Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

Nineteen Years, Two Months, and Eighteen Days

I think I'm quite good at living. I imagine that in reality my life is quite bright. My breath is so light, my legs so smooth, my mind so open. I believe I have a gift for being happy. I think I love to be alive. I sense a shimmer somewhere just beyond, just nearby, but intangible.

How simple it can all be. How little is really needed. Sun. Wind. Direction. Context. Commitment. Love. Freedom. Freedom…

But he says

he will never

let me go.

Monday 3 September

The landscape didn't materialize until about a minute before the plane touched the ground. The clouds hung just above the trees, spreading a fine mist of rain.

I hope the weather's been this bad all the time, Annika thought. It would serve the bastards right.

The plane taxied to Arlanda Terminal 2, the same one they'd taken off from. Annika had been seriously disappointed that Terminal 2 was only an annex to the real international terminal, with hardly any duty-free shops. It was where the marginal airlines carried on their business, international and domestic, charter and scheduled. No glamour whatsoever.

At least no customs agents were around.

It's something, she thought as she walked through the green channel.

Of course, her bags came last of all. The airport bus was packed, and she had to stand for the forty-five-minute journey into central Stockholm and the City Terminal. When she stepped out on the Klaraberg Viaduct, it was raining properly. Her cloth bags absorbed the rain and her luggage got soaked. She swore under her breath and jumped on the 52 bus on Bolindersplan.

The apartment was quiet, the curtains resting peacefully in the morning light. She put her bags on the rug in the hall and sank down on the living room couch, groggy with fatigue. The plane had been scheduled to leave yesterday at four in the afternoon, but for reasons that were never disclosed, they had spent eight hours in the Turkish airport and another five in the plane itself before they finally took off. Oh, well, that's the kind of thing that happened on last-minute trips. It wasn't as if she was in a hurry to get anywhere.

She leaned back on the couch, shut her eyes, and allowed the unease to come to her. She had suppressed it during all those hot days in Turkey, focusing on absorbing the Asian sounds, the light, and the smells. She had eaten well, salads and kabobs, and she'd drunk wine with her lunch. Now she felt her stomach tighten and her throat constrict. When she tried to visualize her future, she saw nothing. Blank. White. Empty. No contours.

I have to forget, she thought. It begins now.

Annika fell asleep on the couch but woke up after ten minutes, freezing in her wet clothes.

She undressed and sprinted down to the communal bathroom in the basement.

When she returned upstairs, she tiptoed into the kitchen and popped her head around the door to Patricia's room. No one was in. It was both disconcerting and surprising. On her way back to Stockholm, she'd been annoyed at the thought of Patricia's being there. But she'd been wrong to think she wanted to be alone. The absence of her black mane on the pillow filled her with a sense of loss; it wasn't a good feeling.

She restlessly paced the apartment, from one room to another. She made coffee that she couldn't drink. She emptied out her wet clothes on the floor, then draped them over chairs and on door handles. The rooms filled with a sour, damp smell, so she opened a window.

Now what? she thought.

What am I going to do with my life?

How am I going to make a living?

She slumped back down on the couch. Her tiredness squeezed into a small lump of anxiety just beneath her breastbone. She had difficulty breathing. The curtain in front of the open window rose and billowed into the room, then sank back down again. Annika noticed that the floor next to the window was getting wet and got up to wipe it dry.

The building's going to be renovated, she suddenly thought to herself. It doesn't matter. It's pointless. Nobody cares if the floor is ruined. Why make the effort?

The realization that this was somehow emblematic of her own situation filled her with oceans of self-pity. She sank back down on the couch. She pulled her knees up to her chin and rocked back and forth crying. She was clutching her arms so tightly round her legs that they ached.

It's all over, she thought. Where can I go? Who'll help me now?

The realization, clear as crystal, hit her.

Grandma.

She dialed the number and with closed eyes prayed that her grandmother would be in her apartment and not out at Lyckebo.

"Sofia Hällström," the old woman answered.

"Oh, Grandma!" Annika was crying.

"Dearest little girl, what's wrong?"

The woman sounded so frightened that Annika forced herself to stop crying. "I feel so lonely and miserable."

Her grandmother sighed. "Life's like that. Sometimes it really is a struggle. The main thing is to not give up. Do you hear that?"

"But what's the point?" Annika said, on the verge of breaking out in tears again.

The old woman's voice sounded a bit tired. "Loneliness is difficult. People can't manage without their tribe. You've been expelled from the set you wanted to belong to, it's cut the ground from under your feet. No wonder, Annika. It would be stranger if you were all right. Allow yourself to feel bad and you can take care of yourself."

Annika wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I just want to die."

"I know, but you won't. You're going to live so that you can put me in the earth when that day comes."

"What are you saying?" Annika whispered down the phone. "Are you ill? You mustn't ever die!"

The woman chuckled. "No, I'm not ill, but we're all going to die. And you're going to take care of yourself and not do anything rash, my dear. Take it easy and allow the pain to come to you. You can outrun it for a while, but it will always catch up to you. Let it wash over you, feel it, live it. You won't die. You'll survive, and when you come out on the other side, you'll be a stronger person. Older and wiser."

Annika smiled. "Like you, Grandma."

The woman laughed. "Have a cup of cocoa, Annika. Curl up on the couch and watch one of those TV shows, that's what I do when things feel difficult. Put a rug over your legs, you have to be warm and comfy. Everything will be all right, you'll see."

They fell silent and Annika realized how selfish she was being.

"How are things with you?" she asked quickly.

"Well, it's been raining every day since you left. I only came here to do some shopping and do the washing, so you were lucky to catch me."

There is a God, Annika thought.

"I've talked to Ingegerd and she tells me Harpsund has been very busy," her grandmother said in her gossipy tone of voice.

Annika smiled. "And how's the prime minister's slimming plan coming along?"

"Not at all, it's been postponed indefinitely. Others have been there who've been a lot less hungry."

Her grandmother's gossip with the new housekeeper at Harpsund didn't really interest Annika, but she wanted to be polite. "Oh, who's that then?"

"The minister that resigned, Christer Lundgren. He arrived the day before it was announced and stayed for a week. Every journalist in the country was looking for him, but no one found him."

Annika laughed. "The things you know! You've been at the center of things, haven't you!"

They both laughed and Annika could feel the lump in her chest slowly dissolving and trickling away.

"Thanks, Grandma," she said in a low voice.

"Just come here to me if things get too difficult. Whiskas misses you."

"He does not. Not the way you spoil him. Give him a big kiss from me."

The warmth that came when she thought of her grandmother lingered after they hung up; still, the tears began trickling down again- sad but not desperate, heavy yet lighter.

When the phone rang again, the shrill signal made her jump.

"So you're back? Jesus, you've been gone for a long time. How was it?"

Annika wiped her face with the back of her hand. "It was great. Turkey is amazing."

"Glad to hear it," Anne Snapphane said. "Maybe I should go. What's the medical service like?"

Annika couldn't hold back her laughter, it just bubbled up and over before she had time to think. "They've got special clinics for hypochondriacs. X-ray treatment for breakfast, Prozac with your lunch, and antibiotics for dinner."

"Sounds good, but what's the radon emanation in the buildings like? Where did you end up?"

Annika laughed again. "In a half-built resort ten miles outside of Alanya, full of Germans. I went up to Istanbul and stayed with a woman I met on the bus and worked for a week in her hotel. Then I moved on to Ankara, which is a lot more modern." A peaceful feeling spread over her body, making her legs feel soft and relaxed.

"Where did you stay?"

"I arrived late at night and the bus station was pretty chaotic. I just jumped into the first taxi I saw and said, 'Hotel International.' And there was one, with really nice staff."

"And you stayed in a suite even though you only paid for a single room?"

"How did you know?"

Anne laughed. "You were born lucky. You know that."

They both laughed. They had a real affinity. The silence that followed was warm and light.

"Have you left yet?" Annika wondered.

"Yep, I quit yesterday. My TV job starts on the twelfth with some kind of fall kickoff. What about you, what are you going to do?"

Annika heaved a sigh. The lump became tangible again. "I don't know, I haven't got that far yet. I could always work in the hotel in Istanbul."

"Come with me to Piteå. I'm flying up this afternoon."

"No thanks, I've spent the last twenty-four hours in planes."

"So you're used to it then. Come with me! Have you ever been north of the Klar River?"

"I haven't even unpacked."

