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  Annika quickly counted her money and saw that she’d have to go to the ATM today. “So-so. Sometime in the seventies Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt exposed how the government had set up an illegal register of people’s political affiliations.”

  They were walking toward the cafeteria.

  “Right,” Berit said. “The Social Democrats panicked. They put the reporters in prison and acted pretty irrationally all along the line. Among other things, they destroyed their own archives, both for foreign and domestic affairs.”

  They took their coffee and sat down at a table by the window, not so much for the view as for the outlet of the air-conditioning overhead.

  “So no one will ever find out what they were really up to at the Information Bureau?” Annika said.

  “Exactly,” Berit replied. “No one could find out much because the archives were lost. The Social Democrats have felt safe. Until now.”

  Annika stopped munching on her chocolate doughnut. “What do you mean?”

  Berit lowered her voice. “I got a call yesterday, in the middle of the night. The foreign archive has been found.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes and no. They’ve suddenly ‘found’ copies of the archive at the Defense Staff Headquarters, with no references to original sources or documents, but still.”

  “That doesn’t mean the originals still exist.” Annika blew on her coffee.

  “True, but it increases the chances. Until last night there hasn’t been even a scrap left of the archives. Not a single document, no recordings, nothing. These are copies of large chunks of the archive, so of course it’s very valuable.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, I went over there first thing this morning.”

  “What a scoop. And right in the middle of the election campaign.”

  “You’ll never guess where they found it.”

  “In the men’s room?” Annika ventured.

  “In the mail.”

  *

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

  “Are you ready?” he yelled.

  “Yes,” his daughter squeaked.

  “Ready?” He was really hollering now.

  “Yees!” the child shrieked.

  With the sound of the child screeching in his ears, he rushed forward with the swing, pushing it ahead of him and letting it go high up in the air.

  “Iiiii!” the child shrieked.

  “Me too, Daddy! Me too! Run under me, run under me!”

  He smiled at his son and wiped his forehead. “Okay, cowboy, but this is the last time.”

  He rounded the tree, tickled his daughter’s tummy on the way, grabbed the boy’s swing, and did his “Are you ready?” routine. Then he ran under the swing but did the whole thing a bit gentler than with his daughter. His son was of a slighter build and was more timid, despite their being twins.

  “Do me again, Daddy!” his daughter yelled.

  “No, that’s it now. When the swing stops, you can come and sit with me over on the garden bench.”

  “But, Daddy…”

  He walked over to his wife, who was sitting under a parasol. The garden furniture, made of ecofriendly blue pine, was from IKEA. Sometimes he just felt so unbelievably predictable.

  “When do you have to go back?”

  He kissed his wife’s hair and sank down next to her on the bench. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “I’m hoping I can have the rest of the week off.”

  The phone rang inside the house.

  “No, you sit there. I’ll get it.”

  She got up and ran with a light step to the veranda where the cordless phone lay. Her skirt flapped around her calves and her hair danced around her tanned shoulders. His heart warmed. She answered the phone and was talking to someone. She looked over at him with surprise on her face.

  “Of course,” she said, loud enough for him to hear it. “He’ll take it in his study.”

  She put the phone down and came over to him.

  “Christer, it’s for you. It’s the police.”

  *

  Annika couldn’t get hold of Q. He was conducting an interview. She tried all the other numbers. The control room had nothing new, at the Krim duty desk she got an angry brush-off, and the press officer was busy. No one answered at Patricia’s. She found the number for Studio 69 in the phone book, dialed it, and got an answering machine. A young woman’s voice, trying hard to sound sexy, informed her of the business hours: 1 P.M. to 5 A.M. You could meet gorgeous girls, buy them champagne, watch the floor show or a private show, watch or buy erotic movies. All guests were welcome to the most intimate club in Stockholm.

  Annika felt nauseated. She called the number once more and recorded the message. Then she tried the press officer again and this time she was lucky.

  “A chief of investigation has been appointed,” he told her.

  Annika’s heart quickened. “Who?”

  “Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström.”

  “How come?” she asked, even though she’d already guessed the answer.

  The press officer stalled. “Yes, the investigation has gained some ground, and the Krim detectives thought it was time for the prosecutors to get involved.”

  “So there’s a suspect.”

  The press officer cleared his throat. “Like I said, the investigation has gained some ground and—”

  “Is it Joachim, the boyfriend?”

  The press officer heaved a sigh. “I can’t confirm that. We can’t divulge any such information at this point in time.”

  “But that is the case?” Annika persisted.

  “We’ve conducted quite a few interviews and there are signs pointing in that direction, yes. But I must ask you not to publish anything about it yet. It would be detrimental to the investigation.”

  A sense of triumph rose within her. Yes! It was him! The bastard.

  “So what can I write? Surely I could say that the police have a clear lead and a suspect, that you’ve interviewed lots of people…. Did sheever report him?”

  “Who?”

  “Josefin. Did she ever file a report against Joachim for intimidation or assault?”

  “No, not that we’ve been able to track down.”

  “What makes you think it’s him?”

  “I can’t go into that.”

