‘Korean. Thanks for that,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be that pretty.’
She pulled at her limp blonde hair and took a firm grip of her spare tyre.
‘Oh, you’re not fat,’ Annika said, standing up to get some coffee.
‘Better thin and rich than fat and poor,’ Anne said.
The phone rang again and Annika answered it standing up.
‘This is anonymous, right?’
The voice was that of a nervous young girl.
‘Of course,’ Annika said. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Well, it’s that bloke off the telly, that presenter bloke …’ She named one of Sweden’s most popular and respected television journalists.
‘What about him?’ Annika said.
‘He likes dressing up in women’s clothes, and he messes around with young girls.’
Annika groaned, then remembered that she’d heard this one before.
‘People can dress how they like in this country,’ she said.
‘He goes to weird clubs as well.’
‘And we’ve got freedom of speech, and religious freedom, and freedom of association,’ Annika said, feeling herself getting angry.
The girl on the phone lost her thread. ‘So, you don’t want to write about this, then?’
‘Has this man done anything illegal?’
‘Nooo …’
‘You said he “messes around”, do you mean that he’s raped anyone?’
‘No, not at all, they were happy enough …’
‘Has he paid for sex with public funds?’
The girl got confused. ‘What does that mean?’
Annika groaned. ‘Has he paid for prostitutes with taxpayers’ money?’
‘I don’t know …’
Annika thanked her for the tip-off and ended the call.
‘You’re right,’ she said to Anne. ‘It’s nutters’ night.’
The hotline rang a third time and Annika grabbed it.
‘Hello, my name’s Roger Sundström and I live in Piteå,’ a man said. ‘Are you busy, or have you got a few minutes to talk?’
Annika sat down on her chair out of sheer astonishment. A polite nutter!
‘I’ve got time,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Well,’ the man said in a broad Norrland accent, ‘it’s about that government minister, Christer Lundgren. They said on that radio programme, Studio Six, that he went to a sex club in Stockholm, but that can’t be right.’
Annika perked up; there was something in the man’s voice that made her take him seriously. She found a pen under her keyboard.
‘So tell me,’ she said, ‘what makes you say that?’
‘Well,’ the man said, ‘the whole family went to Mallorca on holiday. Stupid really, it was hotter in Sweden than it was in Spain, but we didn’t know that when … Well, we were on our way home to Piteå, and we’d booked to fly with Transwede from Arlanda, because it’s a bit cheaper …’
A child laughed in the background, and Annika could hear a woman singing.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘And that’s when we saw him, the minister,’ Roger Sundström said. ‘He was at the airport at the same time as us.’
‘When was this?’ Annika asked.
‘Friday the twenty-seventh of July, at five past eight in the evening.’
‘How can you be so precise?’
‘It’s on the ticket.’
Of course!
‘But what makes you think the minister wasn’t at the sex club? The receipt mentioned on Studio Six wasn’t signed for until five the next morning. And a neighbour saw him coming home.’
‘But he wasn’t even in Stockholm then.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He was on the flight. We saw him at the checkin desk. He had one of those little briefcases with him, and a small suitcase.’
Annika felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. This could be important. Even so, she was still suspicious.
‘Why did you look so carefully at the minister? Why did you even recognize him?’
The children in the background started singing. Roger Sundström gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I tried to talk to him, but he looked terribly stressed. I don’t think he even noticed me.’
‘Stressed?’ Annika said. ‘In what way?’
‘He was sweating badly, and his hands were shaking.’
‘It was very hot that day, I was sweating badly as well,’ Annika said.
‘Yes, but he didn’t look the same as usual,’ Roger Sundström replied patiently. ‘His eyes were sort of, well, staring.’
Annika felt her excitement sink. Roger Sundström was a nutter after all.
‘What do you mean, staring?’
The man made an effort to think.
‘He was so tense, and he’s usually so confident and relaxed.’
‘You know him?’ Annika said, surprised.
‘Christer’s married to my cousin, Anna-Lena,’ Roger Sundström said. ‘They live somewhere in Luleå, they’ve got twins the same age as our Kajsa. We don’t see them very often, the last time was probably Grandad’s funeral, but Christer doesn’t normally look like that. Not even at funerals …’
He fell silent, aware that Annika had no reason to believe him.
Annika had no idea what to think, but decided to assume that the man was telling the truth for the time being. At least he believed in what he was saying.
‘Did you see him on board the plane as well?’
Roger Sundström hesitated.
‘It was a pretty big plane, and it was almost full. I don’t think I saw him.’
‘Could he have flown back to Stockholm later that evening?’
The man on the phone sounded like he was beginning to have doubts himself. ‘I don’t know. I suppose he could have. I don’t know when the last plane goes.’
Annika shut her eyes and thought about what they had said on Studio Six about the 10,000 lobbyists in Stockholm. Maybe they had an outpost in Piteå.
‘There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, Roger,’ she said. ‘And I want you to be completely honest with me. It’s really important.’