"Even better. My parents have a huge house in Pitholm, so there's plenty of room for you. And you could always go back home tomorrow if you want to."

Annika looked at the depressing heap of wet clothes and made her mind up. "So there are seats available?"

After hanging up, Annika rushed to her bedroom, found her old work carryall, and threw in two pairs of panties and a T-shirt. She picked up her toilet bag from the living-room floor.

Before she went to meet Anne on Kungsholms Square, she got a rag and wiped the floor under the window.

Disappointed, Annika looked around. "Where are the mountains?"

"Don't be such a Stockholmer," Anne told her. "We're on the coast. The Riviera of the North. Come on, the airport taxis are over there."

The crossed the tarmac surrounding Kallax Airport. Annika's eyes took in the surroundings- mostly fir trees, flat land. The sky was almost clear and the sun was shining. It was quite cold, at least for someone just back from Turkey. A fighter plane roared past above their heads.

"Air Force Base Twenty-one," Anne said, and threw her bags in the trunk of the taxi. "Kallax doubles as a military air base. I learned to parachute here."

Annika kept her bag on her lap. Two men in suits squeezed into the car before they set off for Piteå.

They drove past small villages and little patches of tilled land, but the E4 road they traveled along was mostly surrounded by forest. The leaves were blazing in radiant autumnal colors even though it was only the beginning of September.

"When does the winter start up here?" Annika wondered.

"I passed my driving test on the seventh of October. Two days later there was a blizzard. I drove straight into a ditch."

They stopped at the turning to Norrfjärden to drop off one of the suits.

Twenty minutes later, Annika and Anne got out at the bus station in Piteå.

They put Anne's bags in a left-luggage locker inside the waiting room.

"Dad will pick us up in an hour. Do you want to go for a cup of coffee?"

At Ekbergs Café, Annika had a prawn sandwich. She'd got her appetite back.

"This was a great idea," she said.

"Haven't you had any withdrawal symptoms?" Anne wondered.

Annika looked up in surprise. "From what?"

"Life. The news. The minister."

Annika cut a large piece from her prawn sandwich. "I don't give a damn about any of that," she said morosely.

"Don't you want to know what's been happening?"

Annika shook her head and chewed frenetically.

"Okay," Anne said. "Why do you spell Bengtzon with a z?"

Annika shrugged. "I don't know, actually. My great-great-grandfather Gottfried came to Hälleforsnäs at the end of the 1850s. Lasse Celsing, the ironworks proprietor, had installed a new stamping machine, and my ancestor was in charge of it. A cousin of mine tried to do some genealogical research, but he didn't get very far. He came to a stop on Gottfried. Nobody knows where he came from- he may have been German or Czech. He entered himself on the list as Bengtzon."

Anne took a big bite from her marzipan cake. "What about your mom?"

"She's from Hälleforsnäs's oldest family of foundry men. I've practically got the blast furnace stamped on my forehead. What about you? How can you be called Snapphane and come from Lapland?"

Anne groaned and licked her spoon. "Like I said, this is the coast. Everybody up here, apart from the Sami, come from somewhere else. They were loggers, railway laborers, Walloons, and other drifters. According to the family legend, Snapphane was first used as a term of abuse for a light-fingered Danish ancestor who was hanged for theft on the gallows hill outside Norrfjärden sometime in the eighteenth century. As a warning to others, his kids were also called Snapphane, and they didn't do very well either. A furnace on your forehead, well, I wish! My family crest has a gallows at the center."

Annika smiled and licked up the last dollop of mayonnaise. "Good story."

"There's probably not a word of truth in it. Shall we go?"

Anne's father was called Hans. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet one of Anne's colleagues from Stockholm.

"There's so much to see here," he said with great enthusiasm while his Volvo cruised slowly down Sundsgatan. "There's Storfors, the Elias Cave, the Böleby Tannery, Grans Farm Museum. There's Altersbruk, the old ironworks with a pond and a mill-"

"Come off it, Dad," Anne said, a bit embarrassed. "Annika is here to see me. You sound like a tour guide."

Hans wasn't put out. "Just let me know if you want to go anyplace, and I'll give you a ride," he said cheerfully, and looked at Annika in the rearview mirror.

Annika nodded and then turned her gaze out through the window. She glimpsed a narrow canal and they suddenly left the town center.

Piteå. That's where he lived- the man who had called Creepy Calls on the same day that Studio 69 revealed that Christer Lundgren had visited a strip club. Wasn't he married to the minister's cousin?

She instinctively fished around in her bag. Her notepad was still there and she opened it toward the back.

"Roger Sundström," she read out, "from Piteå. Do you know anyone by that name?"

Anne's father turned left in a traffic circle and thought out loud. "Sundström… Roger Sundström- what does he do?"

"I don't know." Annika turned the pages over. "Here we are, his wife's called Britt-Inger."

"Everybody's wife is called Britt-Inger up here," Hans said. "Sorry, can't help you there."

"Why are you asking?"Anne wondered.

"I got a weird tip-off about the minister for foreign trade on the eve of his resignation from a Roger Sundström in Piteå."

"And I know someone who doesn't give a damn about journalism anymore," Anne said in a sugary voice.

Annika shoved the pad into her bag and put it on the floor. "So do I."

Anne's parents' house was on Oli-Jans Street in Pitholm. It was spacious and modern.

"You girls get settled upstairs," Anne's father said. "I'll fix some dinner. Britt-Inger is working tonight."

Annika gave a look of surprise. "Mom. He wasn't joking."

The upper floor was open and bright. On the left, by a window, was a desk with a computer, a printer, and a scanner. On the right were two guest rooms. They took one each.

While Hans cooked dinner, they went over Anne's old record collection that still stood in the hi-fi bench in the living room.

"Jesus, you've got this?" Annika said in amazement, pulling out Jim Steinman's solo album Bad for Good.

"It's a collector's item," Anne said.

"I've never met anyone who's ever heard this record. Apart from me."

"It's fantastic. Did you know he used material from this for both his Meat Loaf productions and Streets of Fire?"

"Yep," Annika said, scrutinizing the record cover. "The hook from the title song went into 'Nowhere Fast' in the movie."

"Yeah, and 'Love and Death and an American Guitar' is an intro on Meat Loaf's Back into Hell, except it's called 'Wasted Youth.'"

"Genuinely awesome," Annika said.

"Godlike."

They sat in silence for a moment, reflecting on Jim Steinman's greatness.

"Have you got his Bonnie Tyler productions?" Annika wondered.

"Sure. Which one do you want? Secret Dreams and Forbidden Fire?"

Anne placed the pickup on the vinyl and they both sang along.

Hans came in and turned the volume down. "This is a built-up area," he said. "Have you ever eaten palt?"

"Nope." Annika had never fancied the idea of bread baked with blood and rye flour.

It was fried and tasted quite good, a bit like potato dumplings.

"Do you want to go see a movie?" Anne said when the dishwasher started rumbling.

"Is there a movie theater here?" Annika wouldn't have thought there would be.

Anne gave her father an inquiring look. "Are there any theaters still open?"

"Sorry, I don't know."

"Do you have a phone directory?" Annika asked.

"Upstairs, by the computer," Hans replied.

After she looked for a movie theater, Annika thought she might as well look up Roger Sundström. Why not? There were two, one whose wife was called Britt-Inger. They lived on Solandergatan.

"Djupviken," Anne told her. "Other side of town."

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Annika said.

The sun was going down behind the pulp mill. They walked through Strömnäs and crossed over the Nolia area behind the People's Palace. The Sundström family lived in a sixties yellow-brick bungalow with a basement. Annika could hear children singing.

"Do whatever you want," Anne said. "I'm just coming along for the ride."

Annika rang the doorbell; Roger Sundström was in. The man was surprised when Annika introduced herself, and then he became suspicious.

"I couldn't stop thinking about what you told me," Annika said. "Now I'm here in Piteå, visiting my friend Anne, and I thought I'd just drop by."

The children, a boy and a girl, came rushing into the hallway and hid behind their father's legs, filled with curiosity.

"You go and put on your pajamas," the man said, and tried to shoo them into a room on the left.

"Are we going to sing later, Dad?"

"Yeah, yeah, and brush your teeth."

"Can we come in for a minute?"

The man hesitated but then showed them into the living room: corner couch, glass coffee table, china ornaments in the bookcase. "Britt-Inger is at her evening class."

