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  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, he was the trustee for that American in Tidaholm, the one who had that accident …’

  ‘That bastard,’ Bure said. ‘David gave up on him as soon as he ended up in Kumla. There was no reasoning with him after that.’

  Annika was making notes.

  So the American’s in Kumla. Thank you very much.

  ‘There’s one other thing I’ve been wondering,’ she said. ‘You and David ran your business with a man called Algot Heinrich Heimer …’

  ‘Yes,’ Christer Bure said, sounding thoughtful now.

  ‘Do you know anything about the circumstances surrounding his death?’

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds.

  ‘He’s dead?’ Bure said. ‘I didn’t know. How sad. Was it recent?’

  He’s lying.

  ‘In that case, I’m very sorry,’ Annika said. ‘I didn’t mean to break the news like that. He was shot, on 9 February last year, in a car park in Norrköping …’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  His tone was very abrupt, and Annika realized he was about to lose patience with her.

  ‘I’ve read the reports into the allegations of excessive force that were made against David,’ she said quickly. ‘You know, that business with the two young men twenty years ago. I think you were there, weren’t you?’

  There was another silence on the line, Annika could hear it crackling. ‘Hello?’

  ‘What the hell is this? Where did you dig up that old crap?’

  Annika squeezed the phone cable. ‘What’s your opinion of it?’

  ‘They were just mud-slinging, nothing but slander from the gutter. David was cleared on all charges and the cases were dropped.’

  He knows exactly what happened.

  ‘Did you see any signs of anything like that ever again?’

  ‘What? People talking shit? Every day.’

  ‘Of David being violent.’

  ‘Okay, this conversation is going in a direction I don’t much care for. What exactly do you want?’

  ‘I just think there are some odd circumstances—’

  ‘Listen, if you’re planning to write shit about David, I’m not interested in helping. Thank you, and goodbye.’ He hung up.

  She decided she did need that cup of coffee after all.

  Then she sat down to write an article about David’s background. She could mention that he’d had various positions in different companies and that he’d injured himself in a parachuting accident. That he’d been Filip Andersson’s trustee and had met him just days before he died was fairly interesting. She could even mention that he’d been accused of excessive force and cleared, as long as she didn’t go into any details.

  It ended up more like a feature than a news article, rather ingratiating.

  She’d added some of the information that Nina Hoffman had given her when they’d met back in the summer, about David spending long periods working abroad. She had promised to let Nina know if she was ever going to use the information.

  She sighed and called her mobile.

  The police officer answered immediately.

  ‘Just so you know,’ Annika said, ‘I’m writing about David for tomorrow’s paper. I’m mentioning the fact that he and Julia spent some time living abroad, in Estepona, for instance.’

  ‘As long as you don’t put in anything about his criminal contacts,’ Nina said.

  Annika was taken aback. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t hear that from me,’ Nina said.

  Annika put her hand to her forehead and thought so hard she could hear the cogs whirring. What did this mean?

  ‘I’m planning to write about it for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘About Algot Heinrich Heimer, Filip Andersson and …’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Nina?’

  ‘My colleague’s just got back into the car. My shift ends at midnight. I can meet you tomorrow morning. I’ll call you.’ She hung up.

  There’s something here …

  She packed up her things, closed the laptop and stuffed all her printouts into a plastic folder.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ the late-shift reporter said. ‘Lucky you. I’ve got to be here all night. It’s stopped snowing now so with a bit of luck we’ll get a few decent days before it starts again …’

  Annika smiled at her. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said.

  18

  The flat was dark. Annika closed the front door behind her and went into the hall without switching the light on. She pulled off her boots and hung up her thick coat.

  She stopped in the doorway to the main room, taking in the silence.

  In their flat on Kungsholmen, all the sounds of Stockholm had seeped through the badly fitting windows and loose air vents, the vibrations passing through the stone walls and ventilation pipes, the buses’ squealing brakes and the sirens of the emergency vehicles. But here it was quiet. The sounds of the modern city didn’t reach far into the medieval heart.

  She sighed and heard the sound bounce between the walls.

  Still without turning on the lights she went on into Ellen’s room. The day she had got the keys to the flat she had taken the children out to Ikea and let them choose their own furniture, cushions and duvet covers. Everything in Ellen’s room was pink. Even the grey-black winter light was making the duvet cover and velvet cushions glow pale pink.

  She ran her hand over the bed’s headboard.

  Emptiness, emptiness …

  She went into her son’s room. In the daylight everything was blue, but at night it looked pitch-black. She sank on to Kalle’s bed. He had forgotten to take Chicken with him this morning, and she picked up the stuffed toy and hugged it, his new favourite, the same as the one that had been destroyed in the fire. This Chicken just smelt a bit different. She breathed in the clean, antiseptic scent of newness.

  I ought to do the washing-up …

  She looked through the doorway into the main room, feeling the heat from the radiators, listening to the whispers in the corners.

