‘I’m going to have to stay down here for a while,’ he told her.
His wife held her fire. ‘Next weekend too?’
‘You know I don’t want to,’ he said.
‘You promised the children,’ she said. He shut his eyes and put a hand over his forehead. He could feel tears prickling behind his eyelids.
‘I want you so much I feel ill,’ he said.
This worried her.
‘What’s happened?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ he said. ‘It’s a complete nightmare.’
‘But, Christer, just tell me what’s happened!’
He gulped, then said, ‘Listen to me. Take the children and go to Karungi. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘I’m not going without you,’ she said quickly.
His voice hardened. ‘You have to. Things are going badly wrong here. You’ll be besieged if you stay in town. The best thing would be if you could leave this evening.’
‘But Stina isn’t expecting us until Saturday!’
‘Call her and ask if you can go a bit earlier. Stina’s always happy to help.’
His wife waited in silence.
‘It’s the police,’ she said finally. ‘It’s because of the police calling.’
He could hear the twins laughing in the background.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Partly. But that’s not all.’
Annika was back in time for the 5.45 news on the radio.
‘You’ve no idea who I saw in the forest. The Prime Minister!’
She emptied the contents of the two bags on the table as the news bulletin began.
‘He’s decided to lose some weight,’ her grandmother said. ‘He does a lot of cycling round here.’
They sat on either side of the kitchen table cleaning the mushrooms as the voices chattered on the radio. Nothing much had happened.
‘So you’re still in touch with Harpsund?’ Annika said.
Her grandmother smiled. She had been the housekeeper at the Prime Minister’s summer residence for thirty-seven years. The local news came on and she turned up the volume.
Annika cut up the mushrooms and placed them on the already full bowl beside her. She let her hands drop, and her eyes relax. The clock on the wall ticked, the minutes floated past. Her grandmother’s kitchen was her ideal of peace and warmth. The iron stove and the white cupboards, the cork tiles, the wax-cloth, the vase of meadow flowers on the window sill. And this was where she learned to live without hot water.
‘Are you staying the night?’ her grandmother asked.
At that moment the theme tune to the discussion programme Studio Six came on. The old woman reached out a hand to turn the radio down, but Annika stopped her.
‘Let’s just hear what they’ve got today,’ Annika said.
The music faded slightly and the presenter’s deep voice said, ‘The police have been questioning a man about the rape and murder of a young girl in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm. Initial reports indicate that the man is none other than the Minister for Foreign Trade, Christer Lundgren. We’ll have discussion and debate on this story in today’s edition of Studio Six.’
The music came on again. Annika sat with her hands over her mouth. Good grief, was that really possible?
‘But whatever is it? You look quite pale,’ her grandmother said.
The music faded away and the presenter came on again.
‘It’s Monday, thirty-first July. Welcome to Studio Six in Radio House in Stockholm,’ he said, then went on: ‘Well, the Social Democrats are facing one of their biggest ever scandals. The minister has been questioned twice so far: he was interviewed over the phone yesterday, and today he has been at the headquarters of the violent crime unit on Kungsholmen for further questioning. We’re going over live to our reporter outside Police Headquarters in Stockholm.’
There was some crackling, then an authoritative male voice said, ‘Yes, I’m standing here with the police press spokesman. Can you tell us what’s been happening here today?’
Annika turned up the volume and the press spokesman’s voice filled the kitchen.
‘I can confirm that the police are pursuing several lines of inquiry in their hunt for the killer of Josefin Liljeberg,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t give any further details. No one has been officially identified as a suspect, even if our inquiries are leading us in one direction in particular.’
The reporter wasn’t listening.
‘What’s your view about a government minister being suspected of a crime of this nature, in the middle of an election campaign?’ he asked.
The press spokesman hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can neither confirm nor deny any aspect of this investigation at present. No one has been officially identified—’
‘But the minister has been here for questioning today?’
‘The Minister for Foreign Trade, Christer Lundgren, is one of many people who have been questioned, that’s correct,’ the press spokesman said.
‘So you’re confirming that he has been questioned?’ the reporter said, a note of triumph in his voice.
‘I can confirm that we have conducted approximately three hundred sessions of questioning so far in this murder investigation,’ the press spokesman said, starting to sound uncomfortable.
‘What did the minister have to say in his defence?’
The press spokesman sounded irritated now. And his mobile phone started to ring.
Yeah, right, Annika thought. He won’t get much sleep tonight.
‘Naturally I cannot comment on what was said during questioning in an ongoing police investigation,’ he said.
The live link cut off and the programme presenter came back on.
‘Right, we’re back in Studio Six in Radio House here in Stockholm,’ he said. ‘Of course, this is going to be very difficult for the Social Democrats during the election campaign, even if the minister isn’t charged with any crime. The mere fact that a minister of state is being linked to an incident of this nature will have dire consequences for the party’s credibility. And that’s one of the subjects up for discussion in today’s Studio Six.’