‘Okay, what is it?’
Annika sensed the suspicion and anxiety in his voice.
‘Did someone ask you to make this call?’
He didn’t understand. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Did anyone tell you to call this number?’
He thought again.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I talked to Britt-Inger beforehand. She thought I ought to ring.’
‘Britt-Inger?’
‘My wife.’
‘And why did Britt-Inger think you should call?’
‘Well, because they got it wrong on Studio Six,’ Roger Sundström said, starting to sound annoyed. ‘I called them first, of course, but they didn’t want to talk to me. They told me I must be mistaken, but I know what I saw. Britt-Inger saw him as well.’
Annika was thinking furiously.
‘And no one else asked you to call?’
‘No.’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘Now, listen—’
‘Okay,’ Annika said quickly. ‘Look, what you’ve told me is extremely interesting. It puts Studio Six’s revelations in a completely different light. I’ll see if I can use or publish your information somehow. Thanks very much for—’
Roger Sundström had already hung up.
47
As soon as she had put the tip-off phone down, her own phone started to ring.
‘You’ve got to help us. We’re at our wits’ end!’
It was Daniella Hermansson.
‘What’s happened?’
‘They won’t leave Elna alone. She’s in with me now. There are fifteen reporters with television cameras and aerials and all sorts outside the door. They keep ringing and shouting and want to get in. I don’t know what we’re goin
g to do.’
She sounded extremely upset. Her son was screaming in the background. Annika adopted her calmest voice.
‘You don’t have to let anyone in at all, unless you want to. Neither you nor Elna Svensson is obliged to talk to any reporters. Are they calling your number as well?’
‘All the time.’
‘As soon as we finish talking, leave the phone off the hook, then they’ll just get the engaged tone. If you feel that they’re invading your privacy or threatening you somehow, you should call the police.’
‘The police? Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Do you want me to call them?’ Annika said.
‘Could you? Oh, thank you …’
‘Hold on, and I’ll call them from another phone,’ Annika said.
She picked up the hotline phone and dialled the number of the police control room.
‘Hello, I’m calling from sixty-four Sankt Göransgatan,’ she said. ‘The press have invaded our stairwell, and they’re terrifying our elderly neighbours. The reporters are shouting and yelling, ringing on all the doors and intimidating people. I’ve got five terrified pensioners in my flat right now. It’s the right-hand stairwell, second floor.’
She switched phones.
‘They’re on their way.’
Daniella let out a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you so much. How can I ever thank you? It’s really kind of you, I won’t …’
Annika wasn’t listening.
‘Why did Elna Svensson talk to the reporter from Studio Six?’
‘She says she hasn’t spoken to any reporters at all.’
‘She must have done, I heard her on the radio. Sometime today or yesterday?’
Daniella put the phone down to talk to someone else in the room.
‘Elna says she definitely didn’t.’
Annika thought for a moment.
‘Daniella,’ she said, ‘is Elna senile?’
The answer was instant and unambiguous.
‘Absolutely not, she’s bright as a button. No reporters, she’s one hundred per cent sure.’
‘Well, she spoke to someone, unless both I and that flock of journalists are all hallucinating.’
‘A policeman,’ Daniella said. ‘She spoke to a policeman this morning. He said he wanted to ask her a few extra questions.’
‘Did he record what she said?’
‘Did he record what you said?’ Daniella asked the woman.
There was a long sequence of muttering.
‘Yes,’ Daniella said down the phone. ‘For evidence. He said it was vital to have everything documented properly.’
They’re shameless, Annika thought.
‘And she’s sure about the time, and the day? When she bumped into the minister, I mean?’
‘Yes, absolutely sure.’
‘How come?’
‘Can I tell her?’ Daniella asked her neighbour.
More muttering. Back on the phone she said: ‘No, I can’t tell you why, but she’s sure. Hang on, something’s happening out there. I’m just going to take a look—’
She put the phone down. Annika could hear her walking away. She was peering through the spyhole in the door. The steps returned.
‘The police are here now, they’re clearing the stairwell. Thanks for helping out.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it …’
Annika hung up, her head spinning. The tip-off line rang again.
‘You’ll have to take that one,’ she said to Anne Snapphane, getting up and going off to the canteen. She got a bottle of water and sat by the window, staring out at the rain. It was a damp, grey evening. Not even the lamps of the Russian Embassy compound had any effect on the gloom.
I wonder when Josefin’s funeral is? she thought. It’ll probably be a while yet. The pathologists and police will want the chance to cut her into little pieces first so they don’t have to dig her up again.
She thought about the government minister, wondering which window he might be staring out of right now.
Talk about landing yourself in the shit, she thought. How could anyone be stupid enough to claim expenses from the Foreign Ministry for a night in a sex club?
Mind you, he was supposed to be mean.
As she finished her water, her thoughts went back to Josefin again. The dead girl had been completely forgotten. From the moment she was revealed to be a stripper, she had been nothing but a piece of meat, a plaything for more influential people. Annika thought of the girl’s parents.
