His briefcase was swinging from one large hand, his hair had tumbled across his forehead and he must have bought a new suit at the weekend, because she had never taken the one he was wearing to the dry-cleaner’s.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, shaking the claims assessor’s hand a little breathlessly.
He glanced at Annika, and she turned away hastily.
‘My name’s Zachrisson,’ the man said, and his smile was slightly more genuine now. ‘If you’d both like to come in …’
Annika picked up her bag and went into the office, noting that the whole of the exterior wall was glass. The clouds pressed against the panes and water was visible far below. She could feel Thomas’s presence behind her, his tall, sinewy body in the new suit and ironed shirt, and he smelt different: he smelt of her. She was struck by an urge to run straight through the glass and fly, fly, fly away across the Hammarby Canal and off into the sky.
‘This is, of course, a completely alien situation for most people,’ Zachrisson said, trying to smile in a calming manner. ‘I appreciate that it’s a shocking experience, seeing your home burn down, with all the memories and …’
Annika was staring into the middle distance, into the greyness above the man’s head. She heard him running on, going through the same speech he must have made to hundreds of other clients over the years, about how sympathetic the company was, how they would offer almost unlimited help. And she could feel Thomas sitting beside her, and she realized that she wouldn’t ever be able to live with him on Vinterviksvägen again, not there, not in that part of town.
‘Does the house have to be rebuilt?’ she asked abruptly.
The insurance man lost his train of thought and his smile faded. ‘Er, no,’ he said. ‘Your insurance covers reconstruction and contents, but if you choose not to restore the house to its original condition, there are other alternatives.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Thomas said, leaning towards him. ‘Can we start at the beginning? What would be the usual course of events in a case like ours?’ He cast an annoyed glance at Annika.
Zachrisson fingered some documents on his desk and adjusted his glasses. ‘What usually happens is that the house is rebuilt as it was. Plans are drawn up, planning permission sought, and reconstruction is put in place. Usually this is done as soon as possible, and in most cases begins at once.’
‘And if that’s not what we want?’ Annika said, refusing to look at Thomas.
The official thought for a moment. ‘In that case we would evaluate the house as it was, then as it is now, burned down, in other words. Because it can still be sold, of course, in spite of that. The plot itself has value. The clients would get the difference paid into their account. They would also be recompensed for the loss of contents – furniture, clothes, television, DVDs, and so on.’
‘I think that sounds like a reasonable option,’ Annika said.
‘I don’t know that I agree,’ Thomas said, looking furious. ‘Even if we don’t want to live there, there’s probably much more to be gained from selling a newly built property than a smoking ruin.’
Zachrisson raised both hands as if to stop them. ‘There is a problem,’ he said, ‘which we must take into account before we can discuss any form of payment. No insurance company would pay out damages to anyone under suspicion of arson on their own home.’
The silence that fell in the room ran right through Annika’s body. Suddenly she could hear the hum of the air-conditioning and the noise of the traffic below on Götgatan. She glanced at Thomas and saw that he had frozen, leaning forward with his mouth half open. The claims assessor’s mouth also hung open, as if he were surprised that he had actually said those words.
‘What?’ Thomas said. ‘What are you saying?’
Zachrisson loosened his tie. Sweat had broken out on his brow.
‘As we understand it,’ he said, ‘there’s an ongoing police investigation into your case. There are suspicions of arson.’
‘It was definitely arson,’ Annika said, ‘but neither of us started the fire.’
The claims assessor leaned back, as if he were worried about coming into contact with something infectious. ‘We can’t make any payment until the police investigation into the circumstances of the fire is complete,’ he said. ‘Even if the preliminary enquiries don’t lead to a full investigation, we still wouldn’t make a payment. We carry out our own investigation as well.’
Annika looked at the bespectacled man on the other side of the smart desk, and felt as she had when she had faced the cashier in the bank a few days before. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she said, and could hear that her voice was too loud and too shrill and too emotional. ‘Someone tried to kill us, and now you’re insinuating that we started the fire ourselves. Ourselves! Would we really have tried to kill our own children?’
‘We have to take everything into account,’ Zachrisson said. ‘We can’t pay out any money to arsonists.’
Annika stood up so quickly that the leather chair almost toppled over behind her. ‘Take everything into account?’ she said. ‘For whose benefit? Your shareholders? What about us, the people paying for your fucking office’s view all these years? And now you’re accusing us of arson?’
Thomas stood up as well and grabbed her hard by the arm. ‘I must apologize for the behaviour of my … wife,’ he said, and dragged her out of the room.
‘Ow,’ Annika said, following him like a helpless doll, her bag slapping against her legs.
They got into the corridor and then the lift. Thomas pressed to go down to the lobby and didn’t let go of her arm until the metal door had closed. Annika was breathing fast and her heart was racing. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to blow up.’
Thomas was leaning against the wall of the lift. His hair had fallen forward and he was staring at the floor. She wanted to brush his hair aside, stroke his cheek, kiss him and tell him she loved him. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered again.
