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  She threw her roll in the bin without even unwrapping it. She finished the coffee in three large gulps.

  Spike was already at his post, phone glued to his ear. He didn’t react to the fact that Annika had come in on her day off; that sort of thing was normal behaviour for the summer temps.

  ‘You fucked up badly on that murder,’ he said as he hung up.

  ‘The minister, you mean? It doesn’t make any sense, though,’ Annika said.

  ‘Aha,’ Spike said. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I thought I’d dig about a bit today, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Bloody lucky that we got that scoop about the Ninja Barbies,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we’d have had to run harder on the minister and the murder. And it would have looked pretty bloody weird if we’d run with two different murderers, two days in a row, don’t you think?’

  Annika blushed. She didn’t have a reply. Spike’s eyes were cold and watchful.

  ‘Thanks to Carl we managed to keep our dignity intact,’ the head of news said, spinning away from her on his chair, inadvertently showing her the beginnings of a bald patch.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘Is Berit here?’

  ‘She’s out on Fårö, trying to track down the speaker of parliament. For her IB scoop,’ Spike said without turning round.

  Annika went back to her desk and dropped her bag on the floor, her cheeks burning. Presumably she wouldn’t be getting a picture byline for quite some time now.

  She looked through what the other papers had about the minister and his suspected involvement in the murder. No one else was running very hard with the story.

  The morning papers just had short pieces about a government minister, Christer Lundgren, being questioned in relation to the murder of a young woman in Stockholm. And the other evening paper had taken pretty much the same line as the Evening Post.

  So how could Studio Six be so sure of their story? Annika wondered. They have to know more than they’re letting on. There’s a lot more to come out yet.

  The thought made her stomach churn. Why on earth do I feel so guilty? she thought.

  The air was dusty and hot in spite of the air-conditioning. She went off to the toilets and rinsed her face in cold water.

  I’ve got to get to the bottom of this, she thought. I’ve got to work this out. I’ve missed something, but what?

  She leaned her forehead against the mirror and shut her eyes. The glass was cool, spreading clarity through her sinuses and into her brain.

  The old woman, she thought. The fat old woman with the dog, Daniella’s neighbour.

  She wiped her face with a paper towel. She left behind her a smear of sweat and water on the mirror.

  The new head editor, Anders Schyman, was worried. He had been aware of the ethical difficulties that went with his new job, but he would have preferred to wait a day or two before being forced into any acrobatic manoeuvres on the moral trapeze. What on earth was this hysterical story Carl Wennergren had uncovered? A feminist combat group that set fire to cars and threatened the police … What the fuck? And not a single critical comment, just the police spokesman’s predictable comment that they took matters of this nature very seriously and were devoting the necessary resources to track down those responsible.

  Schyman sighed and sat down on the orange-flowered sofa in his little alcove. This sofa has to go, he thought. It was so ingrained with cigarette smoke that it stank like an old ashtray. He got up and sat down behind his desk instead. This really wasn’t a very nice room. There were no windows, just indirect light from the glass walls facing the newsroom. He could just make out the contours of the multi-storey car park through the windows on the far side of the sports section. With a sigh he stared at the mountain of cardboard boxes that had been delivered from Swedish Television the previous evening.

  God, what a lot of crap we accumulate, he thought.

  He decided to skip the unpacking for now, and spread the newspaper out in front of him instead. He read through the controversial articles slowly one more time. He may not be legally responsible for the paper’s contents, but he knew that from now on he needed to be aware of the mechanisms that shaped the paper’s editorial line, as well as its contents.

  There was something not quite right about the terrorism article. How on earth could their reporter have been at the right place at exactly the right time, and how come the women spoke to him? ‘He got a tip-off,’ was all Spike had said. That wasn’t good enough. If the group wanted maximum publicity, they would have filmed and documented their actions themselves, then sent them to all the media. But if they did that, their problem would be that they wouldn’t have control of how it was used. So they must have had some sort of arrangement, or they’d imposed a set of conditions. Something odd, anyway.

  He’d have to look into this with the reporter.

  The story about the minister wasn’t quite as peculiar. It wasn’t impossible for government ministers to be questioned about various crimes. Personally he thought that the radio programme had gone too far when it identified Christer Lundgren as a suspect. As far as he could make out, there was nothing to suggest that. Even so, a paper like the Evening Post had to cover the story.

  Anders Schyman sighed.

  He may as well get used to it.

  30

  No one answered. Annika rang and rang, but the old woman was pretending not to be at home. She could hear the dog’s panting breath through the letterbox, and the woman’s heavy steps on the floor.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ she called through the letterbox. ‘I just want to ask you some quick questions. Please, just open the door!’

  The steps fell silent, but the dog carried on panting. She waited another five minutes.

  Stupid woman, Annika thought, and rang on Daniella Hermansson’s door instead. The young woman opened, her child and a baby’s bottle in her arms.

