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  It’ll pass? Will everything get back to normal?

  Nina stared at Julia’s white face, her pale eyelashes, her hair. The blood on her face had dried and darkened. Fragments of their last meeting were rolling through Nina’s mind, like short film sequences.

  I can’t bear it any longer, Nina. I’ve got to do something about this.

  Just tell me, what’s happened?

  Julia had looked desperate, chapped red marks on her cheeks. They were still visible under the blood. How long ago was that? Three weeks? Four?

  ‘Julia,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s me, Nina. You’re in hospital. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Really? Do you believe that?

  Nina looked at the doctor, who was sitting by the end of the stretcher, filling in a form. ‘What happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sending her for a CAT scan,’ he said, ‘just to rule out any injury to the brain. We’ll give her a sedative and she can go up to the psychiatric ward. With a bit of luck, she’ll get a course of therapy.’ He stood up. ‘You know her personally?’

  Nina nodded.

  ‘She’s going to need a great deal of support over the coming months,’ he said, then went out into the corridor.

  The door closed slowly with a sucking sound. In the silence every sound seemed much louder: the rumbling fan, Julia’s breathing, the bleep of the ECG machine. Steps hurrying past in the corridor, a phone ringing, a child crying.

  The sterile room was cramped and cool, windowless, harsh light coming from flickering tubes in the ceiling. Nina freed her hand from Julia’s and stood up. Julia’s eyelashes fluttered. ‘Julia,’ Nina said quietly, leaning over her friend. ‘Hello, it’s me. Look at me …’

  Julia gave a little sigh.

  ‘Listen,’ Nina said. ‘Look up, look at me. I want to talk to you.’

  No response.

  Anger rose in Nina, like vomit. ‘You’re just giving up,’ she said. ‘Typical. You just lie back and leave everyone else to clear up your mess.’

  Julia didn’t move.

  ‘What do you imagine I can do?’ Nina said, taking a step closer to the stretcher. ‘I can’t help you now! Why didn’t you tell me? Then at least I’d have had a chance—’

  Her radio crackled.

  ‘1617 from 9070, over.’

  Her boss trying to locate her.

  She turned away from Julia and stared into a cupboard full of bandages, as she pulled out the microphone and pressed the transmit button.

  ‘1617 here. I’m with Julia Lindholm at Södermalm Hospital. She’s just been examined in A&E, over.’

  ‘You can’t just sit there waiting,’ he declared. ‘We need your report as soon as possible. I’m sending Andersson with the car. He can stay until I’ve found someone else to guard her. Over and out.’

  Fear clutched at her throat.

  Someone to guard her.

  Of course, Julia was a suspect.

  The prime suspect in the murder of a policeman.

  She left the room without looking at Julia again.

  www.eveningpost.se

  BREAKING NEWS

  DAVID LINDHOLM MURDERED

  Updated 3 June, 05.24 a.m.

  Police Superintendent David Lindholm, 42, is reported to have been found murdered in his home on Södermalm.

  Lindholm is Sweden’s best known and most respected detective, not least for his role as an expert commentator on Criminal.

  He was also personally responsible for several of the most remarkable police operations of recent decades, helping to solve the most brutal and complex cases in Swedish criminal history.

  David Lindholm had an affluent upbringing in Djursholm on the outskirts of Stockholm. In spite of his background, he chose to enter the police force. After several years in the tough environment of the rapid-response unit of Norrmalm Police, he was promoted to detective.

  He became familiar to the Swedish public as the straight-talking and fair-minded police superintendent in the television programme Criminal, but it was his handling of the hostage crisis at the Cowslip Nursery School in Malmö five years ago that made him a legendary figure in the force.

  An armed man had barricaded himself in the toddlers’ room and was threatening to kill the children one by one. David Lindholm established contact with the man, and after two hours of negotiation, he was able to walk out to a waiting patrol car with the disarmed gunman.

