There was a big photograph of a burning car.
“Who wrote the story?” she whispered.
“Riots and scandals, that’s all we do here,” Brand muttered.
She walked over to the display and picked up a copy of the paper. Almost the whole front page was devoted to a photo of Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren. Next to him, arm around his shoulders, was the prime minister. Both men were smiling cheerfully. The picture had been taken eight months ago, when the minister was appointed and was being introduced to the media. Annika thought the headline was lame: “Under Fire.” Above the newspaper masthead was the headline from the bill, referring to pages six and seven. She opened the paper to the spread with trembling hands. Her eyes flew across the page, looking for the byline. Carl Wennergren.
She let the paper drop.
“Isn’t it a damn shame?” Tore Brand said.
“You’re damn right it is,” Annika said, and walked over to the elevators.
She sat down in the cafeteria with a big mug of coffee and a sandwich. The coffee went cold while she read the two stories, first the one about the Ninja Barbies and then the one about the minister accused of murder.
They got what they were after, she thought, and looked for a long time at the photo of the burning car. The car was turned on its side, the underside facing the photographer, who was Carl Wennergren. The caption noted that the car belonged to a Stockholm police commissioner. Behind the flames you could make out a sixties brick house. The Ninja Barbies got to deliver their puerile and violent message. Not a single critical word appeared in the entire article. Shame on him, she thought. Shame on him, the rotten bastard.
The copy about the minister was better. It took the accusations made on Studio 69 for what they were, unconfirmed allegations of vague suspicions. They hadn’t been able to get hold of the minister himself for a comment, but his press secretary, Karina Björnlund, declared that all accusations were pure invention.
Annika didn’t know what to think. The police had in fact interviewed Christer Lundgren; the press officer had confirmed that yesterday. But all other statements in the program were definitely wrong. And what about their suspicions about Joachim?
She threw the sandwich in the wastebasket without even removing the wrapping. She drank the cold coffee in three greedy gulps.
Spike was at his post, telephone glued to his ear. He didn’t react to Annika’ showing up on her day off; it was common for the covers to do that.
“You were way off the mark on the murder,” he said as he put the phone down.
“You mean about the minister? The story doesn’t make sense,” Annika said.
“Oh, doesn’t it? Why not?”
“I want to look into that today, if that’s all right with you.”
“We were lucky to have the scoop on the Ninja Barbies. Or we’d have been forced to make more of the murder and the minister. It would have looked a bit weird to have two different murderers in two days, don’t you think?”
Annika turned red. She couldn’t think of a response.
Spike’s eyes were cold, watchful. “Thanks to Carl we landed on our feet.” The news editor spun around in his chair, showing her the back of his balding head.
“Sure. Is Berit in yet?”
“She’s gone to Fårö to look for the speaker. The IB scoop,” Spike said without turning around.
Annika walked over to her desk and dropped her bag on the floor; her cheeks were burning. She wouldn’t be getting a picture byline for a while.
She skimmed through the other papers to see what they had on the minister and the suspicions against him. No one had made a particularly big thing of it. The morning broadsheets only mentioned in brief that Minister Christer Lundgren had been interviewed regarding the murder of a woman in Stockholm. The Rival had given the items the same ranking as Kvällspressen.
How could Studio 69 be so sure of their information? Annika wondered. They’ve got to have more than they’re letting on.
The thought of it made her stomach turn. Why do I feel so guilty? she asked herself.
Despite the air-conditioning, the room was stuffy and hot. She went out to the ladies’ room and splashed cold water on her face.
I’ve got to get this straight, she thought. I’ve got to get the whole picture. What did I miss?
She leaned her forehead against the mirror and closed her eyes. The glass was ice-cold and the chill spread via her sinuses into the bone.
The woman, she thought. The fat woman with the dog, Daniella’s neighbor.
She wiped her face dry with a paper towel. She left a sweaty mark on the mirror.
*
The new deputy editor, Anders Schyman, was troubled. Naturally, he was aware of the ethical difficulties that came with his new post, but he would have liked to have had a few days before having to do any acrobatics on the moral trapeze. What was this hysterical story Carl Wennergren had found? A feminist combat group that set fire to cars and sent threatening messages to police officers. What the hell was that? And not a single critical comment, only the extremely predictable statement from the police press officer that they took the incident seriously and had deployed all necessary resources to finding the perpetrators.
The deputy editor sighed and sat down on a couch with an orange flowery pattern that had come with his office. The upholstery reeked so badly of stale smoke that the couch smelled like an ashtray. He stood up again and sat by his desk instead. It was not a nice office. There were no windows; he only got indirect light from the newsroom through the glass walls. Beyond the sports desk he could just make out the contours of a multistory garage. Despondent, he looked at the mountain of boxes that had arrived from Swedish Television the night before.
Jesus, what a lot of crap a man can accumulate, he thought.