  ‘Oh, hello! It’s you!’ Daniella Hermansson exclaimed happily. ‘Come in! It’s a bit of a mess, but you know how it is with small children …’

  Annika muttered something and stepped into the dark hall. The flat was long and narrow, and had been decorated and polished to within an inch of its life. There was a large mirror and a chest of drawers in front of her, and on top of that a blue glass vase with carved wooden tulips. Annika shuddered as she saw her own reflection. She looked pale in spite of her suntan, her cheeks drawn. She quickly looked away and took off her sandals.

  ‘What a wonderful summer we’re having, don’t you think?’ Daniella chirruped from the kitchen. ‘Feel free to look round, by the way.’

  Annika dutifully looked into the bedroom and sitting room, and said that the flat was lovely, and that the lease must have cost a fortune.

  ‘It’s awful, this business with Christer Lundgren,’ Daniella said as the coffee machine spluttered between them on the kitchen table. The child was clutching Annika’s leg and dribbling on her skirt, but she tried to ignore him.

  ‘How do you mean?’ she asked, taking a bite of one of the low-fat biscuits.

  ‘As if he could be a murderer, it’s crazy. He’s a bit of a skinflint, but he isn’t the violent sort …’

  Annika’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘You know him?’

  Daniella poured weak coffee into some cups from the fifties.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said, offended. ‘He’s been putting the brakes on plans to renovate the front of the building for over a year now. Milk and sugar?’

  Annika blinked in confusion and gulped the coffee.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t quite understand?’

  ‘It isn’t really his flat; it belongs to some newspaper, a Social Democrat paper up in Luleå. He’s chairman of the board and has been treating the flat like it’s his own for the past year or so. He’s really mean.’

  Daniella refilled Annika’s cup.

  ‘So he lives in this building!’ Annika said.

  ‘Fourth floor of the western stairwell,’ Danie
lla said. ‘One and a half rooms, forty square metres. Balcony. A nice little flat. The price of flats here is something like fourteen thousand kronor per square metre these days.’

  Annika finished her second cup and leaned back.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Fifty metres from the scene of the murder.’

  ‘More coffee?’ Daniella said.

  ‘Mean, you say? In what way?’

  ‘I’m secretary of the residents’ committee,’ she said. ‘Christer’s one of the members. Every time we discuss any improvements or renovations, he always opposes them. He flatly refuses to see the service charges go up. I think it’s pathetic. He hasn’t even bought his flat like the rest of us, he’s just sponging off one of the party’s papers, and the service charge is the only thing he has to pay. Oh, come here, darling …’

  Daniella picked up her son. He promptly upset his mother’s coffee cup, and the warm liquid ran across the table and into Annika’s lap. It wasn’t hot enough to burn, just left yet another stain on her skirt.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Annika said.

  Daniella rushed over with an evil-smelling dishcloth and tried to wipe her skirt, but Annika slipped quickly into the hall and pulled on her sandals.

  ‘Well, bye for now,’ she said, and went out into the stairwell.

  ‘I’m really sorry, he didn’t mean to …’

  Annika walked down the stairs to the ground floor, then went past the door and across to the other lift. It wasn’t working. She groaned and started walking up the stairs. By the third floor she was shattered and had to stop and catch her breath.

  I really ought to start taking vitamin pills, she thought.

  She padded up the last flight, breathing deeply and silently through her open mouth, and looked at the eight apartment doors. Hessler. Carlsson. Lethander and Son. HB Lundgren. She stared at the minister’s letterbox. His name was handwritten and taped onto the plastic of the actual name-plate. She walked slowly over to it, listening intently. She put her finger to the doorbell, then hesitated. Instead, she opened the letterbox. A warm stream of air flowed out at her from inside the flat.

  At that moment a phone started to ring inside. Aghast, she let go of the letterbox, which closed without a sound. She put her ear to the door. The ringing had stopped, so someone must have answered. She could make out an indistinct male voice. Her upper lip started to sweat, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. She looked at the letterbox. She really shouldn’t do this.

  Mind you, the Social Democrats bugged and burgled flats, she thought. So surely I can eavesdrop a bit …

  She bent over and opened the letterbox again. The warm air hit her in the face. She turned her head and put her ear to the gap, into the stream of air.

  ‘I’ve got to attend another session of questioning,’ she thought she could hear a male voice say through the rush of air.

  Silence. She changed position to be able to hear better.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not good.’

  Another silence. Sweat was running down her cleavage now. When the voice spoke again it was louder, more agitated.

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do, then? The girl’s dead, for fuck’s sake!’

  Annika sank to her knees to be more comfortable. She thought she could hear him clearing his throat, then footsteps. Then the voice again, quieter now.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m not going to say anything. No, I’m not going to confess. What the hell do you take me for?’

  The door opposite, Hessler’s, opened. Annika’s heart leaped, and she jumped clumsily to her feet. She put her finger firmly on the doorbell and glanced at Hessler out of the corner of her eye. He must have been eighty, and he was holding a little white dog on a lead. He glared suspiciously at Annika, and Annika looked up and smiled.

  ‘Isn’t it hot?’ she said.