  Alone …

  With silence ringing in her ears, she lay down, clutching the stuffed chicken. There was still a hint of happiness somewhere, freedom waiting for her in these dark rooms.

  Sleep drifted in, and she let herself go.

  The sound of her mobile came from far away, shredding the peace and quiet. She sat bolt upright. Chicken slid on to the floor. Where had she left her phone?

  She staggered through the main room and out into the hall.

  Number withheld, damn it. It must be the paper.

  She answered, and was met by a solid mass of noise, shouting, music and voices.

  ‘Annika? Is that you?’

  Speechless, she slid to the floor.

  ‘It’s me, Thomas.’

  He was in the pub, somewhere really noisy.

  ‘Hello,’ she said into the darkness.

  ‘I’ve reserved two snowsuits. For Ellen. At Åhléns. One dark blue, the other pink. Which one do you think we should get?’ He was slurring, quite badly.

  ‘Where are the children?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re asleep. I’m having a beer with Arnold …’

  ‘Who’s with the children?’

  ‘Sophia’s at home, so you—’

  ‘If you want to go out, I can look after the children,’ she said.

  Disco-music pounded in the background. A woman was laughing loudly.

  ‘I don’t want to fight with you,’ he said.

  You’re calling me from the pub when you’re drunk. Are you tired of her already?

  ‘Me neither,’ she said.

  ‘What shall we do about the snowsuits?’

  Why are you calling? What do you really want?

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You always say we have to think about this whole girly thing. And boys. Maybe pink isn’t great. I thought …’

  ‘Which does
Ellen want?’

  ‘The pink one.’

  ‘Get that one, then.’

  ‘You think?’

  She fought back tears.

  Don’t call me like this. Never again.

  ‘Let her decide. The colour isn’t that important.’

  ‘Okay. ’Bye, then.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Neither hung up. The music throbbed. The woman had stopped laughing.

  ‘Annika?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you mean it? Could you look after the kids if I go out in the evening?’

  Hang up! Leave me in peace! You’re tearing me apart.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  This time she clicked to end the call and put the phone into her bag, then pulled her knees up under her chin. Somewhere deep inside she felt strangely pleased.

  Tuesday, 16 November

  19

  Nina Hoffman’s flat was on Södermannagatan. The traffic noise from the main road echoed loudly along the walls of the side-street. Annika had to stifle the urge to put her hands over her ears. The building dated back to the 1920s, pale brown, a characteristically blank façade, with narrow barred windows. The flats were usually cramped and dark.

  She stepped into the entrance hall. When the door closed behind her the sound of traffic miraculously disappeared. She studied the list of names: Nina lived on the second floor.

  Annika went up the stairs, found the door that said N. Hoffman, and rang the bell.

  The police officer had cut her hair. She was wearing the same grey hooded jacket that she’d had on the last time they’d met, that rainy Saturday in June when she had been so upset at the way Julia was being treated. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, and Annika nodded. She took off her shoes and coat in the hall.

  It really was a rather dark flat, a single room with a small kitchen alcove facing the inner courtyard. But the room was fairly large, with a polished wooden floor and comfortable furniture. Nina must have had the coffee ready, because she came into the living area with a Thermos flask and two mugs, which she put on the dining table. Annika handed her a copy of that day’s Evening Post. ‘The piece about David is on page eleven,’ she said.

  Nina took the paper and sat down to read, while Annika poured coffee into both mugs. Nina folded the paper. ‘That wasn’t very smart,’ she said.

  Annika took a deep breath and shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I think you should keep away from that side of David’s past. The reason he used to spend time abroad was because people were after him. They don’t care to be reminded of it.’

  ‘And who do you mean by “they”? Different criminal gangs?’

  Nina stared into her coffee without touching it.

  ‘People David helped put away?’ Annika went on. ‘Crooks he beat up, or their families and business associates?’

  ‘I don’t understand what this has got to do with anything,’ Nina said, pushing the mug away. ‘David’s dead, and Julia’s going to be found guilty of killing him.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’m telling you this as a favour. It’s not all the way it looks. People have hidden agendas. You look at David Lindholm and see a corrupt police officer with a solid façade, but you know nothing about his background. His mum arrived in Sweden after the Nazis surrendered, the only survivor in her family. She was sixteen years old when she arrived, and she was already sick. She’s been in a care home since David was a teenager. Don’t be so quick to judge.’

  Annika straightened. ‘I’m not judging. On the contrary, I believe there’s a chance that Julia’s innocent. There seem to be plenty of people out there who had a motive to kill David, and they haven’t even been investigated …’

  ‘What would you know about that?’

  Annika drank some coffee, feeling foolish.

  ‘You haven’t a clue about what the police have looked at, have you?’ Nina said. ‘You don’t even know what conclusions the clinical psychiatric report reached, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Annika said. ‘But she can’t have been that ill, if she can be sentenced to serve time in an ordinary prison …’

  Nina stood up. ‘It’s called dissociative identity disorder, or multiple personalities.’

