‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘This is incredible … So what does he have to say?’
Annika swallowed in a desperate attempt to moisten her throat. It didn’t really work.
‘I’ve only spoken to his wife, Anna-Lena. Christer Lundgren refuses to come to the phone. Then I tried to go through his press secretary, Karina Björnlund. I laid out the whole scenario for her, exactly as I thought it had unfolded. She said she’d try to get a comment from him, but she never called back …’
They sat in silence again, until the head editor cleared his throat.
‘How many people have you told about this?’ he asked.
‘No one,’ Annika said quickly. ‘Only you.’
‘And Karina Björnlund. Anyone else?’
Annika shut her eyes and thought.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just you and Karina Björnlund.’
She felt her muscles tense. Here came the counterargument.
‘This is absolutely fascinating,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘But it isn’t publishable.’
‘Why not?’ Annika snapped.
‘Too many loose threads,’ Schyman said. ‘Your reasoning is logical, even highly credible, but it can’t be proved.’
‘But I’ve got copies of the receipts!’ Annika said.
‘Yes, you have, but that isn’t enough. You know that.’
Annika didn’t reply.
‘The fact that the minister was in Tallinn is new, but it doesn’t give him an alibi for the murder. He was home by five, when the girl was killed. Remember, the neighbour who met him at the door?’
Annika nodded. Schyman went on: ‘Christer Lundgren has resigned, and you don’t kick—’
‘You don’t kick a man when he’s down, I know,’ Annika said. ‘But we can publish the facts: the breakins at the addresses where the archives were kept, the travel expenses, the receipt from the sex club …’
The head editor sighed. ‘To what purpose? To prove that the government is smuggling arms? Imagine the implications for freedom of the press that would inevitably follow something like that.’
Annika was staring at the floor.
‘This story is dead, Annika,’ Anders Schyman said.
‘What about the claim for the trip to Tallinn?’ she said quietly. ‘Isn’t that something?’
Schyman sighed. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘if circumstances were different. Unfortunately the editor-in-chief is now allergic to this whole story. He says no the moment you so much as mention the murder or the minister. And, frankly, the fact that a minister travels to a meeting in a neighbouring country is hardly controversial enough for me to want to risk my job over it.
‘We’ve got nothing to prove who he met, or why. Any trade minister probably travels abroad three hundred times a year anyway.’
‘So why did he make the claim through the Inspectorate for Strategic Products?’ Annika wondered quietly.
‘That is odd, but it’s hardly a story in itself. The department must send out hundreds of invoices and expenses claims every day, and this one isn’t particularly controversial. There’s hardly anything wrong with the minister responsible for foreign trade travelling abroad.’
Annika felt her heart sink. Deep down she knew Anders Schyman was right. Now she just wanted to die, for the floor to open up and swallow her.
The head editor stood up and looked out at the newsroom.
‘We could do with you here,’ he said.
Annika started. ‘What?’
Schyman sighed. ‘We could do with someone of your calibre on the crime team. At the moment there are only three of them: Berit Hamrin, Nils Langeby and Eva-Britt Qvist. Berit could do with someone competent alongside her.’
‘I’ve never met the other two,’ Annika said quietly.
Schyman turned to face Annika.
‘What are you doing at the moment? Have you found another job?’
She shook her head.
The head editor came and sat next to her on the sofa.
‘I’m very sorry we can’t publish what you’ve come up with,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job to find out all of this, but the story is simply too incredible for us to be able to tell it.’
Annika didn’t answer, just sat staring at her hands. They were cold and damp. Schyman looked at her without speaking for a few seconds.
‘The worst thing is that you’re probably right,’ he said.
‘I’ve got something else,’ Annika said. ‘I can’t write it myself, but you can give it to Berit.’
She picked up her bag and took out the copy of the television presenter’s receipt. It was a copy of a copy: she had used the photocopier in the post office on Hantverkargatan.
‘He hired two girls and spent almost an hour with them in a private room. On the way out he bought three films involving animals. But this is the real story: he paid with his Swedish Television bank card.’
Schyman whistled. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘This one’s nice and straightforward: TV star in brothel on licence-payers’ money.’
Annika smiled weakly.
‘Glad I had something for you,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Why don’t you write it yourself?’ Schyman asked.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Annika said.
‘But surely you’d like something in return. Does anything come to mind?’
Annika looked out at the deserted newsroom, bathed in weak autumn sun.
‘A job,’ she whispered.
Schyman returned to his desk and looked through a file.
‘Sub-editor in Jansson’s night team, from November,’ he said. ‘To cover maternity leave. How does that sound?’
Annika blinked away a tear without Schyman noticing.
‘It sounds good – sold!’ she said.
‘It’s a six-month post, and the terms will need to be negotiated,’ the head editor said. ‘The hours are horrible, ten p.m. to six a.m., four nights on, four nights off. You’ll have to wait for a formal offer, but this time I’m not backing down. This job is yours. Shall we shake on it?’