  “So it’s something someone has said in an interview? Was it Patricia?”

  The press officer hesitated. “Now look, please respect what I’ve said to you. I can’t give you any details. We haven’t come that far. So far, no one has been charged with the crime. The police continue to have an open mind in their hunt for Josefin’s killer.”

  Annika realized she wouldn’t get any further. She thanked him, hung up, and called Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström. He was in court all day. She sighed. She might as well go down to the Seven Rats and get something to eat.

  *

  “Message for you,” the porter said in a surly tone, and gave Annika a note when she walked past the reception on her way up.

  Martin Larsson-Berg had called, the deputy principal at Josefin’s old school. The number wasn’t for his house but looked like an extension number.

  “I’m glad you called back,” he said energetically when she got hold of him. “We’ve opened up the youth club here in Täby a week early.”

  “Really. Why’s that?”

  “The youngsters need an outlet for their grief over Josefin’s death. We’ve got a crisis management team here to take care of all these unhappy people. A counselor, a psychologist, a priest, youth workers, teachers… Our school is making preparations for dealing with the difficult questions.”

  Annika hesitated. “Did Josefin really have that many friends?”

  Martin Larsson-Berg’s tone was extremely serious when he answered, “A crime of this nature can shake a whole generation. Here at our school we feel we need to be there for the students and support them in their trauma. You mustn’t
turn your back on a collective pain of this magnitude.”

  “And you want us to write about this?”

  “We feel it’s important to act as role models for people in similar situations. Show them that you can move on. This calls for commitment and resources, and we have both here.”

  “Could you hold for a moment?” She got up and walked over to Spike.

  As usual, the news editor was on the phone.

  “Do we want to look at the grieving in Täby? Where she came from,” Annika asked without waiting for him to finish his call.

  “What’s that?” Spike put the phone against his stomach.

  “The deputy principal of her school has opened a crisis management center at the youth club. He’s very pleased with himself. Do we want to visit them?”

  “Go,” Spike said, and returned to his phone conversation.

  Annika returned to her desk. “So where can we find you?”

  She was assigned a freelance photographer by the name of Pettersson. He had an old VW Golf that stalled at every other junction.

  I’ll never complain about Bertil Strand again, she thought.

  *

  The youth club, housed in a complex of seventies-style buildings, comprised a kitchen, a poolroom, and some couches. The boys naturally took up most of the space. The girls were squeezed into a corner, and several of them were crying. Annika and the photographer did a quick tour before Martin Larsson-Berg received them.

  “It’s important to take the youngsters’ feelings seriously,” he said with an air of concern. “We will be open around the clock for the rest of the week.”

  Annika took notes, an unpleasant feeling spreading through her. It was loud in there and the young people were upset and acting out their feelings; they were yelling at each other and were generally jittery. Two guys tried to tear the T-shirt off one of the girls in the poolroom and didn’t stop until the counselor intervened.

  “Lotta likes the boys,” Larsson-Berg said apologetically.

  Annika stared at him in disbelief. “It looked like they were trying to strip her shirt off.”

  “They’re having a hard time right now. They didn’t sleep much last night. Here’s Lisbeth, our counselor.”

  Annika and Pettersson introduced themselves.

  “I feel it’s very important to really listen to these young people,” the counselor said.

  “Can you really do that in this environment?” Annika asked tentatively.

  “The children need to share their pain with someone. They help each other overcome the grief. We welcome all of Josefin’s friends.”

  “Including people from out of town?” Annika wondered.

  “Everybody is welcome,” Larsson-Berg said emphatically. “We can help everybody who needs it.”

  “Do you do house calls?” Annika asked.

  The counselor smiled an uneasy smile. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Josefin’s best friend, Patricia— have you been in contact with her?”

  “Has she been here?” the counselor asked, a puzzled look on her face.

  Annika looked around the room. Four girls sat next to a crackling stereo, sobbing and playing Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” at high volume. Three others were writing something to Josefin with a lit candle and the graduation photo from Kvällspressen on the table in front of them. Six boys were playing cards. She couldn’t imagine Patricia setting foot here of her own free will.

  “I doubt it.”

  “But she’s very welcome. Everybody’s welcome,” the counselor declared.

  “And you’re going to stay open all night?”

  “Our support is unwavering. I broke off my holiday to be here for them.”

  The counselor smiled. Something shiny and unearthly was in her eyes. Annika stopped writing. This didn’t feel right. The woman wasn’t there for Josefin’s or her friend’s sake, but for her own.

  “Maybe I could have a word with some of her friends?” Annika suggested.

  “Whose?” the counselor asked.

  “Josefin’s.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Anyone in particular?”

  Annika gave it a moment’s thought. “Charlotta? They were in the same class.”

  “Oh, yes, Charlotta. I believe she’s organizing a mourning procession to the murder scene. There’s a lot to arrange, hiring a coach and stuff like that. This way.”

  They went into an office behind the poolroom. A young woman with a short bob and a healthy tan was discussing something over the phone. She glared at them for disturbing her, but her face lit up when Annika mouthed, “Kvällspressen.” She promptly finished the call.