"Nice house you've got here," Anne said in much broader Norrland accent than she usually spoke in.

"So what do you want?" Roger sat down in a plush armchair.

Annika sat down on the edge of the couch. "I'm sorry to intrude like this. I'm just wondering if I remember correctly. Did you fly from Arlanda with Transwede?"

The man scratched his stubble. "Yes. That's right. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

The question was tentative- he knew he should offer.

"No thanks," Anne said. "We won't stay long."

"So then you departed from Terminal Two, didn't you?" Annika said. "The small one?"

"Which one?" the man asked.

"Not the big domestic departure terminal, but one that's a bit farther away."

Roger nodded circumspectly. "That's right. We had to take a transfer bus, and we had to carry our luggage all the way, because it had to go through customs in Stockholm."

Annika nodded. "Exactly! And it was there, at that small terminal, that you and Britt-Inger saw the minister?"

Roger thought about it. "Yes, it must have been there. Because we were checking in."

Annika swallowed. "I know this may be difficult, but do you remember which gate you left from?"

He shook his head. "No idea."

Annika sighed inwardly. Oh, well, it was a long shot.

"Although," the man said, "we let the kids ride on top of the baggage trolley and that was a sight. I think Britt-Inger filmed it. Maybe you can see it on the videotape."

Annika opened her eyes wide. "For real?"

"Let's have a look." The man went over to the bookcase. He opened the doors to the cocktail cabinet and started looking through the tapes.

"Majorca, here we are." He pushed the tape into a VCR and started the video. The picture flickered- the kids playing by a pool. The sun must have been high as the shadows were short. Two hairy legs, probably Roger's, appeared on the left. The text in the corner read July 24, 2:27 P.M.

"Is that clock right?" Annika wondered.

"I think so. I'll fast-forward it a bit."

A blond, sleeping woman on an airplane, her chin slack. The date had jumped forward to July 27, 4:53 P.M. "My wife."

And then a tanned, smiling Roger was pushing a trolley fully loaded with both luggage and children, July 27, 7:43 P.M. The boy was standing up, holding on to the handle of the trolley; the girl sat on top of the suitcases. Both were waving at their mother behind the camera. The picture wobbled a bit as the camera swept across the hall.

"There!" Annika yelled. "Did you see? Sixty-four!"

"What?" Roger said.

"Rewind a bit," Annika said. "Have you got freeze-frame?"

Roger pressed on the remote control buttons.

"Too much," Anne said. "How did you manage to see that?"

"I was there today, and I was thinking about this," Annika said. "Go on, maybe there's more."

A bunch of people were suddenly jostling in front of the camera. Someone knocked the camera and then Roger was back in the picture.

"Christer!" he called out on-screen, lifting his hand and waving.

On-screen Roger stood on tiptoe, looked to his left, toward his wife, and talked into the living room. "Did you see him? It was Anna-Lena's Christer! He must be on our flight."

"Why don't you go over and say hello?" an invisible woman's voice said.

Roger turned around, and Annika saw people moving to the side, and in the distance, albeit out of focus, she saw Christer Lundgren running toward a gate. It was the former minister for foreign trade, without a doubt.

"Do you see?" Annika yelled out. "He's holding a ticket! He is boarding a plane."

On-screen Roger lost the minister in the crowd, looked in another direction, and called out, "Christer!" and then the screen went black. The picture jumped as the tape was beginning to rewind.

Annika felt a violent wave of adrenaline sweeping through her. "No wonder you didn't see him on the plane. Christer Lundgren took the flight from gate sixty-five, not sixty-four."

"Where was it going?" a confused Anne asked.

"That's what we're going to find out," Annika said. "Thank you so much for letting us disturb you, Roger."

She gave his hand a quick squeeze and hurried outside.

"What did I tell you?" she shouted with joy once they were outside. "I'll be damned! He did go somewhere that night. But he can't say where!" She performed a short war dance in the street.

"We know where he was," Anne said wryly. "He was at a sex club."

"No, he wasn't. He made a trip somewhere and the destination is top secret." Annika did a pirouette. "It's so damn secret that he'd rather be accused of murder and resign."

"Rather than what?"

Annika stopped. "Tell the truth."

Nineteen Years, Four Months, and Seven Days

I have to decide what's important. I have to arrive at a conclusion about what I am. Do I exist, other than through him? Do I breathe, except through his mouth? Do I think, outside of his world?

I have tried talking to him about it. His logic is plain and lucid.

Do I exist, he asks, other than through you? Do I live- without you? he asks. Can I love without your love?

Then he gives me the answer.

No.

He needs me. He can't live without me. Never leave me, he says. We are the most important thing there is to each other.

He says

he will never

let me go.

I've been alone for a long time.

Tuesday 4 September

Patricia had slept for a few hours when she woke up with a vague sense of unease. She sat up on her mattress, brushed her hair from her face, saw the man, and screamed.

"Who are you?" the guy in the doorway asked. He was crouching and looked at her as if he'd been there for a while.

Patricia pulled up the cover to her chin and backed up against the wall. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sven. Where's Annika?"

Patricia swallowed and tried to get a grip on the situation. "I… she… I don't know."

"Didn't she get back from her holiday yesterday?"

Patricia cleared her throat. "Yes… Yes, I think so. Her clothes had been hung out to dry when I got home."

"Home?"

She looked down. "Annika said I could stay here for a while. I was sharing with a friend who… I didn't see her yesterday. I don't know where she is. She didn't come home last night."

The words hung in the air, pulsating. Patricia was hit by a monstrous feeling of déjà vu.

"Where do you think she is now?"

She had heard that question before; the whole room spun, and she gave the same answer now as then. "Don't know, maybe she's gone shopping, maybe she's with you…"

The guy gave her a searching look. "And you don't know when she'll be back?"

She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyelids.

Sven stood up. "Well, we've established who I am and what I want. Who the hell are you?"

She swallowed. "I'm Patricia. I got to know Annika when she worked at Kvällspressen. She said I could stay here awhile."

The man looked at her closely; she pressed the cover tighter against her chin.

"So you're a journalist too? What do you write about? Have you known her long?"

The unease sent shivers up and down her spine. She had answered so many questions, had been held responsible for so much that had nothing to do with her.

The man moved a few steps closer so that he stood right above her. "Annika hasn't been herself lately. She thought she'd make some kind of career here in the big city, but it was a nonstarter. Was it you who got her into all this?"

The words flashed through Patricia's mind and she yelled straight back at him, "I didn't get anyone into anything! No way." She glared up at the man, who started back.

"Annika will be moving to Hälleforsnäs soon. I hope you've got somewhere else to go then. I'll be staying here a few days. Tell her I'll be back tonight."

Patricia heard him walk out of the apartment, the front door shutting. A whimper rose in her mouth; she curled up in a small, hard ball, clutching her hands tightly, desperately.

Hans Snapphane was having coffee and reading the local newspaper when Annika padded into the kitchen.

"There are some boiled eggs on the stove," he said.

Annika fished one out and ran cold water over it.

"My daughter is still asleep, I imagine?"

Annika nodded and smiled. "She's worked hard for a long time."

"I'm glad she got away from there. That place did her no good. This new TV job seems to have decent hours. There are more women in management too."

Annika glanced at him furtively; he seemed to have a brain.

"Could I use your phone to make a few calls?" she asked as he got up and grabbed his briefcase.

"Sure, but go easy on Jim Steinman for a while, will you? Britt-Inger's working late again tonight."

He waved to her from the car as he drove off.

Annika gobbled down the egg and sprinted upstairs. She began by phoning the Civil Aviation Administration flight information at Arlanda.

"Hello, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I need to know when a particular flight departed."

"Sure," the customer service man said. "Which one?"

"It's a bit complicated. I only know which gate it left from."

"That's no problem- if it was today or yesterday, that is."

"Oh… No, it wasn't. Is it impossible to find out?"

"Have you got the time of departure? We can see the flights one day back and six days ahead."

Annika's heart sank. "This was five weeks ago."

"And all you have is the gate number? That makes it a bit tricky. I can't check that far back, I'm afraid."

"Don't you have timetables?"

"You'd have to get in touch with the airline. What's it about? Is it an insurance matter?"

"No, not at all."

They fell silent.

"Well," the man said, "you'd have to contact the airline."

She sighed. "I don't know which airline it was," she said glumly. "Which airlines fly out of Terminal Two?"