I wonder how Mum would react if it was me, she thought. Would she cry for the local paper?
Probably not; her mother didn’t like journalists. You should keep things to yourself and not give a shit about what anyone else does, that was her motto. She had never said so in so many words, but she had never been very happy with Annika’s choice of career. She had agreed with Sven when he said she should never have taken up the offer of a trainee post.
‘It’s a really tough job,’ Sven had said. ‘Going after people and proving they did stuff, that wouldn’t suit you at all. You’re far too nice …’
Annoyed, she got up and went back to her desk.
‘Okay, I’ve had enough of this crap,’ she said to Anne Snapphane. She picked up her bag and left.
Patricia jumped when the outside door opened. Annika appeared as a dark silhouette against the harsh light of the stairwell.
‘Were you asleep?’ Annika said, turning the light on.
Patricia blinked against the sudden brightness.
‘I was letting the energies flow,’ she said.
‘And now I’ve spoiled everything?’ Annika said with a sheepish smile.
Patricia smiled back.
‘They’re always here.’
Annika hung up her coat in the hall, her light jacket was soaked. Patricia sat up on the sofa.
‘Josefin had a jacket just like that,’ she said, sounding amazed. ‘Exactly the same.’
Annika looked at her with surprise.
‘It’s a few years old now. H&M, I think.’
Patricia nodded. ‘That’s where Josie got hers. It’s still hanging in the hall at Dalagatan. “I’m always going to wear this jacket,” she used to say. She often said things like that, huge exaggerations. “I’m always going to do this”, “I’m never, ever doing that”, “This is the absolute biggest whatever”. “You’re the very best friend I’ve ever had”. And then there was “until I die”. Until I die …’
Patricia started to cry, and Annika sat down beside her on the sofa.
‘Did you listen to Studio Six?’
Patricia nodded.
‘What do you think? Could it have been the government minister?’
Patricia looked down at her hands through her tears.
‘It could have been one of the bigwigs. They left just after Josie. They had smart bank cards, government cards. And there were the Germans. You know what they’re like. Hiding away in Asunción after the war. Dad used to talk about them.’
Annika sat in silence as Patricia cried.
‘Anyone who means anything to me dies,’ she said.
‘Oh, but—’ Annika said.
‘First Dad, then Josie …’
‘Well, that can’t be “everyone”? What about your mum?’
Patricia pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘She doesn’t talk to me any more. She thinks I’m a slut. She’s got the whole family on her side.’
Annika stood up and fetched two glasses of water from the kitchen. She handed one to Patricia.
‘So why do you work there, then?’
‘Joachim thinks I’m good behind the bar,’ she said defensively. ‘And I earn a lot of money. I save ten thousand every month. When I’ve got enough I’m going to open my own shop. I already know what it’s going to be called. Crystal. I’ve learned from Joachim, so I looked it up. The name’s available. I’m going to sell tarot cards and do horoscopes, help people onto the right track—’
/>
‘You’ve seen pictures of the minister now,’ Annika interrupted. ‘Was he at the club with the other men?’
Patricia shrugged. ‘They’re all pretty much the same, they sort of blur together.’
Annika recognized the phrase, she’d heard it somewhere before. She looked hard at the young woman on the sofa. Presumably she avoided looking at the men at all.
‘Have the police asked you about this?’
‘Course they have. They’ve asked everything a million times.’
‘Like what, for instance?’ Patricia got up, irritated.
‘Everything, loads of stuff. I’m tired now. Goodnight.’
She closed the door to the maid’s room carefully behind her.
Eighteen years, eleven months and five days
We don’t know where we’re going. The truth that was hidden behind the clouds has drifted off into space. I can’t see it any more; I can’t even sense its presence.
He cries about the emptiness. My senses are shut off, cold. I can’t be touched: numb, sterile.
Resignation is pretty close to failure. Desire that is either too strong or too weak, love that is either too demanding or too feeble.
I can’t back out now.
We are, in spite of everything,
the most important thing in the world
to each other.
Tuesday 7 August
48
‘She’s got to go,’ the first one said.
‘How are we going to get rid of her?’ the second one said.
‘Shoot her?’ said the third.
The men from Studio Six were sitting round her kitchen table. She wasn’t going to be staying on at the paper; that much was obvious.
‘You haven’t asked me yet,’ Annika cried.
They carried on muttering at the table, and Annika could no longer make out what they were saying.
‘Listen!’ she said. ‘Maybe I don’t want to go with you! I don’t want to go to Harpsund!’
‘Do you want breakfast?’
Annika opened her eyes and stared at Patricia.
‘What?’
Patricia put her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh, sorry, you were asleep. I thought … you were talking. It must have been a dream.’
Annika closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair.
‘It was a really weird dream,’ she said.
‘About Harpsund?’
Annika stood up, pulled on her dressing-gown and padded down to the toilet. When she got back Patricia was pouring coffee.
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