  “Charlotta, Josefin’s best friend,” the counselor said by way of introduction, flashing an appropriately mournful smile.

  Annika mumbled her name and lowered her gaze. “We’ve spoken.”

  Charlotta gave a nod of assent. “Yes. I’m still in shock,” she said dryly. “It’s been such a blow.”

  The counselor gave her a sympathetic hug.

  “But together we’re strong,” Charlotta resumed. “We have to rouse public opinion against senseless violence. Josefin will not have died in vain, we’ll see to that.”

  There was passion and dedication in her voice. She would be the perfect guest on a talk show, Annika thought.

  “In what way?” Annika asked quietly.

  Charlotta shot the counselor a hesitant glance. “Well, we have to be united. And protest. Show that we won’t give way. That feels most important right now— to support each other in our grief. Share our feelings and help each other through the difficulties.” Charlotta gave a wan smile.

  “And now you’re organizing a mourning procession?” Annika remarked.

  “Yes, so far over a hundred people have signed up. We’ll fill at least two coaches.” Charlotta rounded the desk and picked up some lists of names that she showed to Annika.

  “Naturally, we’ll pay for all expenses,” the counselor interjected.

  Pettersson, the photographer, appeared in the doorway. “Can I take a picture of you two?”

  The two women, one young, one older, lined up next to each other with straight backs.

  “Could you try to look a bit sadder?” the photographer asked.

  Annika groaned inwardly, shut her eyes, and turned her back. To the great satisfaction of the photographer, the women hugged each other and quivered their lips for him.

  “We won’t take up any more of your time now,” Annika said, and moved toward the exit.

  “There are several more weeping kids out there,” Pettersson said.

  Annika wavered. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “We’ll ask them if they want to be in a picture.”

  They did. The girls cried their eyes out, the candles sparkled, and the grainy photocopy of Josefin’s graduation photo floated behind them. Pettersson took pictures of the girls’ poems and drawings, and while he was snapping away, the sound level rose to even higher levels. The youths were pumped up by the presence of the two journalists, their excitement growing fast.

  “Hey, we want to be in a picture!” two guys with pool cues in their hands shouted out.

  “I think it’s time to leave,” Annika whispered.

  “Why?” Pettersson asked in surprise.

  “Let’s go,” Annika hissed. “Now.”

  She walked off to find Martin Larsson-Berg while the photographer began to pack up his equipment. They thanked the deputy principal and left the building.

  “What’s the goddamn hurry?” Pettersson asked Annika testily on the way to the car. He was walking ten feet behind Annika, his camera bag bouncing against his hip.

  Annika replied without turning round to look at him, “That was a freak show. It could get out of hand real fast.”

  She climbed in the car and turned on the radio.

  They didn’t speak on the way back to town.

  *

  Annika had just got back to her desk when she saw the man come walking from
the far end of the newsroom. He was big and blond and the light from beyond the sports desk fell on him. She followed him curiously with her gaze. The man stopped every three feet, shaking hands and saying hello. Not until he reached the news desk did she see that the editor in chief was walking next to him, his slight figure almost invisible.

  “Could I have your attention, please,” the editor in chief said in his nasal voice over at the news desk. Spike was on the phone, feet on the desk, and didn’t even look up. Picture Pelle gave the man a quick glance and continued working at his screen. Some of the other staff stopped what they were doing and watched the men with skepticism. Nobody had asked to have a TV celebrity for editor.

  “Could you listen, please?” asked the editor in chief.

  The faces of the staff were impassive. Suddenly the big blond took a step toward Spike’s desk. Athletically, he climbed up on the long desk and walked along it, dodging the telephones and coffee mugs. He came to a stop right in front of Spike, whose eyes traveled up his body. “I’ll call you back,” Spike said, and put the phone down. Picture Pelle let go of his Mac and came over. The sound level dropped to a quiet murmur as the staff slowly gathered in the center of the newsroom.

  “I’m Anders Schyman,” the man said. “At present I’m in charge of the current affairs desk at Swedish Television. Starting on Wednesday, August first, I’ll be your new deputy editor.”

  He paused; a palpable silence filled the big room. His voice had the intensity and bass that characterized the voice-overs you’d hear on TV documentaries. Fascinated, Annika stared at him.

  The man took a step and looked out over another part of the newsroom. “I don’t know your job. You know it. I can’t teach you what to do. You know that better than anyone.”

  New silence; Annika could hear the sounds of the evening, the air-conditioning, and the traffic in the street below.

  Annika felt he was looking straight at her. “What I will do is smooth the ground for you. I won’t be driving the engine. I will break the ground and plan the tracks. I can’t lay them myself, we have to do that together. But you are the engine drivers, the stokers, and the conductors. You’ll be the ones talking to the passengers and you’ll be signaling to us so the train arrives on time. I’ll be coordinating departures and make sure that we go to the right places and that there are tracks all the way. I’m no engineer. I want to become one in time, when you have taught me all the things I don’t know. But today I’m only one thing: a media man.”