‘Josefin had been strangled,’ the press spokesman said. ‘The time of death is as yet not one hundred per cent certain, but we believe it occurred between three o’clock and seven o’clock this morning.’
He hesitated before going on.
‘Examination of the body suggests that she was the victim of a sexual attack prior to death.’
The image flashed past in Annika’s head, breasts, eyes, screams. The spokesman looked up from the table and his notes.
‘We are going to need the public’s help to catch the madman who did this,’ he said tiredly. ‘We don’t have much to go on.’
Annika glanced at Berit; she had been right.
‘Our initial investigations indicate that the site where the body was found was also the site of the murder; there’s forensic evidence to support that theory. As far as we know, the last person to see Josefin alive, apart from the murderer, was her flatmate. They went their separate ways from the restaurant where they both worked shortly before five o’clock this morning, which means that we can narrow the time of death down to a two-hour period.’
A few flashes went off. Annika assumed it was Bertil Strand.
‘So,’ the spokesman concluded, ‘between five o’clock and seven o’clock this morning Hanna Josefin Liljeberg was murdered in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm. Evidence from her body indicates that she was raped.’
He looked around his audience, his eyes settling on Annika. She gulped.
‘We’re interested in contacting everyone, I repeat, everyone, who was in the vicinity of Kronoberg Park, Parkgatan, Hantverkargatan or Sankt Göransgatan between five o’clock and seven o’clock this morning. We are happy to receive any information that might be of use. We have set up special phone-lines for the public to call. People can either talk to an operator or leave a message. Even if people think that their information isn’t important, it could be highly relevant to the broader picture of events. Which is why we are asking everyone who saw anything at all unusual at the time in question to contact us …’
He fell silent. Dust was hanging in the air. The dryness was irritating Annika’s throat.
The reporter from one of the morning broadsheets cleared his throat.
‘Do you have a suspect?’ he asked in an assured tone of voice.
Annika looked at him in surprise. Hadn’t he understood a thing?
‘No,’ the press spokesman replied amiably. ‘That’s why it’s so important that we hear from members of the public.’
The reporter took some notes.
‘What sort of forensic evidence do you have that indicates that the murder was committed where the body was found?’ Arne Påhlson asked.
‘We can’t go into that at this point,’ the spokesman said.
The reporters asked several more semi-idiotic questions, but the press spokesman was unwilling to say anything more. Eventually the radio reporter asked if he could ask some questions by himself. The press conference broke up. It had lasted almost twenty minutes. Bertil Strand was leaning against a large black-and-white partition at the back of the room.
‘Do you want to wait until radio have finished with him, then talk to him afterwards?’ Annika asked.
‘I think we should split up,’ Berit said. ‘One of us can stay and talk to him while the other tries to find pictures of the girl.’
Annika nodded; that made sense.
‘I can go round to the duty desk of the crime unit and check the passport register,’ Berit said, ‘if you want to stay and talk to Gösta.’
‘Gösta?’
‘That’s his name. Are you staying, Bertil? I can get a taxi …’
After radio had finished Arne Påhlson took over. The second reporter from the other evening paper had vanished. Annika was willing to bet that Berit would bump into him when she was checking the passport register.
Arne Påhlson took his time, at least as much time as the press conference itself. At quarter to eleven everyone apart from Annika and Bertil had given up. The press spokesman was tired when Annika finally sat down with him in one corner of the empty room.
‘Do you find this difficult?’ Annika asked.
Gösta looked at her in surprise. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You must get to see so much crap. How do you do it?’
‘It’s not so bad. Did you have any questions?’
Annika leafed back a few pages in her notebook.
‘I saw the girl up in the park,’ she said calmly, almost in passing. ‘She wasn’t wearing any clothes, and I couldn’t see any clothes nearby. Either she climbed into the cemetery naked or else her clothes are somewhere else. Have you found them?’
She looked directly at the press spokesman’s eyes. He blinked in surprise.
‘No, just her underwear,’ he said. ‘But you can’t write that!’
‘Why not?’
‘It could jeopardize the investigation,’ he said quickly.
‘Come on!’ Annika said. ‘How?’
The man thought for a moment.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we could make that public, I don’t suppose it will make much difference.’
‘Where did you find her underwear? What state was it in? How do you know it was hers?’
‘Her pants were hanging on a nearby bush, pink polyester. We’ve had them identified.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Annika said. ‘You managed to get the body identified pretty quickly. How did you manage that?’
The press spokesman sighed. ‘Yes, well … She was identified by her flatmate, like I said.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘A young woman, just like her.’
‘Had Josefin been reported missing?’
The press spokesman nodded. ‘Yes, by her flatmate.’
‘When?’
‘ She didn’t come home last night, and when she didn’t show up at work her friend called the police, at half past six.’
‘So the girls lived and worked together?’
‘Looks like it.’
Annika made some notes, and thought for a moment.
‘What about the rest of her clothes?’ she said.
‘We haven’t found them. They aren’t within a five-block radius of the scene of the murder. Unfortunately the rubbish bins around Fridhemsplan were emptied this morning, but we’ve got people searching the tip at the moment.’