  Evening Post photographer Bertil Strand won Picture of the Year in the category Best News Image in Classic Photography for the story.

  While questioning an American who had been sentenced to life imprisonment two years ago, David Lindholm gained information on the robbery of a security van in Botkyrka. Five men were arrested and the majority of the missing cash, 13 million kronor, was recovered.

  (updates ongoing)

  3

  Andersson roared up outside A&E, skidding to a stop and leaving marks on the tarmac. Nina opened the driver’s door. ‘Julia Lindholm has been examined,’ she said. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on her until you’re relieved. It shouldn’t be long.’

  Andersson swung his feet to the ground. ‘So what’s wrong with our killer, then?’ he said. ‘Period pains?’

  Nina clenched her fists. ‘I’m heading back to write my report,’ she said, getting into the patrol car.

  ‘Have you heard the preliminary evaluation of the cause of death?’ he said to her back. ‘First she put a bullet in his brainstem, then blew off his cock.’

  Nina shut the door and let the car roll down towards Ringvägen. It was daylight now, and the traffic was already building up. She glanced at her watch, twenty-five to six. Her shift ended at six, but it would probably be seven or eight o’clock before she had finished her report and filled in all the paperwork …

  How can I be thinking about forms to fill in? What sort of person am I?

  She took a deep breath that ended up as a sob. Her hands were shaking on the wheel.

  Right on to Hornsgatan. Change gear. Pull away.

  Then came the thought that had been lurking at the back of her mind since she’d walked into the flat: Must ring Holger and Viola.

  She had to talk to Julia’s parents. The only question was how much she could tell them. Nothing of what she’d seen at the crime-scene because they were not involved in the case … but this was about something else. Decency, possibly just basic morality.

  She’d practically grown up with Julia and her parents. They had probably saved her from the life that her two siblings had ended up with. She had spent many long weeks out on the farm every summer while her mother had worked shifts in the chicken factory at Valla. During term-time she would often go home with Julia and have tea at the big gate-legged table in the farmhouse kitchen. She could still remember the taste of the oxtail soup and sandwiches, the faint smell of farmyard that always hung around Holger. Then, when her mother’s shift ended, she would take the bus home to Ekeby …

  Nina shook herself.

  I was lucky, having Julia.

  Some drunken teenagers in school-graduation caps were staggering about on the pavement to her left, arm in arm, three boys and a girl. The girl could hardly stand, and the boys were more or less dragging her along.

  Watch out, little one. Don’t let them take advantage of you …

  One of the boys caught sight of her and made an obscene gesture. She switched on the blue lights and siren. The effect on the youngsters was instantaneous. They ran off like antelopes, the girl as well.

  She pulled up and parked outside the station. The silence that followed was so great that it echoed. She sat there for several minutes, listening to it.

  Then she sighed, undid her seatbelt and picked up Andersson’s hamburger wrapper, with her own Diet Coke can, to throw into the car-park bin.

  Pettersson, the station head, was on the phone when she went in, and waved at her to sit down opposite him.

  ‘At five?’ he said, into the phone. ‘Isn’t that a
bit late? A lot of our officers … Yeah, that’s true enough … Yes, you’re right. Okay, seventeen hundred it is, then …’

  He put the receiver down. ‘What a terrible business,’ he said, rubbing his bald head. ‘What’s happening to this society?’

  He sounds like Inspector Wallander, Nina thought.

  ‘We’re going to have a minute’s silence for David Lindholm,’ Pettersson went on. ‘At five o’clock the evening shift will have turned up but the day shift won’t have left, which means that most people will be able to take part. Every police district in the country is joining in. Lindholm was known and respected everywhere, and after all those years lecturing at the Police Academy he’s got friends throughout the force, new recruits and older officers alike …’

  ‘Just don’t tell the media,’ Nina said.

  Pettersson looked surprised, then irritated. ‘Of course we’re going to inform the media. Apparently radio news want to do a live broadcast.’

