone curious and adventurous was very welcome to visit Stockholm’s hottest club.

  It made Annika feel a bit sick.

  She called once more and recorded the message on her tape-recorder. Then she tried the police press spokesman again. This time she got him.

  ‘A magistrate has been appointed to the case, pretrial,’ he said.

  Annika’s pulse quickened.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chief Prosecutor Kjell Lindström.’

  ‘Why now?’ she said, although she had an idea.

  The press spokesman dragged it out.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve made progress with the investigation, and the crime team thought it was time to bring in a prosecutor.’

  ‘You’ve got a suspect,’ Annika said.

  The press spokesman cleared his throat. ‘Like I said, we’ve made progress with the investigation—’

  ‘Is it Joachim, the boyfriend?’

  The press spokesman sighed. ‘I can’t comment on that,’ he said. ‘We aren’t in a position to make any statements on the matter at this point.’

  ‘But it is him?’ Annika persisted.

  ‘We’ve conducted a fair number of interviews now, and there are certainly indications that point in that direction. But please, don’t make this public yet. It would harm the investigation.’

  A feeling of triumph bubbled up inside her. Yes! It was him! The slimy bastard, the porn-club owner, the wife-beater!

  ‘So what can I write?’ Annika wondered. �
��Surely I can say that the police are following one particular line of inquiry, and have a suspect in mind. And that you’ve conducted a number of interviews … Did she ever report him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Josefin. Did she ever report him for threatening or beating her?’

  ‘No, not as far as we know.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s him?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into that.’

  ‘So it’s something someone said in an interview? Was it Patricia?’

  The press spokesman hesitated. ‘Look, you’re going to have to take my word for it,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t give you any details. We haven’t reached that point yet. No one is as yet formally suspected of having committed the crime. The police are still following a number of leads in their work to solve Josefin’s murder.’

  Annika realized she wasn’t going to get any further. She thanked him and hung up, then called Chief Prosecutor Kjell Lindström. He was in court all day. She sighed. She may as well go down to the canteen and get something to eat.

  22

  ‘There’s a message for you,’ the caretaker said sourly, handing her a note as she walked through reception on her way back upstairs.

  The headmaster of Josefin’s old school, Martin Larsson-Berg, had tried to get hold of her. The number wasn’t his home number, it seemed like it went through an exchange.

  ‘Thanks for calling back,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘We’ve opened Täby youth centre a week earlier than planned.’

  ‘I see,’ Annika said. ‘Why?’

  ‘All the grief at Josefin’s death had to be dealt with somehow,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a crisis management team in place to look after anyone who’s upset. Counsellors, psychologists, priests, youth-club leaders, teachers … The whole school is mobilized to deal with all the difficult issues raised.’

  Annika paused.

  ‘Did Josefin really have that many friends?’

  Martin Larsson-Berg sounded deadly serious when he replied. ‘A crime like this shakes up a whole generation. For our part, we at the school feel that we have to be there for our pupils, to support them through their trauma. Collective pain of this sort can’t just be ignored.’

  ‘And you want us to write about it?’ Annika wondered.

  ‘It feels important for us here in Täby that we set an example to others in the same situation,’ he said. ‘To show that life goes on. It takes a lot of commitment, and a lot of resources, and we’ve got both of those here.’