A small fanfare sounded as the presenter took a sip of water and presumably conferred with his control room.
When he returned he had a studio guest with him, an absurd professor of journalism who had only been appointed for political reasons after working as the editor-in-chief of a workers’ paper that owned the biggest printworks in Sweden publishing porn magazines.
‘Well,’ the supposed professor said, ‘this is naturally an absolute catastrophe for Social Democracy. Any suspicions of this sort of abuse of power put the party in a very difficult position. Yes, very difficult indeed …’
‘Of course we don’t know if the minister is guilty or not, and we certainly don’t want to judge anyone in advance,’ the presenter pointed out. ‘But what would happen if he were found guilty?’
Annika stood up, her head spinning. So there was a minister involved. The fat old woman in the block of flats had been right.
The professor and the presenter of Studio Six chattered on, with occasional inserts from two reporters out in the city.
‘Is this something to do with your work?’ her grandmother wondered.
Annika smiled weakly. ‘You could say that. I’ve written quite a lot about this murder. She was only nineteen, Grandma. Her name was Josefin and she loved cats.’
The programme presenter was sounding serious and confident.
‘So far we haven’t been able to get hold of the Minister for Foreign Trade for a comment,’ he said. ‘He’s spent the whole afternoon in a crisis meeting with the Prime Minister and party secretary in government offices in Rosenbad. Our reporter is there for us …’
Annika’s eyes opened wide.
‘They’ve got that wrong!’ she said, astonished.
Her grandmother looked at her quizzically.
‘The Prime Minister. He can’t have been at any
crisis meeting this afternoon.’
She quickly packed all her things in her bag, tipped the bowl of clean mushrooms back in the plastic bag and tucked that into her bag as well.
‘I’ve got to get back to Stockholm,’ she said. ‘Have the rest of the mushrooms!’
‘Do you have to go?’ her grandmother asked.
Annika hesitated. ‘No, but I want to,’ she said.
‘Just look after yourself,’ her grandmother said.
Annika gave her a quick hug and stepped out into the warm evening sunlight. Whiskas scampered along beside her on the path.
‘No, you’ve got to go back. You can’t come with me. You’ve got to stay with Grandma.’
Annika stopped and bent down to stroke the cat before nudging him back down the path.
‘You’ve got to stay there,’ she said. ‘Off you go, now.’
The cat ran past her up the path, towards the barrier. Annika sighed, got the cat to come back to her, then picked him up and carried him back to the house.
‘You’ll have to keep the outside door shut until I’ve gone,’ Annika said, and her grandmother laughed.
The wind had picked up again, rolling down the road and giving her a bit of extra speed as the pine trees flickered past. She pedalled as hard uphill as down, and was out of breath when she got off and leaned the bicycle outside her front door.
‘I heard you were home.’
Sven slammed his car door and walked towards her from the car park. Annika locked her bike, stood up and smiled weakly at him.
‘It’s only a flying visit this time,’ she said.
Sven smiled as he gave her a hug.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered.
Annika hugged him back. He kissed her hard. Annika pulled away.
‘What’s the matter?’
He let go of her.
‘I have to get back to Stockholm.’
The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked towards the door. She could hear his footsteps as he followed her.
‘You’ve only just got here. Don’t you get any time off?’
She pulled the door open. The hallway smelled of warm rubbish.
‘Well, yes, but there’ve been some developments in that murder I’ve been covering.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else who could do it?’
She leaned against the wall, shut her eyes and thought.
‘I want to do it,’ she said. ‘This is my big chance.’
He was standing in front of her, his hands either side of her head, a thoughtful look on his face.
‘To do what? Get away from here? Is that it?’
She looked him in the eye.
‘To get somewhere. I’ve already covered everything at the Katrineholm Courier. Forestry supplements, auctions, council meetings, advice on composting. I’ve got to move on.’
She bobbed down under his outstretched arm. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘I’ll drive you up.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll get the train.’
28
The room was empty. Business was always quiet when it was as hot as this. The dirty old men could sit and stare at tits all day long at the beach. Patricia took a quick look at the takings from the door. Only 3,000 kronor. Just six customers all afternoon and evening. Hopeless. She closed the cashbox. Oh well. Things would pick up later on. The heat always seemed to get the tourists’ blood up.
She went into the sparsely decorated changing room next to the office and hung up her bag and denim jacket, pulled off her vest and shorts and put on her sequinned bra. Her thong was a bit sticky, she’d have to remember to rinse it out before she went home tomorrow morning. She hurriedly applied some make-up – a lot of make-up. She didn’t much care for it. Her shoes were looking a bit scuffed. The sole had almost come off one of the heels. She fastened the straps, took a deep breath and went out into the club again.
The roulette table was grey with cigarette ash on the customers’ side, and she noticed another new scorch mark on the green baize. Annoyed, she moved the ashtray. Smoking wasn’t allowed at the table. She took out the brush from the shelf on the croupier’s side and cleaned up the ash, sweeping it onto the floor.
