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‘No one wants to live in such primitive conditions these days,’ the woman in the estate agents had said when Annika filled in her form, saying that she was prepared to live without a lift, hot water, a bathroom, and even electricity if need be.

  Annika had held her ground.

  ‘All right. No one wants this one,’ the woman had said, giving her a printout. Hantverkargatan 32, the fourth floor out in the courtyard.

  Annika took it without even going to see it. She had thanked her lucky stars every day since then, but she knew her happiness could end up being short-lived. She had agreed to being evicted with just one week’s notice if the owner got the money he needed to renovate the building.

  She dropped her bag on the floor and went into the bedroom. She had left the window open while she was at work, but it had blown shut. With a sigh she pushed it open once more and headed towards the living room to try to get a bit of a through-draught.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  She was so shocked that she screamed and jumped clean off the floor.

  The voice was low, and came from the shadows over by her bed.

  ‘Bloody hell, you can’t be that much of a scaredy-cat?’

  It was Sven, her fiancé.

  ‘When did you get here?’ she said, her heart still pounding in her chest.

  ‘Yesterday evening. I was going to take you to the cinema. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘At work,’ she said, going into the living room.

  He got out of bed and followed her.

  ‘No you haven’t,’ he said. ‘I called an hour ago, and they said you’d already left.’

  ‘I had to feed Anne’s cats,’ she said, opening the living-room window.

  ‘That’s a fucking useless excuse,’ he said.

  Seventeen years, six months and twenty-one days

  There’s a dimension where the boundaries between human bodies blur. We live with each other, in each other, spiritually, physically. Days become moments; I drown in his eyes. Our bodies dissolve, enter another time. Love is gold and crystals. We can go wherever we please in the universe, together, two, but also one.

  A soulmate is someone who has the locks that our keys fit into, and who has the keys that fit our locks. We feel secure with people like this, in our own private paradise. I read that somewhere, and it’s true of us as well.

  I long for him every moment we’re apart. I didn’t know love could be so obvious, so total, so all-consuming. I can’t eat, can’t sleep. Only with him am I whole, a real person. He provides the reason for my life, my sense of meaning. I know I mean the same for him. We have been granted the greatest gift of all.

  Never leave me,

  he says,

  I can’t live without you.

  And I promise.

  Sunday 29 July

  14

  Patricia put her hand on the door to Josefin’s room. She hesitated. The bedroom was Josefin’s domain. She wasn’t allowed in there. Josie had been very strict about that.

  ‘You can live here, but the bedroom is mine.’

  The handle was loose. Patricia had wanted to tighten it, but they had no screwdriver. She carefully pushed down on it. The door creaked. A smell of dust hit her; the heat was stagnant and dense. Josie insisted on cleaning her room herself, which meant that it never got done. The police had stirred up two months’ worth of dirt and dust when they searched the room last night.

  The room was bathed in harsh sunlight. The police had opened the curtains. It struck Patricia that she had never actually seen the room like that before. The daylight showed up the dust and how dirty the wallpaper was. Patricia felt suddenly ashamed when she thought of the police being in there. They must have thought she and Josie lived like pigs.

  Slowly she walked over and sat down on the bed. It was actually just a mattress from IKEA that they’d put straight on the floor, but, unlike Patricia’s own foam mattress, at least this one had a bit of height to it.

  Patricia was tired. She had slept badly because of the heat, waking up, sweating and crying. She slowly lay down on top of the duvet. When she got home this morning she had been struck by how lonely she felt the moment she walked into the silent apartment. They really had turned the whole place upside down, but they hadn’t taken very much.

  She was on the verge of falling asleep among the pillows, feeling her limbs start to twitch the way they did before she dozed off. She hurriedly sat up again. She mustn’t sleep in Josie’s room.

  There was a bundle of magazines beside the bed, and Patricia leaned over and leafed through the top one. Weekly Review, Josie’s favourite. Patricia didn’t think much of it, there was too much about diets and make-up and sex. She always felt ugly and clumsy after reading it, like she wasn’t good enough. She realized that that was the whole point. Under the pretence of helping young girls become more confident, it actually made them feel worse.

  She picked up the next magazine on the pile. It was much smaller; Patricia had never seen it before. The paper was cheap and the print quality was pretty poor. She opened it in the middle. Two men had their penises inside a woman, one in her anus, the other in her vagina. You could just make out the woman’s face in the background. She looked like she was screaming, as if she were in pain. Patricia felt a physical response to the picture in her groin. She jerked back, disgusted, partly by the picture, and partly by her own reaction. She threw the magazine on the floor, as if it had burned her. Josefin didn’t read that sort of thing. She knew it had to be Joachim’s.

  She lay down again, staring up at the ceiling and trying to stop the shameful feeling of horniness. It slowly subsided. She ought to be used to this by now.

  She looked round the room. The wardrobe door was open. Josefin’s clothes hung haphazardly from their hangers. Patricia knew the police must have left them like that. Josie was careful with her clothes.

  I wonder what’s going to happen to them now, she thought. Maybe I could take some of them.