  ‘If you were planning to rob a local shop, and found out that all police activity throughout Sweden would stop for a minute from seventeen hundred, when would you choose to do it? Anyway, how do you broadcast a minute’s silence? Won’t it be a bit … bleak?’

  Her boss stared blankly at her for a few seconds, then leaned back, making the Ikea chair creak. ‘Okay, let’s get down to business,’ he said.

  Nina took out her notebook. She ran through all the facts in a monotonous tone, the call at 03.21, suspected shots heard on Bondegatan. Because the command unit and rapid-response squad were both out in Djursholm, Hoffman in 1617 had been in command of the operation. The informant, a Gunnar Erlandsson, a resident of the building in question, reported that he had been woken by what he thought were shots in the flat above. When there was no response from the apartment in question, patrol 1617, with patrol 1980, had gained entry under paragraph 21 of police regulations, suspecting that any delay could exacerbate the situation. In the flat they found two people, David and Julia Lindholm. David Lindholm was lying on the bed, shot twice, in the head and torso. Julia Lindholm was found in the bathroom in a state of severe shock. She had been taken to Södermalm Hospital for treatment.

  Nina closed her notebook and looked up at Pettersson.

  He was shaking his head again. ‘Who would have thought it would end like this?’

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ Nina said, looking down at her closed notebook. ‘Julia said something odd before she fainted.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She mentioned her son, Alexander. She said: “She took him. The other woman, she took Alexander.”’

  Pettersson raised his eyebrows. ‘“The other woman”? What the hell did she mean by that? Was there anyone else in the flat?’

  Nina felt stupid. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Were there any signs of a breakin or struggle?’

  Nina thought for a moment. ‘Off the top of my head, I don’t think so, but Forensics will—’

  ‘And the door was locked?’

  ‘It closes automatically if you don’t wedge it open.’

  The station head let out a deep sigh. ‘Bloody hell, poor David. Looks like she was crazier than anyone imagined.’

  ‘Alexander is missing, though,’ Nina said. ‘He wasn’t in the flat. His room was empty.’

  Her boss stuck some chewing tobacco into his mouth. ‘And?’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Has he been reported missing?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do we know if anything’s happened to him?’

  ‘No,’ Nina said. ‘It’s just that … we searched the flat and couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Obviously the information about the other woman and the missing boy will have to go in your report. Just choose your words carefully.’

  She could feel her cheeks starting to burn. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Pettersson looked at her intently for a few seconds, then stood up and stretched his back. ‘You weren’t supposed to be on patrol last night, were you?’ he said. ‘Weren’t you meant to be off?’

  ‘I was doing an extra shift,’ Nina said. ‘I go back on my normal rota at sixteen hundred hours.’

  He sighed. ‘The papers have already started calling,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk to them. All comments go through the press office. No leaks to that woman on the Evening Post …’

  Nina got up and walked away down the corridor, past the staffroom and into a small office. She sat down, switched on the computer and went into the database for reporting incidents. Systematically, she set about clicking and filling in the relevant information in the correct boxes, time of call, personnel involved, address of crime scene, injured party, deceased, suspect …

  Suspect?

  She would be listed as the author of this report. It would be attached to the case of David Lindholm’s murder for ever, would probably be examined and investigated at the Police Academy in fifty years’ time, and she would be named as the person behind it. She was the one who had to record all these preliminary details; she had to formulate the case.

  Suspect: Julia Lindholm.

  She pushed away the keyboard and went out into the corridor, taking a few aimless steps to the right, then turning and going left instead.

  I need something, she thought. Coffee? Then she wouldn’t sleep. A sandwich from the machine? The very idea made her feel queasy. She went over to the confectionary vending machine instead. All that was left were bags of sour sweets. She found a ten-kronor coin in her pocket and bought the last but one packet. Then she went back to the station head’s office and knocked on the door frame.

  Pettersson looked up from his screen.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but who should I put as the injured party? The murder victim, or his family?’