The man listed them. "Maersk Air, a Danish company that runs services to Jutland, among other places; Sabena to Brussels; Alitalia; Delta to the U.S.; Estonian Air; Austrian Airlines; and Finnair."

Annika jotted down the names of the airlines. "And do they all fly from all gates by turns?"

"Not really. The international flights usually use gates sixty-five to sixty-eight. Seventy to seventy-three are on the floor below for bus transfers."

"Gate sixty-five is international?"

"Yes. Customs and the security checkpoint are inside."

"And sixty-four, what kind of gate is that?"

"Mostly domestic. The gates are in pairs. But that can be altered by moving the doors about in a certain way-"

"Thanks a lot for your help," Annika said quickly, and rang off.

International indeed… Christer Lundgren traveled abroad on the night of the twenty-seventh of July and returned just after five in the morning on the twenty-eighth.

"So he didn't go to the U.S.," Annika said out loud, crossing out Delta Airlines.

He could have flown to Jutland, Finland, Brussels, Tallinn, and Vienna and back. The distances were short enough for it to be possible. Italy was more unlikely.

The question was, however, how did he get home in the middle of the night? It must have been a damned important meeting. It must have taken some time as well.

She counted on her fingers.

Say he left at 20:00; so wherever he was going, he wouldn't get there and clear customs before 21:30. Then he probably had to get somewhere in a taxi or a car, unless the meeting took place at the airport.

Suppose 22:00 was the time of the meeting. And suppose it finished at 23:00. Back to the airport, check in- he couldn't have been on a return flight before midnight.

There can't be that many scheduled flights at that time of the night, not with these airlines. And what was Maersk Air?

She sighed.

He could have got home some other way, she thought- by car or boat. That would exclude Vienna, Brussels, and anywhere in Italy.

She looked down at her pad; that left Jutland, Finland, and Tallinn. She looked up Finnair's ticket office in the phone book, dialed the toll-free number, and got the company's call center in Helsinki.

"No," said the friendly voice of a man who sounded like the Moomin Troll in Tove Jansson's children stories, "I can't check data like that on my computer. Did you say you don't have a flight number? If you did, I could check back."

Annika closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her hand. "Which cities do you fly to from Stockholm?"

The man tapped on his computer. "Helsinki, of course. And Oslo, Copenhagen, Vienna, Berlin, and London."

Dead end. It was impossible to check this way where the plane went.

"One last question. When does the last flight to Stockholm leave?"

"From Helsinki? It leaves at twenty-one forty-five and arrives at twenty-one forty in Stockholm. You're one hour behind us."

She thanked him and rang off.

He must have got home some other way than on a regular flight. Private plane, she thought. He could have chartered a plane to return on.

It costs a lot of money, she thought, remembering the uproar surrounding the prime minister's private flights. You have to pay for a chartered plane, and she didn't think Christer Lundgren would do that out of his own pocket. It would be against his religion.

She raised her eyes and looked out of the window in Hans Snapphane's study. To the right she saw the most common house type in Piteå, a red, seventies, prefab bungalow. Straight ahead, on the other side of the street, was a larger white-brick house with brown-stained paneling, and in the distance a stretch of woodland.

There has to be an invoice somewhere. Regardless of how he got home, the former minister for foreign trade must surely have invoiced his travel expenses to some department or government office.

It struck her that she didn't even know to which department foreign trade belonged.

She went into Anne and woke her up.

"I've got to go back to Stockholm," Annika told her. "I've got a lot to do."

Anne wasn't surprised at Annika's reawakened enthusiasm for her job. She helped Annika make the return arrangements. Back in Stockholm, Annika went straight from City Terminal to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in Gustav Adolfs Square. But the pink-and-yellow building was surrounded by shiny, dark cars. Important men stood around watchfully, and pensioners with cameras were dotted here and there. The people made her uneasy as she approached the entrance. A large black vehicle with a ridiculous registration plate in the form of a crown blocked the entrance. When she'd walked around it, an obese security guard in olive drab uniform blocked her way.

"Where are you going?"

"Inside," Annika replied.

"We've got enough reporters as it is."

Shit, Annika thought. "But I'm going to the registrar."

"Then you'll have to wait," the guard said, and with a peremptory gesture crossed his hands over his crotch.

Annika didn't move. "Why's that?"

The guard's gaze shifted slightly. "State visit. The president of South Africa is here."

"No shit?" Annika said, and realized how far out of the news loop she was already.

"Come back after three o'clock."

Annika turned on her heel and walked away across Norrbro. She looked at her watch. She had over an hour to kill. The rain had stopped, so she decided to take a quick walk up to South Island. She had run regularly in Turkey, feeling the need and enjoying the calm that returned to her body. Now she walked fast and vigorously through Old Town and over to the steps around Mosebacke Square. With her bag across her chest, she ran up and down the steps until her pulse was beating fast and she was dripping with sweat. She paused at the top of Klevgränd and looked out over Stockholm: the narrow alleys cutting in between the Skeppsbro facades; the white hull of the af Chapman sparkling in the water; the light-blue roller coaster of Gröna Lund, resting against the green foliage like a tangled ball of yarn.

I really have got to find a way to stay here, she thought.

By five to three, all the cars in front of the Arvfurstens Palace were gone.

"I'd like to know something about how the cabinet ministers arrange their travels," Annika said politely to the Foreign Ministry lady behind the counter. Annika felt a bead of perspiration run along the root of her nose and quickly wiped it off.

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly. "Oh," she said in a disdainful tone of voice. "And may I ask who's asking?"

Annika smiled. "I'm not obliged to prove my identity. You don't even have the right to ask me. But you are obliged to answer my questions."

The woman stiffened.

"So what happens when a cabinet minister wants to travel?" Annika asked in her silkiest voice.

The woman's voice was frosty around the edges. "The minister's assistant books the tickets through the agency that has the government contract. At present Nyman and Schultz has that remit."

"Do the ministers have their own travel budgets?"

The woman sighed soundlessly. "Yes, naturally."

"Right. Then I'd like to make a request to look at an official document. An invoice with a credit card slip handed in by the former minister for foreign trade Christer Lundgren on the twenty-eighth of July this year."

The woman could barely conceal her delight. "No, that will not be possible."

"Oh, no? Why not?"

"Because the minister for foreign trade falls under the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications, not the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which he or she did until the current prime minister took over. The prime minister transferred questions concerning the promotion of export trade from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs got asylum and immigration matters instead."

Annika blinked. "So the minister for foreign trade doesn't hand in his invoices here at all?"

"No, not at all."

"Not for entertainment expenses or anything?"

"No."

Annika was at a loss. The studio reporter on Studio 69 had claimed they'd found the receipt from the strip joint at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, she was absolutely sure of that. The entire program resonated like a stubborn tune in her head, whether she wanted it to or not.

"Where is the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications?"

Annika got the directions and walked past the Museum of Mediterranean and Near East Antiquities to 8 Fredsgatan. She found the equivalent civil servant and asked, "A traveling-expenses invoice and an entertainment invoice from July twenty-eighth this year. Will it take long?"

The registry clerk was a friendly and efficient woman. "No, it won't take long. Come back in an hour and we'll have it ready for you. But don't come any later, as we'll be closed."

Annika went up to Drottninggatan and had a look around. There was a light drizzle, and a mass of black clouds behind the Parliament building signaled heavier rain later in the evening. She strolled around, indifferently looking at the music, posters, and cheap clothes on offer. It was all beyond her, she was flat broke. The impulsive flight up to Piteå had cleaned her out.

She walked down the mall toward Klarabergsgatan. She went into a vile American coffee place and ordered ice water. They wanted five kronor for a glass of tap water. Annika swallowed her cutting remark and dug into her pocket. The rain had gotten heavier and it was worth spending the money to avoid getting soaked.

She sat down at the bar and had a look around. The café was full of trendy people with their cappuccinos and espressos. Annika took a sip of water and chewed on an ice cube.

So far she'd resisted the thought, but now it was inescapable. By resigning voluntarily from Katrineholms-Kuriren, she wasn't getting any unemployment benefits for a month and no more money was coming in from Kvällspressen.

But my expenses aren't that high, she thought. She began listing them.

Her rent was only 1,970 kronor a month, and now she had a roommate. Food didn't have to be that much, she could eat pasta. She didn't need a monthly travel ticket. She could buy reduced-rate tickets, walk or sneak in on the subway. She had to have a telephone, that was a priority. Forgoing clothes and makeup was no big sacrifice, at least not for a while.

