Exposed Page 23

  When she opened the door to the courtyard the rain hit her like a wall. She stood there for a moment staring out at it. She could hardly see the building facing the street behind the curtain of rain.

  Perfect, she thought. There won’t be anyone about. No one will see me. Mum won’t have to feel ashamed of me.

  She walked out into the downpour and was soaked before she’d even got to the bins. She threw away the half-full bag containing the paper, strawberries and avocado, then walked slowly towards the underground.

  You reach a point where you just can’t get any wetter, she thought. She remembered that from some film she’d seen.

  At the Central Station she discovered she was going to have to wait almost two hours for the next train to Flen. She sat down on one of the benches in the large, well-lit hall. The sound of passengers, trains, the electronic voices from the loudspeakers, everything merged into a cacophony of urban chaos.

  Annika closed her eyes and let the sounds flow through her brain. They made her want to cry. After a while she felt cold, and went into the toilet, where she stood next to the hand-dryer until the other women started to get annoyed.

  At least they’ve got no idea who I am, she thought. They don’t know that I’m the failure from the radio. Thank goodness I never got that picture byline.

  The train was a small, local one that was soon packed. She ended up opposite a fat bloke who was wet with rain and sweat. He took out a copy of that day’s Evening Post and Annika tried not to look at it.

  Berit had managed to get the speaker of parliament to admit his involvement in the IB affair.

  I did my military service with Elmér, he said on the front page.

  Oh well, she thought. None of my business any more.

  At Flen she had to wait another hour for the bus to Hälleforsnäs. The rain was still bucketing down, and a big pool of water had gathered on the road in front of the bus-stop. She sat in the station waiting room facing the wall, trying to avoid any form of contact with other people.

  It was afternoon by the time the bus pulled up at the bottom of her road. The deserted supermarket car park was covered in puddles. No one saw her get off the bus. She felt tired and shaky as she headed to her flat on legs that ached from her run the day before.

  Her flat was gloomy and smelled of dust. Without turning on any lights she pulled off all her wet clothes and crept into bed. She was asleep in minutes.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ the Prime Minister said.

  The press officer protested. ‘We can’t be sure of that. No one ever knows when they’ll decide to chase another story instead.’

  The press officer knew what he was talking about. He had been one of Sweden’s toughest and most experienced political reporters. Nowadays his role was to direct media coverage to the advantage of the Social Democrats. Together with a couple of election strategists from the US, he was one of the most influential figures in the governing party’s election campaign. The Prime Minister knew he voted for the opposition.

  ‘I have to confess, I’m worried,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I don’t think we should just leave this to chance.’

  The thickset man stood up and walked restlessly over to the window. The rain hung like a wet curtain outside, blocking the view over Riddarfjärden. The press officer intruded on his thoughts.

  ‘You shouldn’t stand there worrying in full view of the outside world,’ he said. ‘Pictures like that make excellent illustrations of a government in crisis.’

  The Prime Minister backed anxiously away from the window. His bad mood was getting worse and he turned sharply to face the Minister for Foreign Trade.

  ‘How the hell could you be so bloody stupid?’ he shouted.

  Christer Lundgren didn’t react, just carried on staring at the leaden sky from his seat in the corner. The Prime Minister walked towards him.

  ‘We can’t just march in and start changing the rules for publicly funded organizations. You knew that perfectly well, for Christ’s sake!’

  The minister looked up at his boss.

  ‘No, that’s just it. Not the rules for the police, nor for anyone else.’

  The Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the position you’ve got us into? Have you even the slightest notion of the consequences of what you’ve done?’

  Christer Lundgren jumped to his feet, standing right in front of the Prime Minister.

  ‘Yes, I know exactly what I’ve done,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve rescued this fucking party, that’s what!’

  The press officer interrupted them. ‘We can’t undo any of this,’ he said calmly. ‘We have to find a way of making the best of things. Going in and amending the records retrospectively is out of the question. We simply can’t do that. But I don’t actually think that any journalist would ever manage to find the receipts.’

  He walked slowly round the other two men.

  ‘The most important thing is that we cooperate with the police without them finding out too much.’

  He put a hand on the Minister for Foreign Trade’s shoulder.

  ‘Christer,’ he said, ‘this is all down to you now.’

  The minister shrugged off the hand.

  ‘I’m under suspicion of murder,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, it’s ironic, isn’t it?’ the press officer said. ‘Death is already squatting on your government desk. That’s what this whole business is about, isn’t it?’

  42

  It was already evening when she woke up. Sven was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at her.

  ‘Welcome home,’ he said with a smile.

  She smiled back. She was thirsty and had a slight headache.

  ‘You make it sound like I’ve been gone for ages,’ she said.

  ‘It feels like it,’ he said.

  She threw the duvet aside and stood up, feeling dizzy and a bit sick.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said.

  She stumbled out to the bathroom and took a headache pill, and opened the bathroom window to get some air. The rain had eased a bit, but it hadn’t stopped. Sven came and stood in the doorway.

  ‘Do you want to go and get a pizza?’ he said.

  She swallowed.