He decided to skip the unpacking for the time being. He spread out the paper before him. He slowly read through all the contentious articles. True, he wasn’t legally responsible for the publication of the newspaper, but as of today, he knew that he had to learn the mechanisms that shaped it.
Something was not quite right about the terrorist article. How could the reporter be in the right place at exactly the right time? And why would the women speak to him? “He was tipped off about it,” Spike had explained to him. That didn’t make sense. If the group had wanted maximum publicity, they would have told all the media. But they wouldn’t have had any control over the material. They must have made some kind of deal or made some special demands.
He would bring it up with the reporter.
The story about the minister wasn’t that strange. Ministers could be interviewed for information in connection with various crimes. Personally, he thought the radio program had gone too far in singling out Christer Lundgren as a suspect. As far as he understood, nothing indicated this was the case. Still, a paper like Kvällspressen had to cover the story.
Schyman sighed.
He might as well get used to it.
*
Nobody came to the door. Annika pushed the doorbell over and over, but the woman pretended not to be at home. Through the mail drop she could hear the panting dog and the woman’s heavy steps.
“I know you’re in there!” she called through the mail drop. “I just want to ask a few questions. Please open the door!”
The footsteps disappeared but she could still hear the dog. She waited another five minutes.
Stupid woman, Annika thought. She rang Daniella Hermansson’s doorbell instead. The young mother opened the door, the child on her arm and a bottle in her hand. “Oh, hi!” Daniella said cheerily. “Come in! The place is a mess, but you know what it’s like when you have kids.”
Annika mumbled something and stepped into the dark hallway. The apartment was long and narrow, meticulously decorated and tidy. Straight ahead were a mirror wall and a rustic-style chest of drawers, a vase of wooden tulips on top. Annika winced when she caught a glimpse of her own face. She looked pale and
the skin was taut over her cheekbones. She quickly looked away and took off her shoes.
“Isn’t it a marvelous summer we’re having?” Daniella chirped from the kitchen. “Feel free to look around, see what our apartment looks like.”
Annika dutifully had a quick look at the bedroom facing the yard and the living room facing the street. She said it was a lovely apartment. Do you own or rent, it must have been expensive. No— really? What a bargain!
“It’s horrible, this thing with Christer Lundgren,” Daniella said while the coffeemaker spluttered next to them on the kitchen table. The child clung to Annika’s legs and dribbled on her skirt. She tried to ignore him.
“How do you mean?” She bit into a cracker.
“As if he’d be a murderer? It’s so silly. Sure, I know he’s tightfisted, but he’s no killer.”
“It sounds like you know him personally.”
“Of course I do,” the woman said, offended. “He’s put off the repairs to the facade for a year now. Milk and sugar?”
Annika blinked. “I’m sorry. I’m not following you.”
“It isn’t really his apartment. It belongs to some Social Democratic local paper in Luleå. He’s the chairman of the board and he’s been using their overnight apartment. He’s a real cheapskate.” Daniella topped up Annika’s cup.
“You mean he lives in this building!” Annika exclaimed.
“Left stairwell on the fifth floor. He’s got a four hundred square foot studio apartment with a balcony. Nice little place. Our apartments are close to fifteen hundred kronor a square foot, you know.”
Annika finished her second cup of coffee and leaned back.
“Jesus. Fifty yards from the murder scene.”
“More coffee?”
“Tightfisted, you said. In what way?”
“I’m the secretary of the board of the condominium. Christer used to be a member of the board. Every time we’d discuss any form of improvements or repairs, he’d oppose them. He absolutely doesn’t want the charges to go up. I think it’s pathetic. He doesn’t even pay for his apartment like the rest of us but is sponging off the party paper. All he pays is the monthly charge— Hello, Skruttis, so you want your momma now?”
Daniella took her son into her arms. He immediately tipped over his mother’s cup so that the hot drink flowed over the table and down onto Annika’s lap. It didn’t burn her but made yet another stain on her skirt.
“It’s okay,” Annika said.
When Daniella came running with an evil-smelling dishcloth and tried to wipe her skirt, Annika quickly retreated to the hallway and put her shoes on.
“I have to go,” she said, and left the apartment.
“I’m sorry, Skruttis didn’t mean to do it…”
Annika took the stairs to the ground floor and pushed the button for the left elevator. It wasn’t working. She groaned and started walking up the stairs. By the time she reached the fourth floor she was exhausted. She had to stop to catch her breath.
I should start taking vitamins, she thought.
She tiptoed up the last set of steps, breathing soundlessly with her mouth open while studying the eight apartment doors. Hessler. Carlsson. Lethander & Son Trading Co. Lundgren. Her eyes landed on the minister’s mail slot. The nameplate was handwritten and taped to the mail slot. She approached the door slowly, listening for any noise. She placed her finger on the doorbell, hesitated. Instead she opened the mail slot. Warm air from inside the apartment washed over her face.
At that moment a telephone rang somewhere behind the door. Frightened, she dropped the slot, which closed without a sound. She put her ear against the door. The ringing signal wasn’t repeated, so someone must have answered the phone. She caught the sound of a man’s mumbling voice. Sweat trickled down her upper lip and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She looked at the mail slot. She shouldn’t be doing this.