I need a part-time job, she thought.

"Is this chair taken?"

A guy with two-tone hair and wearing mascara was standing in front of her.

"No, go ahead," Annika mumbled.

She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. That didn't cost anything.

Fifty minutes later she was back at the office in Fredsgatan. The registry clerk went inside to collect the papers. She returned with a concerned look on her face.

"I couldn't find any travel-expenses invoices for that date, but here's the entertainment invoice."

She gave Annika a copy of the invoice. The receipt from Studio 69 was for 55,600 kronor and was specified as "entertainment and refreshments."

"Jesus," Annika said.

"I think they may have trouble getting that past the auditors," the clerk said without looking up.

"Have a lot of people asked to see this?"

The woman hesitated. "Not that many, actually." She looked up. "We thought a lot would, but so far only a handful have asked for it."

"But there's no travel-expenses invoice?"

The woman shook her head. "I checked both the preceding and the following weeks."

Annika thought a moment. She looked at the sprawling signature on the credit card slip. "Could he have handed in his travel-expenses invoice at another ministry?"

"The minister for foreign trade? I doubt it. It would still end up here."

"What about some other public authority? He travels a lot, lobbying for different organizations and companies, doesn't he?"

"Well, I suppose. Maybe the companies pay. I don't know."

Annika persisted. "But if he was traveling on behalf of the government and the invoices weren't handed in here, then where?"

The woman's phone rang. Annika noticed her tense up.

"I'm sorry, I honestly don't know," the woman said. "Keep the copy, it's on me."

Annika thanked her and left the woman to answer the call.

The apartment was quiet and still. She went straight to Patricia's room and peeped in.

"Annika!"

To her surprise, Patricia sounded frightened, and she entered the room.

"What is it?" Annika smiled.

Patricia jumped up, threw herself around Annika's neck, and cried.

"Jesus, what's wrong?" Annika said worriedly. "Has something happened?"

Patricia's hair got tangled up in her eyelashes, and she carefully tried to remove it so that she could see.

"You didn't come home. You didn't spend the night at home, and your boyfriend came here and asked where you were. I thought… something had happened."

Annika stroked Patricia's hair tenderly. "Silly. What would happen to me?"

Patricia let go of Annika and wiped her nose on her T-shirt. "I don't know," she whispered.

"I'm not Josefin," Annika said, smiling. "You don't need to worry yourself over me." She had to laugh. "Come on, Patricia, snap out of it! You're worse than my mom. Do you want some coffee?"

Patricia nodded and Annika went out into the kitchen.

"Toast?"

"Yes, please."

Annika set out evening coffee while Patricia put on a sweat suit. The mood at the table was a bit quiet.

"I'm sorry," Patricia said, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast.

"Don't worry. You're just a bit on edge, that's all."

They ate in silence.

"Are you moving out?" Patricia asked timidly after a while.

"Not right now. Why?"

Patricia shrugged. "Just wondering…"

Annika poured more coffee. "Has there been much in the papers about Josefin while I've been away?" She blew at the hot drink.

Patricia shook her head. "Hardly anything. The police say that suspicions point in one direction but that they won't be arresting anyone. Not at the moment, at least."

"And everybody's interpretation is that the minister is guilty?"

"Something like that."

"Have they written a lot about him?"

"Even less. It's as if he died rather than resigned."

Annika sighed. "Never kick a man when he's down."

"What?"

"That's how they reason- you stop digging when someone accepts the consequences of his actions and resigns. What else have they been writing about while I was gone?"

"They said on Rapport that the voters are abandoning the polls. A lot of people don't want to vote because they lack faith in the politicians. It's possible the Social Democrats will lose the election."

Annika nodded, it made sense. A minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign was a nightmare.

Patricia wiped her fingers on a piece of paper towel and began clearing the table.

"Have you spoken to the police lately?"

Patricia stiffened. "No," she said.

"Do they know you're here?"

The woman got up and went over to the counter. "I don't think so."

Annika also got up. "Perhaps you should tell them. They might want to talk to you about something, and no one at the club knows you're staying here, right?"

"Please don't tell me what to do," Patricia replied curtly.

She turned her back and put a pan on the stove to heat water for the dishes.

Annika went back to the table and for a while sat watching the woman's back.

Well, go ahead and sulk, she thought, and went into her room.

The rain rattled hysterically on the windowsill. Will it never stop? Annika thought, and sank down on her bed. She lay on top of the bed without switching on the light. The room was dark and gray. She stared at the worn wallpaper, yellowed with a gray pattern.

It all has to come together somehow, she thought. Something happened just before the twenty-seventh of July that made the minister for foreign trade take a flight from Terminal 2 at Arlanda, so jittery and stressed-out that he didn't even notice his relatives calling out to him. Or he ignored them. The Social Democrats must have been in a real panic.

But it could have been something private, Annika suddenly realized. Maybe he wasn't on a government or party errand at all. Maybe he had a mistress somewhere.

Could it be that simple?

Then she remembered her grandmother.

Harpsund, she thought. If Christer Lundgren had committed a private indiscretion, the prime minister would never have let him use his summer residence as a hiding place. It had to be something political.

She stretched out on her back, put her hands behind her head, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She heard the clatter of the crockery; Patricia was puttering about in the kitchen.

Structure, she mused. Sort through what you've got. Start at the beginning. Toss out everything that's wishful thinking- be logical. What actually did happen?

A minister resigns following suspicions of murder, and not just any murder- a sex murder in a cemetery. Suppose the man is innocent. Say he was somewhere completely different on the morning when the woman was raped and killed. Suppose he's got a watertight alibi.

Then why the hell doesn't he clear his name? His life is ruined; politically he's washed-up, socially he's poison.

There can only be one explanation, Annika thought. My first idea holds up: his alibi is even worse than the crime.

Okay, even worse- but for whom? For himself? Not likely. That would be close to impossible.

Only one alternative remains: worse for the party.

Right, so she'd reached a conclusion.

What about the rest? What could be worse for the party than having a minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign?

She squirmed restlessly on the bed, turned on her side, and stared out into the room. She heard Patricia open the front door and walk down the stairs, probably to have a shower.

The realization came like a puff of wind in her brain.

Only the loss of power was worse. Christer Lundgren did something that night that would lead to the Social Democrats losing power if it came to light. It had to be something fundamental, something crucial. What could pull the rug out from under the governing party's feet?

Annika sat bolt upright. She remembered the words, played them back in her brain. She went out to the telephone in the living room, sat down on the couch with the phone on her lap. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths.

Anne Snapphane still talked to her even though she'd been thrown out. Berit Hamrin might also look on her as a colleague even if she'd stopped working there. If she didn't try, she'd never know.

Resolutely she dialed the number to the Kvällspressen switchboard. She spoke in a squeaky voice when she asked for Berit, not wanting the operator to recognize her.

"Annika, how nice to hear from you!" Berit said cordially. "How are things?"

Annika's heart slowed down.

"Thanks, I'm fine. I've been to Turkey for a couple of weeks. It was really interesting."

"Writing about the Kurds?" Berit thought like a journalist.

"No, just a vacation. Listen, I've got a couple of questions concerning IB. Do you have time to meet up for a chat?"

If Berit was surprised, she wasn't letting it show. "Yes, sure. When?"

"What are you doing tonight?"

They agreed to meet at the pizzeria near the paper in half an hour's time.

Patricia came back in, dressed in her sweat suit and with her hair wrapped in a towel.

"I'm going out for a while." Annika got to her feet.

"I forgot to tell you something. Sven said he was staying here for a few days."

Annika went over to the coatrack. "Are you working tonight?" she said as she put her coat on.

"Yeah, why?"

It was pouring rain. Annika's umbrella was twisted by the wind, so when she stumbled through the door of the restaurant, she was soaked to the skin. Berit was already there.

"How nice to see you." Berit smiled. "You're looking well."

Annika laughed and wriggled out of her wet coat. "Leaving Kvällspressen does wonders for one's health. What's it like these days?"

Berit sighed. "Bit of a mess, actually. Schyman is trying to give the paper an overhaul, but he's meeting a lot of resistance from the rest of the senior editors."

Annika shook her wet hair and pushed it back. "In what way?"

"Schyman wants to set up new routines, have regular seminars about the direction of the paper."