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got to eat,’ he said. ‘You’ve got way too skinny.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot to do,’ she said, and walked past him into the hall. He followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘I heard they gave you a rough time on the radio,’ he said.

  She poured herself a glass of water from the tap.

  ‘Oh, did you? Don’t tell me you’ve started listening to news programmes?’

  ‘No, Ingela heard it.’

  She paused with the glass halfway to her lips.

  ‘What, that sperm-bucket?’ she said, astonished. ‘Since when did you start socializing with her?’

  He got angry.

  ‘That’s a really cruel thing to call her. It really upsets her.’

  Annika smiled. ‘You were the one who came up with it.’

  He smirked. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, laughing.

  Annika gulped down the water. He went over to her and hugged her from behind.

  ‘I’m freezing. I’ve got to put some clothes on,’ she said, pulling free.

  Sven kissed her.

  ‘Okay. I’ll order the pizzas,’ he said.

  Annika went into the bedroom and opened her wardrobe. The clothes she had left here felt old and tired. She heard Sven calling the local pizzeria and order two Quattros. Even though he knew she didn’t like mussels.

  ‘You’re staying for a while this time, aren’t you?’ he called once he’d hung up.

  She was still looking through her clothes.

  ‘What makes you think that? My job doesn’t finish until the fourteenth of August. I’ve still got a week and a half to go.’

  He leaned against the door frame.r />
  ‘Yes, but are they really going to want you to stay now that you’ve been exposed like that?’

  Her cheeks started to burn and she hunted through her clothes with renewed vigour.

  ‘The evening papers don’t really care what they say on a pretentious programme on P3.’

  He came up to her and hugged her again.

  ‘I don’t care what they say about you,’ he whispered. ‘You’re still the best in my eyes, even if everyone else thinks you’re useless.’

  She pulled on a pair of jeans that were now too big for her and an old T-shirt.

  Sven shook his head unhappily.

  ‘Do you have to look so scruffy?’ he said. ‘Can’t you wear a dress?’

  She shut the wardrobe door.

  ‘How long until the pizzas are ready?’

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Put something else on.’

  Annika stopped and took several deep breaths.

  ‘Come on,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m hungry. The pizzas will be getting cold.’

  Eighteen years, ten months and six days

  I long to get back to when it was all light and easy. When day merged into the shadows of night like a spirit: pure, clean, soft. Time like a vacuum, weightless. Intoxication, the first touch, the wind, the light, the sense of complete fulfilment. I want that moment back more than anything else.

  His darkness obscures the horizon. It isn’t easy to navigate in the dark. It’s a vicious circle. I conjure up the darkness in him, and the darkness veils our love with fog. My steps become hesitant, I lose my footing. His patience is starting to grow thin.

  I pay the price.

  But we are the most important things

  in the world

  to each other.

  Monday 6 August

  43

  The pan of water boiled over and she poured it onto the coffee, spilling it and burning herself.

  ‘Shit!’ she yelled, as tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  Patricia was standing in the doorway to the maid’s room, in pants and a T-shirt, hair mussed up, still sleepy. Annika felt an instant pang of conscience.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m really sorry …’

  ‘What happened?’

  Annika turned away and wiped up the rest of the water.

  ‘My job’s looking pretty dodgy, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Do you want some coffee, or are you going back to bed?’

  Patricia rubbed her eyes.

  ‘I’m off tonight,’ she said. ‘Coffee would be good.’

  She pulled on a pair of shorts and disappeared out of the front door to go to the toilet. Annika quickly blew her nose and dried her eyes. She took some slices of bread out of the freezer and put them in the toaster, then got out the cheese, marmalade and butter. She heard Patricia come back in and close the front door.

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’

  Patricia was staring at Annika’s legs. Annika looked down at them.

  ‘I got chased by a lynch-mob on Thursday,’ she said. ‘They even tried to set fire to the car we were driving off in.’

  Patricia stared.

  ‘Bloody hell, sounds like a James Bond film!’

  Annika laughed, as the toaster pinged and launched the two slices into the air. They each caught one, and Patricia burst out laughing as well.

  They sat and ate breakfast on either side of the kitchen table. Annika missed the morning paper. She stared out of the window, as the rain tapped on the tin window ledge.

  ‘How were things out in the country, then?’ Patricia asked.

  Annika sighed. ‘As you’d expect in weather like this. I stayed with Sven, my boyfriend, then went out to see Grandma. She lives in a cottage that belongs to the Harpsund estate. She’s got it as long as she wants, because she was the housekeeper there for thirty-seven years.’

  ‘What’s Harpsund?’ Patricia asked. Annika poured coffee.

  ‘An old manor-house between Flen and Hälleforsnäs,’ she said. ‘An old bloke called Hjalmar Wicander left it to the state when he died in 1952. The condition was that the Prime Minister would use it to relax in, and to entertain guests.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘A bit like a cross between a summer cottage and a party venue,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘Harpsund is really popular with our prime ministers, this current one more than most. He comes from round there and still has family in the area.

  ‘I met him out there one Midsummer’s Eve a couple of years ago.’