He stood up and offered her his hand. She got up and shook it, embarrassed that hers was so cold and clammy.
‘Good to have you back,’ Schyman said with a smile.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ Annika said. ‘You remember that Studio Six said they’d found the receipt from the sex club at the Foreign Ministry?’
Schyman blinked, thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘I’m one hundred per cent sure,’ Annika said. ‘But it wasn’t there; it was in the Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications. What do you think that means?’
Schyman looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Probably exactly what you think it means,’ he said. ‘They didn’t find it themselves.’
Annika smiled. ‘Exactly.’
‘Some lobbyist let them have it,’ Schyman said. ‘It was planted.’
‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Annika said as she walked out.
69
The rain clouds seemed to be hanging just above the treetops, and the wind was raw. She turned up her collar and walked down towards Fridhemsplan. She felt a great, warm calmness inside: she was being allowed to join in again. Sub-editing wasn’t the best thing she could think of, but it still felt like a triumph. She would sit on the edge of the night desk and go through other reporters’ articles, correcting typos and bad grammar, shortening text if necessary, adding a sentence if need be. She would come up with captions and small fact boxes, suggest headlines and rewrite unclear text.
She had no illusions about why Schyman had offered her the job. No one on the paper wanted it, and they would have to get someone in from outside. Even though it made an important contribution to the finished newspaper, it was regarded as a terrible job. No byline, no glamour, no chance of heading off to Café Opera after work to show off. No fun at all.
But they’ve never run a roulette table in a brothel, Annika though
t.
The wind freshened as she emerged onto the ramp of the Western Bridge. She was walking slowly, taking deep breaths, holding the air in. She shut her eyes to the dampness, letting her hair blow however it wanted.
November, she thought. Almost two months till then. Freedom to think and recharge her batteries. Time to clean out her flat in Hälleforsnäs and insulate the windows on Hantverkargatan. Time to go to the Museum of Modern Art, to go to the theatre. To visit Grandma, to cuddle Whiskas.
All of a sudden she realized how much she missed her cat. She couldn’t have him in the city; he’d have to stay with Grandma.
And she had to finish with Sven.
There, she’d thought it. She’d been putting off thinking about it all summer. She shivered in the wind and pulled her coat more tightly round her. Summer was definitely over; it was time to dig out the autumn wardrobe.
She walked along the Drottningholm road, kicking the wet leaves that had started to gather on the pavement. She didn’t look up until she was right next to the park.
The vegetation of Kronoberg Park seemed like a pulsating, rotting mass.
Slowly she walked up to the cemetery. The damp air made the railings glisten. The air was still, the wind unable to reach the ground here. The sounds of the city faded away, absorbed by the dying greenery.
Annika stopped by the entrance and put her hand on the padlock, closing her eyes. Suddenly she remembered the heat of the summer, and how dizzy she had felt that day when Josefin lay stretched out between the graves, the sun playing over the granite, the rumble of the underground trains far below.
So meaningless, she thought. What had Josefin Liljeberg’s life been for? Why was she born, why did she learn to read, count, write, why did she worry about her beautiful body changing? What was the point, if she was only going to die?
There had to be some meaning, Annika thought. There has to be an underlying reason for everything. Otherwise how could we bear it?
‘Hello, you! What are you doing here?’
Annika groaned to herself.
‘Hi, Daniella,’ she said. ‘How are things?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Daniella Hermansson chirruped. ‘We’ve been in the park, but it got too cold. We’ve got a nursery place from next Monday. It feels a bit nervy, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
Her son was scowling from his pushchair.
‘Would you like to come up for coffee? It would be good to have a nice, girly chat.’
Annika remembered Daniella’s piss-poor coffee with horror.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m just on my way home.’
Daniella looked around, then took a step closer to Annika.
‘You’re with the press,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Did they ever catch that bloke?’
‘The one who killed Josefin? No, they didn’t. Not for murder, anyway.’
Daniella sighed. ‘It’s awful, that he’s still out there.’
‘The police know who he is,’ Annika said. ‘They’re going to get him anyway, for something else. He won’t be free for much longer.’
Daniella Hermansson breathed a sigh of relief.
‘That’s good to know. Well, none of us ever believed it could have been Christer.’
‘Not even your neighbour, the lady with the dog?’
Daniella giggled in a nervous and rather practised way.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘don’t tell anyone, but Elna had already seen the body by then, at five o’clock that morning.’
Annika felt herself stiffen, and made an effort to look friendly.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘How come?’
‘Her dog – you’ve seen him, Jesper? Lovely little thing! Anyway, the dog ran into the cemetery and bit the girl, and poor Elna didn’t know what to do. She daren’t call the police, she thought they’d put Jesper in prison. Have you ever heard anything so silly?’
Daniella laughed brightly. Annika swallowed.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I haven’t.’
The child started to howl, tired of his mother’s chatter.
‘Okay, little fellow, let’s get you home and you can have a banana, that’ll be nice, won’t it?’