The lift stopped with a little shudder and the doors slid open. Thomas took a better grip of his briefcase and walked quickly towards the main entrance. Annika followed him, running to keep up, her eyes on the back of his head. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait a minute, we have to talk.’
They emerged into the grey haze, the noise of the traffic hitting them at the same time as the exhaust fumes.
‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘don’t you want to see the children? What are we going to do about them?’
He stopped, turned and stared at her with his new eyes, swollen and predatory. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
She held out her hand to stroke his cheek but he pulled back. He looked as though he felt like spitting on her.
‘Thomas,’ she said, and the world around her dissolved and all sound vanished. The hand that had tried to caress him landed on her own chest.
‘You’re completely out of control,’ he said, taking a step back.
She went and stood right next to him, wanting to reach out and touch his hair. ‘I’ll do anything,’ she said, suddenly aware that she was crying.
‘Where are the children now?’
Her hands started to shake uncontrollably: the sign of an imminent panic attack. Nice and calm … There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing to be afraid of …
‘They’re with Thord. He offered to look after them while I—’
‘Thord? Who the hell’s he? I’m going to get them right away.’
She let his fury wash over her. What was he saying? What was it he wanted?
He’s angry and upset and he wants to cause trouble.
The world came back, with its driving rain and traffic noise.
‘No, you’re not,’ she said, noticing that her pulse had slowed.
He turned away and began to walk towards Götgatan, then turned back and stopped in front of her, eyes blazing. ‘My children aren’t going to be looked after by someone like you,’ he said. ‘I’m going to apply for sole custody of them.’
She looked into his ey
es and saw nothing she recognized. ‘You won’t manage,’ she said. ‘You never have.’
‘Well, at least they won’t have to live with some fucking arsonist!’ He screamed the last word.
So this was what they had come to. She was suddenly completely calm.
Okay, if it’s like that.
Grief spread through her.
‘I’ll see a lawyer today,’ Thomas said. ‘I want to get divorced as soon as possible, and the kids are mine.’
She gasped, her whole body tense and ready for flight. Thomas’s face was hovering above her, his jaw clenched so tight that his cheekbones turned white.
‘I think we should have them alternate weeks for the time being,’ she managed to say, looking at him through her tears. ‘You can pick them up on Friday.’
He turned to go, marching determinedly towards Götgatan, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
I’m not dying. I’m not dying. It just feels like it.
Nina came into the station with a nagging anxiety. She had called Pelle Sisulu during the evening to explain that she wouldn’t be back with the car before he finished, but he had already reached the end of his shift and gone home.
She headed towards his room but stopped a metre or so from the door.
Christer Bure was in there, talking to the duty officer about a case involving a dead body. There was a question mark over the death certificate and the seizure of prescription medication from the scene.
Nina hesitated. Should she go away and come back later?
‘Don’t worry about telling the next-of-kin about the death,’ she heard Pelle Sisulu say. ‘I’ll take care of that.’
Christer Bure walked out of his room, glanced quickly at her and his eyes narrowed.
Nina adjusted her hair and walked up to the door. Her boss was standing with his back to the door, putting a file on top of a bookcase. His back almost blocked the window.
She knocked on the door frame and he looked over his shoulder. ‘Ah,’ he said, turning back to his desk. ‘It’s you.’
‘I really can’t thank you enough for the loan,’ she said, feeling oddly embarrassed. ‘I know you had to get a taxi home and of course I’ll pay for it.’
‘That was a joke,’ he said, tucking in his shirt again. ‘Was everything okay with the car?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, ‘but it’s very muddy, and I didn’t dare take it through a car-wash because of the soft top, but I’m happy to drive it to the garage and wash it by hand if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, sitting down. ‘That would be great.’ He gestured at her uniform. ‘Aren’t you supposed to have today off?’
‘Yes,’ Nina said, ‘but I have to go to the remand hearing.’
‘Is Julia being officially remanded today?’ he asked.
Like he didn’t know.
‘Three o’clock,’ Nina said.
He stood up and came round his desk to her. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about,’ he said quietly. ‘I understand that you were on the scene when the Katrineholm police picked up the evidence of the Lindholm boy. How did that come about?’
She didn’t answer.
He sighed. ‘I’m not trying to catch you out,’ he said. ‘Let me say that I’m impressed by your contacts. I don’t suppose you happened to be at Sågträsket by accident.’
Nina sat down on a chair by the wall. ‘Sågkärret,’ she said. ‘Julia’s dad called. He and the other men in the village had been searching the marshland around Björkbacken all day. It was the neighbouring farmer who found the things. Holger wanted to make sure that they could really have been Alexander’s before he made a fuss.’
‘And how come he thought you’d be able to judge that better than him?’
‘He’s colour-blind,’ she said. ‘He thought he recognized Alexander’s pyjamas, but he wasn’t sure about the teddy bear. Its name is Bamse Lindholm. Holger didn’t want to frighten his wife if they weren’t Alexander’s things, and by phoning me he was actually phoning the police as well, so …’ She fell silent, worried that she was babbling.