  ‘The murder victim,’ Pettersson said, and went back to his screen.

  ‘Even though he’s dead?’

  ‘Even though he’s dead.’

  Nina lingered in the doorway. ‘There’s one more thing,’ she said. ‘Alexander.’

  Pettersson sighed.

  ‘He ought to have been in the flat,’ Nina said. ‘I think we should …’

  Her boss continued to stare at his screen. ‘If Mummy did shoot Daddy, then it’s probably a good thing the kid wasn’t around to see it,’ he said, and Nina realized the conversation was over.

  She turned to leave.

  ‘Hoffman,’ he called after her.

  She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

  ‘Do you need a debriefing?’ he asked, and his tone revealed that he thought it would be the most ridiculous thing she could ask for in a tragic case like this.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said, and went back to the little office, opened the bag of sweets and gasped as she put the first into her mouth. They really were sour.

  Instead of clicking in the box for suspect, she picked up a form for recording instances where paragraph 21 of police legislation had been applied. It was easier to fill in than Julia’s name.

  In the end she had completed several forms, including one that detailed her interview with Erlandsson on the second floor.

  She stared at the screen.

  Clicked on suspect.

  Quickly typed Julia Lindholm.

  She closed the program, then hurried out of the room before her thoughts caught up with her.

  4

  ‘Mummy, I’m hungry. Do they have peanut butter here?’

  Annika opened her eyes and found herself staring at a white curtain. She had no idea where she was. Her head felt like a lump of rock, and there was a big black hole in her chest.

  ‘And chocolate and jam?’

  The hotel. Reception. The room. Reality.

  She rolled over. Her children were sitting next to each other in their pyjamas, bright-eyed, hair a mess.

  ‘Did our peanut butter burn up in the fire?’ Kalle asked.

  ‘And Poppy,’ Ellen said, her lip starting to quiver. ‘Po
ppy and Leo and Russ burned up in the fire too …’

  Oh, God, what do I say? How can I answer that?’

  Groggily, she fumbled her way out of the sheets and pulled the children towards her without a word, held them in her arms and rocked them while the hole in her chest grew. ‘They’ve probably got some chocolate,’ she said, in a thick voice. ‘And jam. I’m not sure about peanut butter.’

  ‘My new bike,’ Kalle said. ‘Did that burn up as well?’

  The computer. All the emails stored in it. My phone-book and diary. Our wedding presents. The pram. Kalle’s first shoes.

  She stroked his hair. ‘We’ve got insurance, so we can get them back again.’

  ‘Poppy too?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘And we can rebuild the house,’ Annika said.

  ‘I don’t want to live in that house,’ Kalle said. ‘I want to go home and to my proper pre-school.’

  She shut her eyes and the world lurched.

  The family had been living in the villa on Vinterviksvägen in Djursholm for just a month when it had gone up in flames. Their old flat on Kungsholmen had been sold to a gay couple who had already moved in and ripped out the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s go and have breakfast,’ she said, forcing her legs over the side of the bed. ‘We’ll put some clothes on first.’

  Ellen looked at her reproachfully. ‘But, Mummy,’ she said, ‘they burned up in the fire too.’

  By the time Annika had got back to the street after Anne had refused to let them in, the taxi had driven off with her mobile. She couldn’t call for another and they didn’t have anything else to barter with, so she had no choice but to pick the children up and start walking. She had a vague idea that there was a hotel in the neighbourhood and spent three-quarters of an hour walking in circles before she found it. She was on the point of collapse when she stumbled into Reception. The receptionist looked scared when Annika explained why they were there. They were given a room on the second floor.

  Now she let the door of the hotel room swing shut behind them, took the children’s hands and got into the lift.

  The restaurant was a minimalist, ambitious affair: a floor-to-ceiling window, and bookcases, with steel and cherry-wood furniture. The clock behind the counter said it was a quarter past nine. She had slept for about four hours.