The woman skipped off homewards down Kronobergsgatan. Annika stood and watched her go.
Everything has its explanation, she thought.
Slowly she headed in the opposite direction, towards the fire station. No sooner had she turned the corner than she saw the police cars blocking the whole road. She stopped.
They’re early, she thought. I hope they find the books.
She took a different route home.
Nineteen years, eleven months and one day
Roughness against bare skin, air heavy with dust, air used up: my life shrunk to the size of a coffin. The lid touching my head, my knees and elbows scratch the sides.
Deep hole, dark grave, smell of earth.
Panic.
He says I’ve misunderstood everything, that I’ve got it all out of proportion. It’s not that life is too small, it’s that I’m too big.
His love is endless. He loves me in spite of everything. No one could give me what he does. He has just one condition.
He says
he will never
let me go.
Sunday 9 September
70
Her decision matured overnight. She was going to finish with Sven. There was another life, she’d finally found a way out.
The situation filled her with a sense of sadness and loss. She and Sven had been an item for so long. She’d never slept with anyone else. She shed a few tears in the shower.
The rain had stopped, and the sun was pale and cold. She made coffee and rang the station to check the times. The next train to Flen left in an hour and ten minutes.
She opened the living-room window, sat on the sofa and watched the curtains gently breathing. She was allowed to stay. She was allowed to live her own life.
Annika had got up, put on her coat and was on her way out when she heard the sound of keys on the other side of the door. She stiffened, but relaxed when she saw it was Patricia.
‘Hi,’ Annika said. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Patricia closed the door carefully behind her, holding on to the handle for a few seconds before looking up.
‘How could you?’ she said breathlessly.
Her face was flushed, her eyes red from crying. Annika was horrified, realizing immediately what had happened.
‘You were at the club,’ she said. ‘They got you in the raid!’
‘You shafted me, you shut down the club. How could you?’
Patricia walked towards her, her mouth twisted, fists clenched. Annika stood where she was and tried to exude calm.
‘I haven’t shut down any club,’ she said.
Patricia took another step closer and gave her a shove, throwing her keys on the floor, and Annika took a couple of involuntary steps back.
‘I did it to help you!’ Patricia yelled. ‘You needed money, I got you a job. Why did you do this to me?’
Annika held her hands in front of her as she backed into the living room.
‘Patricia, I didn’t mean you any harm, you must know that? I want nothing but good for you! I want to help you. I want you to get away from that club, from the degradation—’
‘Don’t you see what’s going to happen?’ Patricia shouted. ‘He’s going to blame me! He’s fucked all the other girls there, they’re all his! I was Josefin’s; he’s got no loyalty to me. He’s going to drag me into the shit. Oh, God!’
The young woman started to howl with anguish and Annika took hold of her shoulders and shook her.
‘That’s not true!’ she said. ‘The other girls will tell the truth. Go to the police and tell them what really happened, they’ll believe you.’
Patricia tossed her head back and laughed, loud and shrill.
‘You’re so naïve, Annika,’ she said, with tears running down her face. ‘You alway
s think the truth will win in the end. Ha! Grow up! It never does!’
She pulled herself away and rushed into her bedroom, threw her things in her sports bag and started dragging the mattress behind her. It got caught in the doorway. Patricia yanked at it, swearing under her breath.
‘You don’t have to leave,’ Annika said.
The mattress came loose and Patricia almost fell over. She was shaking with emotion as she pulled the lump of foam behind her.
‘I’m staying,’ Annika said. ‘I’ve got a job at the Evening Post again. You can stay as long as you want.’
Patricia had reached the front door. She stiffened.
‘What did you say?’ she said. ‘You got a job?’
Annika smiled nervously.
‘I found out a load of stuff and told the head editor, and he’s given me a job again.’
Patricia let go of the mattress, turned and walked up to Annika. Her dark eyes were burning like fire.
‘Fuck you!’ she snarled. ‘Fuck anyone who shafts their friends!’
‘But it didn’t have anything to do with you,’ Annika tried to explain, ‘or with the club—’
‘And you told the police, you fucking bitch! How the fuck could you have known that the accounts would be there, then? You shafted me, your friend, for a fucking job!’ Patricia had lost control completely and was screaming at Annika now.
‘What a revolting piece of fucking shit you are! Fuck you!’
Annika backed away, hearing her own words echo in her head. Bloody hell, Patricia’s right. What have I done, what have I done?
The young woman ran back to her mattress, grabbed it and left the flat without bothering to close the door.
Annika rushed over to the window and saw Patricia run off, dragging her mattress behind her over the gravel. Slowly she walked through to the little maid’s room. A glass lay on its side on the floor, and Josefin’s pink dress was still hanging on the wall.
Annika felt tears welling up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean this to happen.’
She was numb all the way to Flen. She watched the farmland fly past, unable to feel anything, unable to eat anything. The sound of the rails beneath the train turned into chants in her head: Studio Six, her fault, Patricia, her fault, betrayal, her fault, her fault, her fault …
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