"I get it. The others are in an uproar, whining that he's trying to turn Kvällspressen into Swedish Television, right?"

Berit nodded and smiled. "Exactly."

A waiter took their insignificant order, a coffee and a mineral water. He walked away unimpressed.

"So just how badly are the Social Democrats doing in the election campaign?" Annika wondered.

"Badly. They've fallen from forty-five percent in the opinion polls last spring to below thirty-five percent."

"Because of the IB affair or the strip-club business?"

"Probably a combination of both."

Both the glass and the cup were placed on the table with unnecessary force.

"Do you remember our talk about the IB archives?" Annika said when the waiter was gone.

"Of course. Why?"

"You thought the original foreign archive still exists. What exactly makes you think that?" Annika sipped at her mineral water.

Berit gave it some thought before answering. "Several reasons. People's political affiliations had been put on a register before, during the war. The practice was forbidden after the end of the war, and much later Minister for Defense Sven Andersson said that the wartime archives had 'disappeared.' In reality, they had been at the Defense Staff Headquarters' archive. This was made public a few years ago."

"So the Social Democrats have lied about vanished archives before."

"That's right. And then, a year or two later, Andersson said that the IB archives were destroyed back in 1969. The latest version is that they were burned just before the exposure of IB in 1973. But the destruction was never entered in any official records, either domestic or foreign."

"And if the records had been destroyed, it would have been documented?"

Berit drank some of her coffee and made a face. "Yuck, this isn't exactly freshly made. Yes, IB was a standard Swedish bureaucratic organization. There are a lot of their documents in the Defense Staff Headquarters' intelligence archive. Everything was entered in a daybook, including reports of destroyed documents. There isn't one about these archives, which probably means that they're still there."

"Anything else?"

Berit thought about it for a moment. "They've always maintained that the foreign and domestic archives were destroyed at the same time and that there are no copies. We know that at least half of that is untrue."

Annika looked closely at Berit. "How did you get the Speaker to admit to his dealings with IB?"

Berit rubbed her forehead and sighed. "The force of reason," she said coyly.

"Can you tell me?"

Berit sat in silence for a while. She put two lumps of sugar in her coffee and stirred it.

"The Speaker has always refused to admit that he knew Birger Elmér," she said in a low voice. "He claimed he hadn't even met him. But I know that's not true."

She fell silent; Annika waited.

"In the spring of 1966," Berit said at length, "the Speaker, Ingvar Carlsson, and Birger Elmér met in the Speaker's home in Nacka. The Speaker's wife was also present. They had dinner, and the conversation turned to the fact the Speaker and his wife didn't have any children. Elmér thought the two should adopt, which they later did. I told the Speaker I knew about this meeting, and that's when he began to talk."

Annika stared at Berit. "How the hell do you know that?"

"I can't tell you. You understand."

Annika leaned back in her chair. It was mind-boggling. Jesus H. Christ! Berit had to have a source within the party leadership.

Neither woman spoke for a long time. They could hear the rain thundering outside.

"Where were the archives held before they disappeared?" Annika asked eventually.

"The domestic archive was at twenty-four Grevgatan and the foreign one at fifty-six Valhallavägen. Why do you ask?"

Annika had taken out a pen and paper and was writing down the addresses. "Maybe it wasn't the Social Democrats themselves that made sure that the archives disappeared."

"How do you mean?"

Annika didn't reply and Berit crossed her arms. "Hardly anybody knew that the archives existed, let alone where they were kept."

Annika leaned forward. "The copy of the foreign archives was found in the incoming mail at the Defense Staff Headquarters, right?"

"Right. The parcel arrived at their printing and distribution office. It was registered, entered in the daybook, and classified. The documents were not considered secret."

"What day did they arrive?"

"Seventeenth of July."

"Where did they arrive from?"

"The official record didn't say. The sender was anonymous. It could have come from any dusty government department."

"But why would they want to be anonymous in this case?"

Berit shrugged. "Maybe they found the documents deep inside an old storeroom and didn't want to admit to having them all these years."

Annika groaned, yet another dead end.

They sat in silence for a while and looked at the other customers in the restaurant. A couple of men in overalls were having an evening pizza. Two women were noisily drinking beer.

"Where were the documents when you looked at them?" Annika wondered.

"They'd just arrived at the archives."

Annika smiled. "You've got friends everywhere."

Berit returned her smile. "Always be nice to telephone operators, secretaries, registry clerks, and archivists."

Annika emptied her glass. "And there was nothing that indicated where the documents came from?"

"No. They were delivered in two big sacks."

Annika raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean, 'sacks'? Like potato sacks?"

Berit sighed lightly. "I didn't really pay much attention to what they were. I was interested in their contents. It was one of my all-time best tip-offs."

Annika smiled. "I believe you. What did the sacks look like?"

Berit looked at her for a few seconds. "Now that you mention it, there was something printed on the sacks."

"You didn't see what it said?"

Berit closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, and sighed, then rubbed her forehead and licked her lips.

"What?"

"It could have been a courier's bag."

"What the heck is a courier's bag?"

"Under the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, there's an article that deals with inviolability of the communication between a state and its foreign missions. Article twenty-seven, I think. The diplomatic mail is sent in a special bag that is immune to inspection. Diplomatic couriers carry the bags through customs. It could have been one of those."

Annika felt the hair on her neck stand on end. "How could it have ended up at the Defense Staff Headquarters?"

Berit shook her head. "A Swedish courier bag would never be sent there. They always travel between the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the various embassies around the world."

"But what if it were foreign?"

Berit shook her head. "No. I think I must be mistaken. Swedish courier bags are blue with yellow lettering and it says 'Diplomatic' on them. This was gray with red lettering. I really didn't pay attention to what it said, I was trying to get an idea of how comprehensive the archive material was, whether it contained any original documents. Unfortunately there weren't any."

They were silent for a while.

Annika looked at her former colleague. "How do you know about all these things? Sections and conventions…"

Berit smiled at her. "You get to write about most things over the years. Some of it sticks."

Annika's gaze traveled out through the window. "But it could have been a foreign courier's bag?"

"And it could have been a potato sack."

"Can you see where this is heading?"

"Where?" Berit didn't think it was going anywhere.

"I'll tell you when I know for sure. Thanks for talking to me!"

Annika gave Berit a quick hug, opened her umbrella, and braved the rain.

Nineteen Years, Four Months, and Thirty Days

He can sense the chasm like a shooting sensation in the dark; he's walking on the edge without being aware of the abyss. It's manifested in desperate demands and hard lips. He licks me and sucks until my clitoris is big as a plum, maintaining that I cry from pleasure and not pain. The swelling remains for days, rubbing when I move.

I'm groping my way. The darkness is so vast. Depression hangs like a gray dampness inside me, impossible to exhale. My tears lie just below the surface, constantly present, unreliable, harder and harder to keep in check. Reality shrinks, contracted from the pressure and the cold.

My only source of warmth is spreading icy brutality at the same time.

And he says

he will never

let me go.

Wednesday 5 September

You can't fucking live here. No hot water, not even a damned toilet! When are you going to come home?"

Sven was sitting in the kitchen eating yogurt, dressed only in his briefs.

"Put some clothes on," Annika said, tightening the sash around her dressing gown. "Patricia's sleeping in there."

She walked over to the stove and poured herself some coffee.

"Yeah, and what the hell is she doing here?"

"She needed a place to stay. I had a room available."

"That stove, it's lethal. You'll set fire to the entire building."

Annika sighed inwardly. "It's a gas stove, it's no more dangerous than an electric one."

"Bullshit," Sven said truculently.

Annika didn't reply, just drank her coffee in silence.

"Hey, listen," Sven said in a conciliatory voice after a couple of minutes. "Stop what you're doing and come back home. You've had a go at it here and you can see it's not working. You're not a big-time reporter, you don't belong in this city."

He got to his feet, walked behind her chair, and started massaging her shoulders.

"But I love you anyway," he whispered, leaning forward and biting her earlobe. His hands slipped down along her neck and gently cradled her breasts.

Annika got up and poured out her coffee in the sink. "I'm not coming back yet," she said warily.

Sven gave her a penetrating look. "What about your job? You're going back to Katrineholms-Kuriren again after the election, right?"

She drew a sharp breath and swallowed. "I've got to get going. I've got things to do."

She quickly left the kitchen and got dressed.