But then the Social Democrats carried out burglaries and bugged people, she thought. So I can eavesdrop a little.
She stooped down and opened the mail slot again. The air hit her in the face. She turned her head and put her ear against the slot; the draft made a whistling sound.
“They want me to go back for another interview,” she thought she heard the man’s voice say.
Silence. She shifted her head to hear better.
“I don’t know. It’s not good.”
New silence. The sweat trickled between her breasts. When the voice returned again, it was louder, more agitated.
“What the hell do you want me to do? The girl’s dead!”
Annika shifted position to be more comfortable, going down on her knees. She thought she heard someone clearing his throat and steps, then the voice again, but softer now.
“Yes, yes, I know. I won’t say anything…. No, I’ll never confess. Who the hell do you take me for?”
The door opposite, Hessler, opened slowly. Annika’s heart jumped and she quickly and clumsily got to her feet. She resolutely put her finger on the doorbell and glanced at Hessler. The man had to be close to eighty years old, with a small white dog on a lead. He eyed Annika suspiciously.
Annika gave him a big smile. “Isn’t it hot?”
The man didn’t answer but walked over to the elevator.
“It’s not working, I’m afraid.” Annika pushed the doorbell again.
She focused on the gleaming spot in the middle of the peephole. Suddenly it went dark. Someone had got in the way of the light. She looked straight ahead at the peephole, trying to look reassuring. No one opened the door. She rang the bell again. The peephole gleamed brightly again. Nothing happened. She rang the bell for the fourth time.
“Hello?” she called through the mail slot. “My name is Annika Bengtzon and I’m from Kvällspressen. Could I ask you a few questions?”
Huffing and puffing, old man Hessler began walking downstairs, the dog straining at its lead ahead of him.
She rang the bell again.
“Go away,” a voice said from inside the apartment.
Annika started breathing faster and realized she desperately needed the bathroom.
“You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you don’t make any comments,” she said, and swallowed.
“Bullshit.”
She closed her eyes and breathed. “I’m sorry, could I borrow your bathroom?”
“What?”
She crossed her legs. Daniella’s weak coffee threatened to burst her bladder.
“Please! I really need to go,” she pleaded.
The door opened. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Where is it? Please.”
He pointed at a light green door to the left. She staggered inside and pulled the door closed behind her. She sat down on the toilet, breathing a big sigh of relief. She flushed and washed her hands.
The apartment was extremely bright and unbearably hot. You could walk all around it from one room into another— from the kitchen into the dining recess, out into the big room and back into the hallway.
“Now you have to go,” the minister said, standing in the doorway.
She scrutinized the man. He looked tired and pale, dressed in a white, unbuttoned shirt and crumpled black pants. His hair was untidy and he hadn’t shaved. Good-looking, Annika thought.
She smiled. “Thanks. Necessity knows no law.”
The words hung in the air. He turned around and walked inside the room. “Close the door behind you.”
She followed him into the room.
“I don’t think you did it.”
“How did you find me?” he asked, sounding dog-tired.
“Research.”
He sat down on the bed.
Annika went up and stood in front of him. “You saw something, didn’t you? That’s why they’re questioning you, isn’t it?”
The minister looked up at her with weary eyes. “Hardly anyone knows where I live. How did you know where to find me?”
Annika watched the man clos
ely. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you? What is it you can’t talk about?”
The minister got to his feet suddenly and walked up close to her.
“You don’t know shit. Now go, before I throw you out!”
Annika swallowed, held up both her hands, and started backing toward the door. “Okay. I’m on my way. Thanks for letting me use the bathroom.”
She quickly left the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind her. She caught up with Hessler on the second floor.
“Fantastic summer, isn’t it?” she said to him.
*
The minister unbuttoned his shirt. He might as well go down to Bergsgatan straightaway. He sighed, sat down on his bed, and tied his shoes.
The tricks they get up to, he thought, and looked at the door the reporter had disappeared through. The bathroom— my ass!
He stood up and was in two minds about whether to put on a jacket. He chose one made of light linen.
How the hell did she find him here? Not even Karina Björnlund knew where he lived when he was in Stockholm. She always called him on his cell phone.
The telephone rang, the regular one, not his mobile. He answered it immediately. Only a handful of people had this number.
“How are you?”
His wife was worried about him. He slumped down on the bed again and to his amazement started to cry.
“Darling, tell me what’s wrong!” She was also crying.
“Are you with Stina?”
“We arrived yesterday.”
He blew his nose. “I can’t tell you.”
“These terrible stories, I mean, there’s nothing to them…”
He rubbed his forehead with his hand. “How can you even ask me that?”
“But what am I supposed to think?” Offended, frightened, suspicious.
“Do you think that I could… kill someone?”
She hesitated. “Not of your own accord,” she said eventually.
“But if…”
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