  The man didn’t answer. He walked over to the lift instead.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not working,’ Annika said, and rang again.

  She stared at the bright spot of light in the door’s spyhole. Suddenly it went dark: someone was blocking the light. She looked right at the spyhole and tried to look pleasant. Still the door didn’t open. She rang again. The darkness vanished and the spyhole shone brightly again. Nothing happened. She rang a fourth time.

  ‘Hello?’ she called quietly through the letterbox. ‘My name’s Annika Bengtzon, I’m from the Evening Post. I’d like to ask you a few questions …’

  Hessler started to shuffle down the stairs, his dog a few steps ahead of him.

  She rang again.

  ‘Go away,’ said a voice from inside the flat.

  Annika’s breathing quickened, and she realized that she really needed a pee.

  ‘It’ll only get worse if you don’t say anything,’ she said, and gulped.

  ‘Rubbish,’ the minister said.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Could I use your toilet?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She crossed her legs. Daniella’s weak coffee was about to burst her bladder.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I really need the toilet.’

  The door opened.

  ‘I’ve never heard that one before,’ the minister said.

  ‘Where is it?’ Annika said.

  He pointed at a pale green door on the left. She stumbled in and closed the door behind her, breathed out, flushed and washed her hands.

  The flat was extremely light and unpleasantly hot. The rooms were all linked, so you could walk from the kitchen into the dining room, then into the living room and back to the hall.

  ‘Okay, you’re leaving now,’ the minister said from the doorway of the main room.

  She looked at the man in front of her with curiosity. He seemed tired and pale, and was wearing a white shirt that he hadn’t bothered to button, and crumpled black trousers. His hair was a mess and he hadn’t shaved.

  Good-looking, Annika thought. She smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Needs must …’

  The words hung ambiguously between them. He turned and went back into the room.

  ‘Close the door behind you,’ he said.

  She followed him into the room.

  ‘I don’t believe you did it,’ she said.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he said.

  ‘Research,’ she said.

  He sat down on the bed without replying. Annika stood in front of him.

  ‘But you did see something, didn’t you? That’s why they’re questioning you, isn’t it?’

  The minister looked up at her with tired eyes.

  ‘There’s hardly anyone who knows where I live,’ he said. ‘How did you know you’d find me here?’

  Annika looked hard at the man.

  ‘You’re hiding something, aren’t you? What is it that you aren’t able to say?’

  The minister stood up quickly and walked right up to her.

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ he said. ‘Go, before I throw you out!’

  Annika gulped, held up both hands and started to back away to the door.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I’m going. Thanks for letting me use your bathroom …’

  She left quickly, closing the door quietly behind her. She caught up with Hessler on the first floor.

  ‘What a marvellous summer!’ she said.

  The minister buttoned his shirt. It was just as well to head off to Bergsgatan straight away. He sighed, sat down on the bed and tied his shoes.

  They come up with some ridiculous tricks, he thought, with a wry glance at the door through which the reporter had just left. Needing the toilet, for heaven’s sake! He stood up, wondering if he ought to take a jacket. He picked out a light linen one just in case.

  Anyway, how the hell had she managed to find him here? Not even Karina Björnlund knew where he lived when he was in Stockholm. She always called him on his mobile.

  The phone rang – the landline rather than his mobile. He an
swered at once. There were only a handful of people who had the number.

  ‘How are you?’

  His wife, sounding anxious. He sank onto the bed again, and to his own surprise, started to cry.

  ‘But, darling, whatever’s the matter!’

  She started crying too.

  ‘Are you at Stina’s yet?’

  ‘We got here yesterday.’

  He blew his nose.

  ‘I can’t say anything.’

  ‘Is there anything in it?’

  He ran a hand over his forehead.

  ‘How can you even ask?’

  ‘What am I supposed to think?’

  Betrayed, scared, suspicious.

  ‘Do you really think I could … kill someone?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not of your own volition,’ she said.

  ‘But if …?’

  ‘There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for the party,’ she said in a resigned tone.

  31

  Q answered. Annika was momentarily delighted. It was short-lived, however.

  ‘I can’t say a thing,’ he said.

  ‘Is the minister really a suspect?’ Annika wondered, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk.

  He laughed coarsely.

  ‘What an incredibly intelligent question. Did you come up with that all by yourself?’

  ‘There’s something odd about him,’ Annika said. ‘He’s scared of something getting out. What’s he hiding?’

  The laughter faded away and was followed by a short silence.

  ‘Where do you get all your information from?’ the detective wondered.

  ‘I listen, watch, observe. He lives very close to the scene of the crime, for instance.’

  ‘So you’ve worked that out.’

  ‘But is it relevant?’

  ‘All the tenants of sixty-four Sankt Göransgatan have been questioned.’

  ‘It’s leasehold.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not tenants, they own their flats.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ the detective said.

  ‘Do you really think he did it?’

  Q sighed. ‘It isn’t out of the question,’ he said.

  Annika was lost for words.

  ‘But … what about the boyfriend? Joachim?’