Sven stood in the doorway watching her while she put on a pair of jeans and a sweater. "What do you do during the day?"

"Find out about things."

"You're not seeing someone else?"

Annika's arms fell down in a gesture of resignation. "Please. Even if you think I'm a terrible journalist, there are others who think I'm okay-"

He interrupted her by taking her in his arms. "I don't think you're terrible. On the contrary- I get mad when I hear them bad-mouthing you on the radio when I know how wonderful you are."

They kissed fiercely and Sven started opening her zipper.

"No," Annika said. "I've got to get going if I'm to-"

He shut her up with a kiss and moved her down onto the bed.

The archive of the highbrow broadsheet newspaper was located next door to the entrance of Kvällspressen. Annika walked quickly through the door, her eyes firmly on the ground. She didn't want to bump into anyone she knew. She walked past the reception and in among the shelves. Three men were standing over by the microfilm desk and the big table. She put her bag on the small table.

Issue nine of Folket i Bild Kulturfront, 1973, that Berit had mentioned had come out at the beginning of May. Annika pulled out the file containing the broadsheet from April the same year and began looking through it. She had to admit it was a long shot. She tore out the note from her pad and put it in front of her.

Domestic archive, 24 Grevgatan.

Foreign archive, 56 Valhallavägen.

The newspaper pages were yellowed and torn in places. The print was tiny, no more than seven points, and hard to read. The editing was untidy. The fashion ads made her want to laugh out loud, people looked so silly in the early seventies.

But the subject matter of the articles felt surprisingly familiar. Millions of people were threatened with starvation in Africa; young people had difficulties fitting into the labor market; Lasse Hallström had made a new TV film called Are We Going to My Place, Your Place, or Each to Our Own?

The world ice hockey championships were in progress, it seemed, and Olof Palme had made a speech in Kungälv. Wars were being fought in Vietnam and Cambodia, and the Watergate scandal was unfolding in Washington. She sighed. Not a single line about what she was looking for.

She moved to the next file, from the April 16-30 to April 1-15.

Monday, April 2, was the same as every other. Guerrillas in Cambodia had attacked government forces in Phnom Penh. A Danish lawyer by the name of Mogens Glistrup was successful with a new one-man party called the Progressive Party. The former American attorney general John Mitchell had agreed to testify before a Senate committee. And then at the bottom left of page 17, next to the short item "Bright Aurora Borealis over Stockholm," she found it:

"Mysterious Break-In at Office Building."

Annika's pulse quickened, racing until it thudded through her head and filled the entire room.

According to the short piece, an office at 24 Grevgatan had been searched sometime during the weekend, probably Sunday night. But strangely, nothing was missing. All office equipment had been left untouched, but all cabinets and drawers had been gone through.

I know what was stolen, she thought. Good God, I know what disappeared!

She found the second item in Section 2, at the top left of page 34. An office in 56 Valhallavägen had been vandalized over the weekend. It was a short piece, squeezed in between a picture of Crown Prince Carl Gustaf, who had caught two trout in the Mörrum River, and a piece about Gullfiber AB in Billesholm closing down.

None of the paper's editors had spotted a connection between the two break-ins; maybe the police hadn't either.

She copied the two pieces and put the file back on the shelf.

I'm on the right track, she thought.

She left the archive and took the 62 bus to Hantverkargatan.

Sven had left and Patricia was still asleep. Annika sat down with her pad and the phone in the living room.

What are the areas of responsibility of the minister for foreign trade? she wrote.

Trade and export, she thought. Promoting trade with other countries. What government department would pay for such travels? The Swedish Trade Council, she wrote.

What does Sweden export? Cars. Timber. Paper. Iron ore. Electricity. Nuclear power, perhaps?

The Nuclear Power Inspectorate, she wrote.

What else? Pharmaceuticals.

The National Board of Health and Welfare, she wrote.

Electronic products. Weapons.

Weapons? Yes, the arms export was the foreign trade minister's responsibility.

The War Matériel Inspectorate, she wrote, and then looked at her list. These were the ones she could think of; there had to be lots of other departments that she didn't know of.

What is there to think about? she said to herself, and looked up the Trade Council.

The information officer wasn't available; some other woman took the call.

"We're not a public authority. You can't get any documents from us," she said curtly.

"Are you sure? Do you think you could ask the information officer to call me later?" Annika gave her name and number.

"I'll give him the message, but he'll give you the same answer."

Jerk, Annika thought.

Instead she looked up the Nuclear Power Inspectorate and noted that they were located at 90 Klarabergsviadukten. They were closed until 12:30. She couldn't find the War Matériel Inspectorate, so she called directory assistance.

"They've changed names to the National Inspectorate of Strategic Products," the operator informed her.

The registrar there was out to lunch. Annika sighed, put the pen down, and leaned back on the couch.

She might as well have something to eat.

Number 90 Klarabergsviadukten was a relatively new glass complex on the Kungsholm side of the bridge. Annika stood outside the entrance and read the list of companies and organizations housed there: the AMU Group; the National Environmental Protection Agency; the Nuclear Power Inspectorate; the Inspectorate of Strategic Products- ISP.

I can kill two birds with one stone, Annika thought.

She rang the bell for the Nuclear Power Inspectorate but got no reply. Instead she pushed the bell for the inspectorate with a new name, ISP.

"Block A, fifth floor," a hesitant voice said in the loudspeaker.

She stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor and saw herself in numerous versions in a hall of burnished steel mirrors. There was only the one door, for the ISP. She pushed the bell.

"Who are you here to see?" The blond woman who opened the door was friendly but reserved.

Annika looked around. It seemed to be a small and informal outfit with corridors leading in two directions. There was no reception desk, and the woman who had opened the door apparently occupied the room nearest to the door.

"My name is Annika Bengtzon," Annika said nervously. "I'd like to have a look at an official document."

The woman looked concerned. "Almost ninety percent of our documents are classified," she said apologetically. "But you can always make a request, and we'll investigate whether we can hand over the document."

Annika sighed quietly. Sure. She could have figured that out for herself.

"Do you have a registrar here?"

"Yes." The woman pointed down the corridor. "She's down that way, the second door from the end."

"I don't suppose you have an archive here, do you?"Annika prepared to leave.

"Oh, yes, we do."

Annika stopped. "So travel-expenses invoices that are five, six weeks old- do you keep them here?"

"Yes, though not in the archive. I deal with the invoices. I keep them in my office so we can balance the books. I'm the one who books all trips. There are quite a lot of them, actually, as the ISP takes part in a number of international meetings."

Annika looked at the woman closely. "Are the invoices secret?"

"No. They are part of the ten percent that we do hand out."

"How often do cabinet ministers take part in these meetings?"

"To the extent that any cabinet ministers take part on behalf of the inspectorate, it's usually the Ministry for Foreign Affairs who picks up the tab."

"And what if the minister for foreign trade goes?"

"Well, then it's the Ministry for Foreign Affairs that pays."

"But he falls under the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications."

"Oh, right. Well, then the invoice should be sent there."

"Would it always?"

The woman suddenly became more reticent. "Not quite always."

Annika swallowed. "I was wondering if you received any invoices from Christer Lundgren from the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth of July this year."

The woman gave Annika a searching look. "Yes, as a matter of fact we did get one."

Annika blinked. "Could I have a look at it?"

The woman licked her lips. "I think I'd have to talk to my boss first." She backed into her office.

"Why? You told me that travel-expenses invoices were official documents."

"Yes, but this one was special."

Annika could hear her pulse thunder in her ears. "In what way?"

The woman hesitated. "Listen. When the invoices from a cabinet minister turn up on your desk, especially without any warning, it's a surprise."

"What did you do?"

The woman sighed. "I took it to my boss. He called someone at the ministry and got it cleared. I paid it about a week ago."

Annika swallowed, her mouth was completely dry. "Could I get photocopies of the receipts and tickets?"

"I really have to ask my boss first." The woman vanished into her office. A few moments later she came out and hurried down the corridor. Thirty seconds later she came back and handed Annika a sheaf of photocopies.

"Here you go." She smiled.

Annika's fingers were trembling as she accepted the documents. "Where did he go?" She leafed through the papers.

"He flew Estonian Air to Tallinn on the night of the twenty-seventh and chartered a private plane back the same night. It landed at Barkarby. The plane was Estonian. Would you like the amount converted into Swedish kronor?"

"Thanks, I'm fine."