‘So you’re Mrs Mop now?’
Joachim was standing in the door of the office, leaning against the doorpost. Patricia froze.
‘It just looked a mess,’ she said.
‘You shouldn’t worry your pretty head about things like that,’ Joachim said to her. ‘You just need to be beautiful and sexy.’
He stood up and walked slowly towards her, still smiling, his hand out. Patricia gulped. He stroked her shoulder, then her arm. She pulled away cautiously. His smile died.
‘What are you worried about?’ he wondered. He had a completely different look in his eyes, cold, questioning. Patricia looked down at her sparkling breasts.
‘Nothing. What makes you think I’m worried?’
Her voice wasn’t quite under control. He let go of her abruptly.
‘You’ve read what they wrote in that rag,’ he said.
Patricia looked up at him, eyes innocently wide-open.
‘What rag?’
He looked hard at her, and she made an effort not to look away.
‘They’ll soon have him,’ he said.
She blinked.
‘Who?’
‘That minister. They said so on the radio. That group of blokes who were here that evening. It was one of them. They’ve been questioning him all day. The Prime Minister’s furious, apparently.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that?’
He turned and walked off towards the bar.
‘They said so on the radio. Studio Six.’
He stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder, smiling again.
‘Can you think of a better place for them to announce it?
Part Two
AUGUST
Eighteen years, one month and three days
Love is often described so flatly and unambiguously, a monotonous rosy pink. Loving another human being can embrace all the colours of the rainbow, it can grow in strength and intensity, it can be black and green and yellow.
It has been difficult for me to realize this. I was stuck in the bright, crystal-coloured version, and I had trouble seeing any discordant colours.
I know he’s doing it for my own good, but it still tears me apart.
His theory is that something happened to me in my childhood which means that I can’t let go of my sexual inhibitions. I’ve thought about this over and over again, but I still can’t imagine what this something might have been.
We experiment to find ways for me to get over this, united in our love. I sit on top of him, feeling him deep within me as he slaps me hard on the face with the palm of his hand. I stop, my eyes filling with tears. I ask him why he’d do something like that.
He strokes my cheek, and pushes in hard and deep.
It’s to help you, he says, and hits me again, then thrusts in hard until he comes.
We talk about it at length afterwards – how we can rediscover the divine aspect of our relationship. It’s a lack of trust, I realize that. I have to have faith in him. Because how would I manage otherwise?
We are the most important things
in the world
to each other.
Wednesday 1 August
29
Annika arrived at the paper just before nine o’clock. Tore Brand was sitting behind the reception desk and greeted her grumpily.
‘Bombs and grenades,’ he said. ‘That’s all this paper’s interested in.’
He nodded towards that day’s flysheet, displayed beside the lift. Annika looked over and it took a few seconds for the information to sink in. She felt the floor sway beneath her. This can’t be true, she thought, as she reached out to grab the reception desk and read the words again. ‘TERRORIST ATTACK – Ninja Barbies Attack Police’, accompanied by a large picture of a burning car.
‘Who wrote that article?’ she whispered.
‘Sensation and scandal, that’s all we seem to cover,’ Tore Brand said.
She went over and picked up a couple of copies of the paper instead. The front page was dominated by a picture of the Minister for Foreign Trade, Christer Lundgren. He was standing next to the Prime Minister, who had his arm round Lundgren’s shoulders. They were both smiling broadly. The picture had been taken when Lundgren was appointed and presented to the media eight months earlier. The headline struck Annika as rather weak: STORMY WEATHER.
The news from the flysheet was at the very top of the page, above the title, with a reference to pages six and seven inside. She leafed through, her hands shaking. She scanned the page to see who had written the article.
Carl Wennergren.
She lowered the paper.
‘It’s bloody awful, isn’t it?’ Tore Brand said.
‘You’re damn right there,’ Annika said, heading towards the lifts.
She went to the cafeteria and sat down with a coffee and a large roll. The drink cooled as she read the articles, first the one about the Ninja Barbies, and then the government minister.
They got what they wanted, she thought, staring at the picture of the burning car. The vehicle was on its side, its underside facing the photographer. She noted that Carl Wennergren was also credited with the picture. According to the caption, the car belonged to a chief constable in the Stockholm district. Behind the flames you could make out a detached house built in the sixties. The article gave the Ninja Barbies the opportunity to broadcast their childish, violent message. It didn’t include a single word of criticism. Annika started to feel sick. Fuck, she thought. Fuck that fucking bastard.
The article about the minister in stormy weather was better. It treated the accusations from the Studio Six programme for what they were: unsubstantiated rumours of guilt. The minister himself hadn’t been available for comment, but his press secretary, Karina Björnlund, declared that the allegations had no basis whatsoever in fact.
Annika didn’t know what to believe. Christer Lundgren had certainly been questioned, that much had been confirmed by the police’s press spokesman on the radio the day before. But a lot of the other information in the programme was undoubtedly false. And what had happened to the suspicions against Joachim?
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