‘And what did his wife say? She made the formal identification?’
Nina nodded. ‘She bought the pyjamas from H&M last Christmas, slightly too big but she’d thought he’d grow into them …’
‘You’ve no theory about how they might have ended up in the lake?’
Nina thought for a moment, seeing the scene in front of her. ‘It’s not a lake, more of a marsh. Before all this rain it was probably possible to walk there without getting your feet wet.’
‘How far from a public road?’
‘There’s a forest track that goes all the way to the marsh.’
‘So someone could have driven a vehicle to the edge, dumped the body and then left the scene. Any tyre tracks?’
Nina looked at him. ‘No body was found,’ she said. ‘Just a pair of pyjamas and a teddy bear.’
‘Did you happen to see any journalists there?’
Nina frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the local reporter from Flen, Oscarsson. He lives in Granhed and heard about the discovery on police radio. If I’ve done something wrong, if I’ve broken any rules, I’d like you to tell me.’
‘You did exactly the right thing,’ he said. ‘You made the initial decision that the find was interesting and encouraged the finder to contact the local police authorities.’ He paused. ‘And I appreciate that this wasn’t just an ordinary police matter for you.’
She folded her arms and leaned back. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.
The station commander smiled slightly and turned towards the window so that Nina could only see his face in profile. ‘I still remember the day you and Julia turned up here for the first time. I’ve seen lots of girls on practical experience, and I can’t claim to remember them all, but I remember you two.’
Nina was unsure if she should feel flattered or insulted.
He glanced quickly in her direction. ‘So keen,’ he said, ‘big eyes, long hair …’ He looked down at his hands, then stood up.
Nina followed suit. ‘So, you won’t be reporting me for doing something stupid?’
He shook his head. ‘Why would I do that?’ he said, then added in English: ‘“Go and sin no more.”’
He sat down behind his desk as Nina headed out of the door towards the main entrance.
14
Anders Schyman was staring at the front page of the Evening Post. It was dominated by a grainy picture of a marsh with the photograph of the Lindholm boy in the top right-hand corner.
‘ALEXANDER’S GRAVE’ was the uncompromising headline.
No question mark.
Is this all right? Isn’t this just unpleasant speculation?
From the teaser on the front page it was clear that the boy’s pyjamas and teddy bear had been found pushed down into marshy ground close to the main suspect’s summer cottage.
‘Now it’s just a matter of time before we find the boy,’ a source said.
The last line reported that Alexander’s mother was due to be remanded in custody that afternoon.
The editor-in-chief ran his fingers through his hair.
No, this isn’t all right. We’re going to get hell for it.
He let out a deep sigh.
Through the glass wall he could see the members of the Journalists’ Association moving towards the long table shared by the day-shift reporters for their annual general meeting. Their body language suggested that nothing of any great importance was on the agenda.
Their rival evening paper had missed the story about the findings in the marsh: they hadn’t mentioned it at all in their first edition, and had had text but no picture in their late Stockholm edition, so he could be pleased …
The intercom buzzed. ‘Anders, there’s a call for you.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded even more adenoidal than usual.
‘Well, put it through!’
‘It’s the press officer from Stockholm Police.’
Oh, no …
Schyman closed his eyes, then picked up the receiver. ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly.
‘I’m not trying to find out your sources,’ the press officer said, in his characteristically weary voice, ‘and I have no ethical opinion on your wild speculations about crime and guilt. But I would like to let you know that you’re publishing confidential material from the preliminary investigation.’
‘I can’t agree with you,’ Schyman said. ‘We’ve done nothing but go about our usual journalistic business, as we always do.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it,’ the press officer said. ‘But I don’t want to argue with you, just clarify some of the circumstances surrounding our mutual interests.’
‘Really?’
‘The police and I personally have long been keen on developing an open and honest relationship with the media, a sort of mutual loyalty and respect for each other’s specific working conditions.’
Schyman groaned inwardly. He doesn’t half make a meal of things. ‘Of course.’
‘When you consciously break our agreement, I have to react, you must understand that. You’re printing details of evidence we’ve found about the boy in today’s paper, making it completely worthless in any future trial. It’s entirely possible that we’ll never solve this crime, thanks to you.’
‘Well,’ Schyman said, ‘that has to be something of an exaggeration. Aren’t you supposed to be remanding someone this afternoon for this particular crime?’
‘That’s not the point. The fact that she’s in custody is no thanks to the media. As a result, I’ve decided to follow your lead and re-evaluate our shared activities, which will naturally have consequences not only for us but for you as well.’
‘And?’
‘The series of articles that Patrik Nilsson is planning, about the south of Spain, with the working title “Costa Cocaine”, is, as you are no doubt aware, the result of close collaboration between the Stockholm Police, the Justice Department and the Evening Post. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to disregard any agreements reached on this matter and look for another newspaper.’
Schyman sat bolt upright. ‘Now hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘That’s our series of articles. It’s grown out of our angle and our research.’
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