‘How was she dressed?’
The press spokesman put his hand in his right jacket pocket and took out a small notebook.
‘Little black dress,’ he read, ‘white trainers and a blue denim jacket. And probably a Rocco Barocco handbag.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a picture of her? From her school graduation, maybe?’ Annika said.
The spokesman ran his hand over his hair.
‘Yes, it’s important that people know what she looked like,’ he said. ‘Do you need it tonight?’
Annika nodded.
‘A graduation picture … I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
She bit her lip.
‘Something had been chewing at her body,’ she said finally. ‘On one of her hands.’
The press spokesman looked surprised. ‘Well, you know more than I do, in that case.’
Annika put her notebook on her lap.
‘Who was she?’ she asked quietly.
Gösta sighed. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘We don’t know anything, except that she’s dead.’
‘What sort of life did she lead? What restaurant did she work at? Did she have a boyfriend?’
The press spokesman put his notepad in his pocket again.
‘I’ll try to get that picture sorted,’ he said as he got up.
11
Berit was busy writing when Annika and Bertil Strand got back to the newsroom.
‘She was a real looker,’ Berit said, pointing towards Pelle at the picture desk.
Annika went straight over and looked at the little black-and-white picture from the
passport register. Hanna Josefin Liljeberg was laughing into the camera. The radiant eyes and blinding smile could only have belonged to a teenager full of self-confidence.
‘Nineteen years old,’ Annika said, suddenly feeling a weight on her chest.
‘It would be better if we had a proper picture,’ Pelle Oscarsson said. ‘This one’s going to look all blurred and grey if we try to blow it up to more than one column-width.’
‘I think we’re getting that sorted,’ Annika said, with a silent prayer to Gösta, then went over to Berit.
‘Are you any good with the National Population Address Register?’ Berit wondered.
Annika shook her head.
‘Okay, let’s go and see Eva-Britt,’ Berit said.
Berit switched on the editorial secretary’s computer and logged into the network. Via the Infotorg site she clicked through to the National Population Address Register.
‘This database contains the details of everyone currently registered as living in Sweden,’ she explained. ‘Their home addresses, previous addresses, maiden names, ID numbers, place of birth, all that sort of thing.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Annika said, astounded. ‘I had no idea it even existed.’
‘It’s a really useful tool for us. If you get time, look up some people you know to see how it works.’
Berit searched for the name ‘Liljeberg, Hanna Josefin’. They got two results, an eighty-five-year-old woman in Malmö, and a nineteen-year-old girl from Dalagatan in Stockholm.
‘There she is,’ Berit said, and bookmarked the record.
Liljeberg, Hanna Josefin, born in Täby, just outside Stockholm; single. The most recent amendment to her records was dated just two months ago.
‘Let’s see where she used to live,’ Berit said, and clicked to bring up the girl’s history.
After a few seconds the computer flashed up a different address.
‘Runslingan, in Täby kyrkby,’ Berit read. ‘That’s a smart residential area.’
‘Where does it say that?’ Annika said, her eyes flickering across the screen.
Berit smiled. ‘There are some things that are only on this hard-drive,’ she said, tapping her head. ‘I live in Täby. This must be her parents’ address.’
She printed out the details, then performed another search. Liljeberg Hed, Siv Barbro, Runslingan in Täby kyrkby, born forty-seven years ago, married.
‘Josefin’s mother,’ Annika said. ‘How did you find her?’
‘By searching for women with the same surname and the same postcode,’ Berit said, printing the details and running the same search for men.
The database produced two results, Hans Gunnar, fifty-one, and Carl Niklas, nineteen. Both listed as living on Runslingan.
‘Look at the boy’s date of birth,’ Berit said.
‘Josefin had a twin brother,’ Annika said.
Berit printed this last page and logged out. She switched off the computer and went over to the printer.
‘Take these,’ she said, giving Annika the printouts. ‘See if you can talk to anyone who knew her.’
Annika went back to her desk. The editorial team were immersed in their work; Jansson was shouting down the telephone.
The flickering light from all the computer screens on it made the newsdesk look like a blue island floating in the sea of the newsroom. The sight made her aware of the darkness outside. Night had fallen. She didn’t have much time.
As she sat down the tip-off hotline rang. She picked up the receiver without thinking.
It was a group of drunk youngsters who wanted to know if Selma Lagerlöf was lesbian.
‘Call the Centre for Sexual Equality,’ Annika said, and hung up.
She pulled out the stack of phone books with a sigh, looking at the various titles. Back home in Katrineholm they had just one phone book for the whole county; but here there were four covering the Stockholm code alone.
She looked up Liljeberg, Hans, Runslingan in Täby kyrkby. He was listed as ‘Revd’. She wrote down the number, then sat staring at it.
No, she eventually thought. There must be another way of getting information.
She looked up the details of high schools in Täby. There were two of them: Tibble and Åva. She called both main numbers, but they redirected her to a central council exchange.