  She got up and went over to the wardrobe, her hand stroking the clothes. Expensive outfits, Joachim had bought most of them. Patricia wouldn’t be able to wear the dresses: they were too big across the bust. But maybe the skirts and a few of the outfits?

  The sound of keys in the front door made her heart skip a beat. She quickly shut the wardrobe, her bare feet flying over the wooden floor.

  She just managed to close Josefin’s bedroom door behind her when Joachim stepped into the hall.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  He looked sweaty, and had dark rings under his arms.

  Patricia just looked at him, her pulse racing, her mouth completely dry. She tried to smile.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said nervously.

  ‘Haven’t we told you to stay the fuck away from Josefin’s room?’

  He pulled the front door shut with a bang.

  ‘It’s the police,’ she said. ‘The pigs have been here snooping. Everything looks a right mess, in there too.’

  He walked into the trap.

  ‘Pigs?’ he said, and Patricia could hear the fear in his voice. ‘Did they take anything?’

  He walked towards Patricia and the bedroom door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Nothing of mine, anyway.’

  He pushed the bedroom door open and walked over to the bed, and lifted the duvet.

  ‘The sheets,’ he said. ‘They’ve taken the sheets.’

  Patricia watched cautiously from the doorway. He walked round the room, checking things as he went, but evidently couldn’t see anything else missing. He sat down heavily on the bed with his back to the door and put his head in his hands.

  Patricia inhaled the dancing dust, unable to move. She looked at the man’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. The light from the window made his blond hair glow. He really was very good-looking. Josefin had been so happy when they got together. Patricia remembered her crying with joy, and telling her how wonderful he was.

  Joachim turned round and looked at her.
r />   ‘Who do you think did it?’ he said in a low voice.

  Patricia kept her face neutral.

  ‘Some madman,’ she said, calmly and decisively. ‘Some drunk on his way home from the pub. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  He turned away again.

  ‘Do you think it could have been one of the clients?’ he said without looking up.

  Patricia weighed her answer.

  ‘One of last night’s crop, you mean? I don’t know, what do you think?’

  ‘It would ruin the club,’ he said.

  She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the bottom of her T-shirt.

  ‘I miss her,’ she said.

  Joachim got up and went over to her, put his hand on her shoulder and gently stroked her arm.

  ‘Patricia,’ he said quietly, ‘I understand how upset you are. I’m just as upset myself.’

  She shivered uncomfortably and had to make a real effort not to pull away.

  ‘I hope the police catch him,’ she said.

  Joachim pulled her to him, a sob racking his muscular frame.

  ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Fuck. Why’s she dead?’

  He started to cry. Patricia put her arms round his back carefully, gently rocking him.

  ‘My Josie, my angel …’

  He went on crying, great snorting sobs. Patricia shut her eyes and forced herself not to pull away.

  ‘Poor Joachim,’ she whispered. ‘You poor thing …’

  He let go of her and went into the bathroom, where he blew his nose, then peed. She waited helplessly in the hall, listening to the splash of urine and then the flush.

  ‘Have the police spoken to you?’ he asked as he came out.

  She gulped. ‘A bit, yesterday. They want to talk more today.’

  He looked intently at her.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘They’ve got to catch the bastard who did this. What are you going to say?’

  She turned away and went into the kitchen, and poured a glass of water.

  ‘Depends what they ask. I don’t know anything, anyway,’ she said, then drank.

  He had followed her, and was leaning against the door frame.

  ‘They’ll want to know what Josie was like and all that. What her life was like …’

  Patricia put the glass down noisily on the draining board and looked Joachim in the eye.

  ‘I’d never say anything that showed Josie in a bad light,’ she said firmly.

  The man looked content at this.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, putting an arm round her shoulders. He guided her through the hall and over to Josie’s wardrobe.

  ‘Look,’ he said, his free hand running over Josefin’s expensive outfits. ‘Is there anything you’d like? What about this one?’

  He pulled out a bright pink, figure-hugging silk and wool dress with big gold buttons. Josefin had loved that one. She thought it made her look like Princess Diana.

  Patricia felt her eyes start to water. She swallowed.

  ‘But, Joachim, I can’t—’

  ‘Take it. It’s yours.’

  She started to cry. He let go of her and held the dress up in front of her.

  ‘Your tits are too small, but we can probably fix that,’ he said, smiling at her.

  Patricia stopped crying, looked down and took the hanger.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered.

  ‘Wear it for the funeral,’ he said.

  She heard him go out into the kitchen, where he took something out of the fridge, then he left the flat.

  Patricia stayed where she was, in Josefin’s room, frozen to the spot even though it was so hot.

  15

  The other evening paper had spoken to the father. He had nothing interesting to say, just that he couldn’t believe she was gone, but even so … At least they had some quotes.

  ‘You never know which way the wind’s going to blow,’ Berit said. ‘If they’re unlucky they’ll end up the focus of a big debate about media ethics.’

  ‘For talking to the relatives?’ Annika wondered, scanning the rest of the article.