  Patricia’s eyes widened.

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘I spent a lot of time there with Grandma when I was little.’

  They carried on eating in silence.

  ‘Are you going to work today?’ Patricia asked.

  Annika nodded.

  ‘Your job’s really stressful, isn’t it?’ Patricia said. ‘And dangerous, if people keep trying to set fire to you.’

  Annika smiled wryly. ‘Well, you had an arson attack as well!’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t personal,’ Patricia said.

  Annika sighed. ‘Stressful or not, I just wish I could keep hold of it.’

  ‘Why do you have to leave?’

  ‘My contract was only for the summer. It ends next week. They only offer a couple of temps a permanent job.’

  ‘So why can’t that be you, then? You’ve written loads, haven’t you?’

  Annika shook her head.

  ‘They’ve got a recruitment meeting with the union tomorrow, that’s when we find out who’s staying. What are you going to do today?’

  Patricia had a faraway look in her eye as she stared out of the window.

  ‘I’m going to think about Josefin,’ she said. ‘I’m going to talk to the spirits and try to find her on the other side. And when I find her, I’m going to ask her who did it.’

  44

  Anne Snapphane was back at her desk when Annika walked into the newsroom.

  ‘So you’re still alive, then,’ Annika said.

  ‘Hardly,’ her colleague said. ‘It’s been an awful weekend. The bosses have been going mad. Whatever the head of news has planned during the day gets chucked out by the night-editor. I’ve written five pieces that have been canned.’

  Annika settled into her chair. The dragon in the suit had left a minefield of empty coffee cups, printouts and used paper handkerchiefs behind her.

  ‘I couldn’t make up my mind if I should come in today,’ Annika said. ‘Now I know why.’

  Anne Snapphane started laughing. Annika swept everything off the top of the desk into the bin, including five pads of paper, two books and three china mugs with ‘Mariana’ painted on them.

  ‘Eat shit, you stuck-up bitch.’

  Anne Snapphane was laughing so hard she almost fell off her chair.

  ‘It wasn’t that funny, was it?’ Annika said.

  Anne sat up again, dried her eyes and tried to stop herself laughing again.

  ‘No, not really,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Mind you, I’ve got other reasons to be cheerful. Such as the fact that I’m getting out of here.’

  Annika stared at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘You’ve got a job? Where?’

  ‘A production company down in South Hammarby Harbour. I’m going to be a researcher for a daytime women’s chat-show on one of the cable channels. I start on the twelfth of September. It might be awful. But what the hell, I’m really looking forward to it!’

  ‘But you might be able to stay on here?’

  ‘Don’t know if I’d want to, I’m so knackered. And the television job’s a permanent contract.’

  ‘Well, congratulations!’ Annika said, going round the desk and giving her friend a hug. ‘God, that’s really great for you!’

  ‘Right, you couple of dykes, have either of you got time to do some work?’

  Spike was back at the newsdesk.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, you sex-obsessed old arsehole,’
Anne Snapphane shouted back.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Annika said quietly.

  ‘Who cares? I’m leaving anyway,’ Anne Snapphane said, standing up.

  Anne got the job, a story about a kitten that was being looked after by the police in Norrköping. It had spent two weeks in the police station, and now it was going to be put down.

  ‘We need a picture of the fucking cat under arrest,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Imagine the headline: Death row kitty.’

  Spike glanced at Annika.

  ‘There’s nothing for you, you’re on standby for the time being.’

  Annika gulped. She got it. The freezer door slammed shut on her, leaving her in the cold.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be reading the papers.’

  She went over to the archive shelves and pulled out copies of the Evening Post from Friday onwards. She hadn’t read a newspaper or looked at the news all weekend. She was never going to listen to the radio again unless she really had to.

  She started off by carefully reading Berit’s article. The speaker of parliament was now openly admitting that he exploited his contact with Birger Elmér to avoid doing an extra month of national service in 1966.

  It had been an election year, and the speaker had been deputy chairman of the Social Democratic Youth Movement, and that month of national service would have been extremely inconvenient for the party. So Elmér arranged for him to be posted to the Information Bureau instead. This meant he could carry on with his political work as usual, at the same time as fulfilling his duty to the state.

  According to the call-up papers Berit had dug out, the speaker had been allocated to the security section of the Ministry of Defence, which could well have meant IB. In 1966 he was thirty-three years old, and he was never called up again after that.

  Annika lowered the paper. How had Berit got the speaker to admit this? He’d spent decades denying any involvement in IB, and suddenly he was laying all his cards on the table. Very odd.

  The next two-page spread had spectacular pictures of the arrest of the Ninja Barbies, all taken by Carl Wennergren. The article revealed that the terrorist group had decided to mount an attack on a judge who lived out in Djursholm. The reason was that the judge had recently found a suspected paedophile not guilty due to lack of evidence. The police had received a tip-off about the attack and had deployed special forces. Residents in the area had been evacuated and a discreet exclusion zone had been set up. Some of the police had taken up position in Stockhagen sports centre next to the judge’s house, and the rest were hidden in the garden.