After a bit of thought, she tried to get round the main school numbers: instead of dialling 00 at the end, she tried 01, then 02, 03. On 05 she struck lucky: the voicemail of a headmaster, a Martin Larsson-Berg, which announced that he was on holiday until 7 August. In the phone book he was listed as living in Viggbyholm, and when she called he was both at home and still awake.
‘I’m sorry to call so late on a Saturday evening,’ Annika said. ‘I’m afraid there’s a rather serious reason.’
‘Is it my wife?’ Larsson-Berg asked anxiously.
‘Your wife?’
‘She’s out sailing this weekend.’
‘No, it’s not about your wife. A girl who might have been a former pupil of yours was found dead in Stockholm today,’ Annika said, closing her eyes.
‘Oh.’ The man sounded relieved. ‘I thought something had happened to her. What was the student’s name?’
‘A girl called Josefin Liljeberg; she grew up in Täby kyrkby.’
‘What course did she take?’
‘I don’t even know if she went to Tibble High School, but that seems most likely. You don’t remember her? Nineteen years old, pretty, long fair hair, big breasts—’
At that the headmaster interrupted. ‘Ah, Josefin Liljeberg,’ he said. ‘Yes, you’re right. She graduated from our Media Studies course this spring.’
Annika breathed out and opened her eyes.
‘You remember her?’
‘Dead, you say? That’s awful. Where?’
‘The Jewish cemetery in Kronoberg Park. She was murdered.’
‘That’s just terrible. Do they know who did it?’
‘Not yet. Is there anything you’d like to say about her, something about what she was like? Any sort of response, really.’
Martin Larsson-Berg sighed. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘What can I say? She was like most girls that age. Giggly and vain. They’re all pretty much the same, they sort of blur together.’
Annika was astonished. The headmaster paused to think.
‘I think she wanted to be a journalist – preferably on television. She wasn’t the brightest of kids, if I’m honest. Murdered, you say? How?’
‘Strangled. She graduated, then?’
‘Oh yes, she passed all her subjects.’
Annika leafed through the printouts.
‘Her father’s a priest,’ she said. ‘Did that affect her in any particular way, do you think?’
‘Is he? I didn’t know that …’
‘She had a twin brother, Carl Niklas. Did he go to Tibble High School as well?’
‘Niklas …? Yes, I think he was on the Science course last spring. Wanted to go on and study in the States.’
Annika was taking notes.
‘Is there anything else you remember?’
Jansson came over and stood waiting impatiently beside her. She waved him away.
‘No,’ the headmaster said. ‘There are so many of them.’
‘Did she have many friends?’
‘Yes, I think so. She wasn’t particularly popular, but she certainly had a few girls that she hung around with. She wasn’t bullied or anything like that.’
‘I don’t suppose you happen to have a list of students in her year?’ she wondered.
‘What, Josefin’s class?’ He grunted. ‘Yes, I’ve got the school yearbook. Do you want me to send it to you?’
‘Have you got a fax machine?’
He had. Annika gave him the number of the crime-desk’s fax and he promised to send the class photograph straight away.
She hung up, and was on her way over to Eva-Britt Qvist’s desk when the tip-off hotline rang again. She hesitated, but stop
ped to answer it.
‘I know who shot Olof Palme,’ a voice slurred on the other end.
‘I see,’ Annika said. ‘So who was it?’
‘What’s the reward?’
‘We pay a maximum of five thousand kronor for a tip-off.’
‘Only five? That’s crap. I want to talk to one of the editors.’
Annika could hear the man drinking.
‘I’m one of the editors. We pay five thousand, no matter who you talk to.’
‘That’s not enough. I want more.’
‘Call the police. They’ll give you fifty million,’ Annika said, and hung up.
What if the drunk was actually right? she thought as she headed towards the fax machine. What if he really did know? What if the other evening paper had Palme’s killer on the front page tomorrow? She would forever be known as the person who ignored the tip-off of the century, just like the publishers who rejected Astrid Lindgren, or the record company that turned down the Beatles on the grounds that ‘guitar music is on the way out’.
The quality of the fax was hopeless: Josefin and her classmates were nothing but black blobs on a stripy grey background. But beneath the picture were the names of all the pupils, twenty-nine young people who had all known Josefin. On her way back to her desk she underlined all the unusual names, the ones she stood a chance of finding in the phone book. The kids presumably didn’t have their own lines, so she’d have to look for their parents.
‘You’ve got a parcel,’ Peter Brand, the caretaker, said. He was Tore’s son, and was doing some nightshifts in July.
Annika looked up in surprise and took the stiff white envelope. It was marked, Do not fold. She quickly pulled it open and emptied the contents onto her desk.
There were three photographs of Josefin. In the top one she was smiling straight at the camera. It was a fairly informal studio shot, taken for her graduation, to judge by the student’s cap she was wearing. Annika felt the hairs on her arms stand up. The picture was so sharp it could easily be blown up to cover ten columns if need be. The other two were decent amateur pictures. One showed the young woman holding a cat, and the other had her sitting on a sofa.
Beneath the pictures was a note from Gösta, the press spokesman.
I’ve promised the parents that the pictures will be circulated to any media outlets that want them, he wrote. So please can you send them over to your competitors when you’ve finished with them.
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