  Berit nodded and took a sip from her bottle of lemon-flavoured mineral water.

  ‘You have to be really careful when you do that,’ she said. ‘Some want to talk, but a lot don’t. You must never trick anyone into talking. Did you call the parents?’

  Annika folded the paper and shook her head. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt too awkward.’

  ‘That’s not a good way to judge things like this,’ Berit said seriously. ‘Just because it feels awkward to you doesn’t mean the relatives will feel the same. Some of them find it a comfort to know that the papers are interested.’

  ‘So you think everyone in the media should call a family when their child dies?’

  Annika could hear how aggressive she sounded.

  Berit took another sip of water and thought for a moment.

  ‘Well, no two cases are the same. All you can know for certain is that people react differently. There’s no definitive right or wrong way to handle it. You just have to be very, very careful, to make sure you don’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t call,’ Annika said, getting up to fetch some coffee.

  When she got back with her steaming plastic cup Berit had gone back to her own desk.

  I wonder if I’ve upset her, Annika thought. She could see Berit leaning over another paper on the far side of the newsroom. She quickly picked up the phone and dialled Berit’s internal number.

  ‘Are you annoyed with me?’ she said, meeting Berit’s gaze from across the room.

  ‘Not at all. You’ve got to work out what’s right for you.’

  The Cold Calls phone rang, and Annika switched phones.

  ‘How much do I get for a really good tip-off?’ an agitated male voice asked.

  Annika groaned silently and told him.

  ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Listen to this. Are you taking notes?’

  ‘Yep,’ Annika said. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘I know all about a television personality who dresses up in women’s clothes and goes to dirty sex clubs,’ the man said, sounding ready to burst.

  He mentioned the name of one of Sweden’s most popular and admired TV presenters. Annika could feel her anger radiating, right to her toes.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘What makes you think that the Evening Post would be interested in publishing malicious crap like that?’

  The man at the other end lost his confidence.

  ‘But it’s a huge scandal,’ he said.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Annika said. ‘People can do whatever the hell they like. And whatever makes you think this is true?’

  ‘I got it from a reliable source,’ the man said.

  ‘Sure you did,’ Annika said. ‘Well, thanks for calling.’

  She hung up.

  The other evening paper had pretty much the same articles and picture about the murder as the Evening Post, but Annika thought that the Post had done a better job all the way through.

  The other paper didn’t have the graduation photograph of Josefin, for instance. Their pictures of the crime scene were tamer, their texts flatter, they had interviewed more boring neighbours and they hadn’t made the link to the old Eva murder. They had no teacher, and no friends. The Evening Post had short interviews with both Josefin’s friend Charlotta and the headmaster, Martin Larsson-Berg.

  ‘Good work,’ Spike said above her. She looked up and saw her boss looking at her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  He sat down on the edge of her desk. ‘So what are we doing today?’

  A strange warmth ran through her. She was one of them now. He had come to her to find out.

  ‘I thought I might go and see her flatmate, the girl who identified her.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll talk?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve tried to establish contact with her,’ she said.

  Ins
tinctively she knew that she shouldn’t mention her encounter with Patricia in the park. If she did, Spike would only be cross with her for not coming back and writing an article about it straight away.

  ‘Okay,’ the head of news said. ‘Who’s covering the police?’

  ‘We’re sharing that between us,’ she said.

  ‘Good. What else? Do you think the mum and dad are ready to shed a few tears?’

  Annika squirmed on her chair.

  ‘I don’t think it’s the right moment to intrude on them,’ she said.

  ‘He’s already spoken to the press,’ Spike said. ‘What did he say when you called?’

  Annika could feel herself blushing.

  ‘He … I … didn’t think I could disturb them so soon after—’

  Spike stood up and walked off without a word.

  Annika wanted to call him back, to explain how wrong it had felt, that you couldn’t behave like that. Her mouth was open but no sound came out, and her raised arm did no good. She just had to get on with it; it wasn’t her decision to make.

  Spike’s broad shoulders glided away, and he slumped onto his chair over at the newsdesk. Annika could almost feel his weight hit the chair even from a distance.

  She quickly put her pen, notepad and tape-recorder in her bag and headed over to the picture desk. There were no photographers there, which meant no cars. She called for a taxi.

  ‘To Vasastan. Dalagatan.’

  She wanted to know how the dead woman had lived.

  *

  He woke up with a start to find his wife gently shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Christer,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the Prime Minister.’

  He sat up with a general feeling of disorientation. The bed seemed to be rocking, and his whole body felt exhausted. With a groan he stood up and headed towards his office.

  ‘I’ll take it in here,’ he said.

  The Prime Minister’s voice sounded calm and neutral. He’d evidently been up for hours.

  ‘Well, Christer, did you get home okay?’

  The Minister for Foreign Trade sank into the chair next to the desk and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he said. ‘It took quite a while to drive up here, that’s all. How’s everything with you?’

  ‘Fine, just fine. I’m out at Harpsund with the family. So how did it go?’