  Annika felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  ‘The diagnosis explains her suppression of events as a temporary mental disturbance in which she assumed the role of a different person, the other woman.’ Nina looked out at the courtyard. ‘I became a police officer because I wanted to help people,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think Julia followed me because she didn’t have anything better to do. She’d probably have preferred to do something else, become a social worker or a teacher, maybe an artist …’

  She fell silent and Annika waited.

  ‘I keep wondering if there was anything I could have done differently,’ Nina went on. ‘What I missed, why I wasn’t good enough …’

  ‘Could there have been another woman in the flat?’

  Nina shook her head. ‘Everything points to Julia. What I don’t understand is why she’s still not talking. Now she could explain what really happened between her and David. Not that it would change anything in the trial, but people would be a bit more understanding.’

  Annika looked at her hands. ‘My house burned down in the summer,’ she said. ‘I know the police are investigating whether I was responsible. They think I’m guilty, but they’ve got no evidence, because if they had I’d have been arrested, even though I know I didn’t do it.’

  She glanced up at Nina, who was watching her carefully.

  ‘What if Julia really is innocent?’ Annika said. ‘What if there really was another woman? Can you imagine anything that could possibly be worse than that?’

  ‘It’s been investigated,’ Nina said. ‘There was no one else there.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Annika said, ‘but what if …’

  Nina walked over to the table, put both hands down on it and leaned forward. ‘Don’t confuse what happened to you with anyone else,’ she said quietly and emphatically. ‘You might be innocent, but that doesn’t mean Julia is. Julia’s been ill, but she’s better now and will be sentenced to prison for a very long time. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But why did she do it?’ Annika asked.

  Nina sat down. ‘Something happened towards the end,’ she eventually said. ‘Julia never said what it was, but she was extremely frightened and worried. She hung up whenever I rang, didn’t want to meet. I was seriously concerned about her mental state, but I never imagined she’d … that she could …’

  The words ebbed away. Nina took a sip of tepid coffee and pulled a face.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said slowly. ‘If I’ve got this right, this is what happened: David had enemies in criminal circles. He kept in touch with some of them by acting as a probation officer and trustee, and he was on the board of various companies …’

  Nina’s head snapped up.

  ‘You didn’t know that?’ Annika said. ‘He was involved in at least four businesses. Is it common for police officers to do that?’

  Nina’s eyes darted to her watch. ‘I was thinking of going to the gym.’

  ‘I’ve got a union meeting anyway,’ Annika said. ‘Just one more thing: did David ever talk about the axe murders on Sankt Paulsgatan?’

  Nina was carrying the mugs to the kitchen alcove. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Annika scratched her head. ‘He was a trustee for Filip Andersson, the financier who was found guilty of the murders. According to Christer Bure, he believed Andersson was innocent. Why would he think that?’

  Nina came over to Annika and stopped very close to her. ‘David really did love Julia and Alexander,’ she said. ‘He was a troubled man with a sick pattern of behaviour, but Julia and Alexander were the only people he really cared about.’

  ‘Did he know anything about the axe murders that nobody else knew?’ Annik
a asked.

  Nina pulled on a duffel coat, hoisted a gym-bag on to her shoulder and headed towards the door.

  The union meeting started in fifteen minutes. Annika was definitely going to be late. She walked along Folkungagatan, not inclined to hurry. The world was the colour of lead. She couldn’t shake the vague sense of unreality that was enveloping her. People drifted past her, like unfathomable shadows, with such rigid expressions that she wondered if they were really alive or just pretending.

  She’d woken up that morning and not known where she was. The light had been falling on her bed in the main room, grey and heavy, making it difficult to breathe. She had lived there for five months, spending the whole summer on Västerlånggatan in Gamla Stan, with tourists dropping their ice-creams in the doorway and the busker’s out-of-tune version of ‘Streets Of London’ outside the window.

  She knew she should be used to it, but she understood the problem: time spread out around her, as much time as she liked, day, evening and night. The gap left by the children: so much responsibility that had vanished to be replaced by a flood of colourless time.

  She had no idea what to do with it.

  The weeks without the children had been a period of freefall, without any frame of reference, minutes and hours of shrieking emptiness. Even Berit was away.

  Annika’s mother had got in touch after her sister’s thirtieth birthday to ask why she hadn’t been there to celebrate, and Annika had said she’d been working and hadn’t been able to get away. It was a lie, which her mother had seen through.

  Anne Snapphane had sent a few emails, with confused and aggressive accusations, mainly repeating the things she had said the night the house had burned down: that she had given up her own life to support Annika, that she hadn’t allowed herself space to grow, that she had let Annika’s shaky marriage ruin her own relationship, that she had realized she always backed down and therefore had to grab what she could now and live the best life she could …

  Annika hadn’t bothered to reply, knowing she would only fuel the flames.

  The solution was work.

  Every day without the children, in this new reality, she had worked from when she got up until the moment she collapsed into bed. It hadn’t resulted in many articles. And now Thomas was calling her in the middle of the night from bars.