Annika stared down at the photocopied credit card slip in her hand. It had arrived at the inspectorate already on Monday the thirtieth of July. The minister had charged the cost of the plane to his government credit card. She had expected to see the same sprawling signature as on the slip from Studio 69, but this was round and childish.

"Thank you so much." Annika smiled at the woman. "You've no idea how much this means to me."

"Don't mention it."

Her feet were beating down on the asphalt but she couldn't feel them. They were bouncing on air. She laughed giddily as she skipped along.

What a cheapskate! He had to invoice someone for his expenses right away.

She floated homeward to Hantverkargatan- she'd been right! The minister had gone away and wouldn't for the life of him say why.

The so-and-so, she thought. He's done for now.

The telephone was ringing when she opened the front door. She sprinted for it and answered all out of breath.

"I'm the information officer at the Trade Council," said a man with a cut-glass accent. "You were interested in seeing some documents."

Annika sank down onto the couch with her coat on and the bag still across her shoulder. "I was told that the council isn't a public authority and that I couldn't."

"Well, we are. Just send us a written request, and we'll enter it in the daybook and decide whether the document in question can be handed out. Some papers are classified."

Oh, really, she thought. You've changed your tune now. "Thanks a lot for phoning back."

The woman she'd first spoken to had been talking through her hat, but Annika couldn't be bothered to get irritated by the autocratic stupidity of civil servants. So many of them still didn't know that the principle of public access to official records was part of the freedom of the press law as established in the Constitution. All documents at all public authorities had to be handed over at once to someone who asked to see them, unless they had been statutorily declared secret.

Everything in the world you should do yourself, Annika thought, so you could be sure it got done properly.

She got up and hung up her coat and bag, and then she called the Cherry Company to see if she could get a job.

"We're full at the moment," said the head of personnel. "Try again in the spring."

It hit her like a brick in the back of her head. She put the phone down and swallowed. Now what was she going to do?

She got to her feet, drank some water in the kitchen, and looked in on Patricia. The woman was fast asleep with her mouth open. Annika stood watching her for a while.

Patricia knows a lot more than she's telling me, she thought. The police should know where she's staying. And she had something to tell them now.

She closed the door cautiously and went back to the phone.

Q was in. "Course I remember you. You're the one fishing for information on Josefin Liljeberg."

"I was working as a journalist then. I don't anymore."

"So," the police captain said, clearly amused, "why are you calling me now?"

"I know where Patricia can be found."

"Who?"

Annika felt stupid. "Josefin's roommate."

"Right. Where is she then?"

"With me. Sharing my apartment."

"Sounds familiar. Better be careful. Anyway, we can find her at the club. What do you want?"

"Don't be an asshole," Annika snapped. "I'd like to know what's happened in your investigation."

He laughed. "You would, would you?"

"I know the minister was in Tallinn that night. Why doesn't he want that to be made public?"

The police officer's laughter died away. "You're a devil at digging things up. How did you find out about that?"

"You knew all along, didn't you?"

"Of course we did. We know a lot of things we don't let on to the media."

"Do you know what he was doing there?"

The police officer hesitated. "Actually, we don't. It wasn't part of the investigation."

"Didn't you wonder?"

"Not really. Some politicians' meeting, I imagine."

"On a Friday night?"

They fell silent.

"I don't care what the minister was up to. All I'm interested in is the perpetrator."

"And it's not Christer Lundgren?"

"No."

"So as far as the police are concerned, the case has been cleared up, is that right?"

Q sighed. "Thanks for telling me where Patricia's staying. Not that we've missed her, but you never know."

"Couldn't you tell me something more about the investigation?" Annika pleaded.

"Then you'll have to bring me something better. Now, I've got stuff to do."

He rang off. Annika dropped down on her back on the couch and closed her eyes. She had some thinking to do.

"Have you got a moment?"

Anders Schyman looked up; Berit Hamrin had popped her head around the door.

"Sure." The deputy editor closed the document on his screen. "Come on in."

Berit closed the door carefully behind her and sat down on the new leather couch. "How's it going?"

"So-so. This is an unwieldy ship we have here."

Berit smiled. "It's not going to alter course that easily. For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. We should look at what we are doing more closely."

The man gave a light sigh. "I'm glad someone agrees with me. It doesn't always feel that way."

Berit rubbed her hands together. "Well, I was wondering about the crime desk. We've got a vacancy now, since Sjölander was moved to current affairs. Are you going to fill it?"

Schyman turned around to the bookcase, pulled out a ring binder, and leafed through it. "No. The senior editors decided to keep Sjölander at current affairs, and crime will have to make do with you and the other two. The editor in chief wants to keep a low profile on crime stories for the time being. He's still reeling from the criticism on Studio 69."

Berit chewed on her lip. "I think he's wrong," she said cautiously. "I don't think we'll get out of this crisis by slamming on the brakes. I think we should go full speed ahead but carefully. But we can't do that with the present staff."

Schyman nodded. "I agree with you. But the way things are looking at the moment, there's no way I could do anything like you're suggesting. It would mean reorganizing and recruiting new reporters."

"Then I've got a suggestion."

The deputy editor smiled at her. "I'm sure you do."

"Annika Bengtzon is a very alert young woman. She turns things around fast, and she has a completely different approach in her thinking. She goes too far sometimes, but I think that could be remedied. I think we should try to hire her back."

The deputy editor made a gesture of resignation. "Sorry, but she's stone dead here right now. The editor in chief gets a rash at the mere mention of her name. I argued pretty strongly in favor of her when Carl Wennergren's contract was up for grabs, and that nearly cost me my job. Jansson was on my side, but the rest of the senior editors wanted to throw her out on her ear."

"And so you did," Berit said a bit tartly.

Schyman shrugged. "Sure, but it's not going to kill her. I talked to her just before she left. She was pissed off, all right, but she was in control."

Berit stood up. "I met Annika last night. She's got something going, something to do with the IB affair, I'm not quite sure what."

"I'm happy for her to write freelance."

Berit smiled. "I'll tell her that if I see her."

Patricia knocked on Annika's bedroom door.

"I'm sorry, but the kitchen's empty and it's your turn to do the shopping."

Annika put down her book and looked up. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm broke."

Patricia crossed her arms. "Why don't you get a job then?"

Annika got up and they went out into the kitchen. The fridge was empty except for a tin of sardines.

"Shit. I phoned the Cherry Company but they had nothing until the spring."

"Have you checked at the unemployment office?" Patricia asked.

"That horror show? Nope."

"Maybe there's some journalist gigs out there."

"I'm not a journalist anymore," Annika replied curtly, pouring herself a glass of water. She sat down at the table.

"Well, why don't you come and work at the club?" Patricia sat down opposite her. "We need a croupier."

"I'm not working in a strip club!" Annika exclaimed, and emptied the glass.

Patricia raised her eyebrows and gave Annika a contemptuous look. "You're that superior to Josefin and me, are you? It's not good enough for you?"

Annika felt her cheeks blush. "I didn't mean it like that."

Patricia leaned forward. "We're not whores, you know. We're not even naked. I wear a red bikini- it's really nice. You've got big enough tits, you could have Josefin's. It's blue."

Annika's cheeks deepened a shade. "Are you serious?"

Patricia snorted. "It's not that big a deal. But I've got to talk to Joachim first. Do you want me to?"

Annika hesitated. I'll get a chance to see where she worked, she thought. I'll get to know her boyfriend and boss. I'll be wearing her bra and panties.

The last thought made her crotch tingle, a feeling that filled her with both excitement and shame.

She nodded.

"Okay," Patricia said. "I'll put a note on the table if you're asleep when I get back."

Then she left to go to work.

Annika sat at the kitchen table for a long time.

Nineteen Years, Five Months, and Two Days

There are no cheap insights. Experience is never sold short. When you buy it, the price always seems too high, impossible to pay. Yet we stand there with our credit cards, running our peace of mind into debt for years to come.

Eventually, when the accounts have been settled and the payments are behind us, we always think it was worth it. That's my comfort now, because I made up my mind today. I've understood what I have to do. I've fished out my plastic and cashed in my soul.

It came close yesterday. I can barely remember the reason; something he couldn't find and claimed I'd thrown away. It wasn't true, of course, and he knew it.

I know what I have to do. My back against the wall.

I have to confront him and I know it's going to come at a high price.

Because he says

he will never

let me go.

Thursday 6 September

The folded note lay on the kitchen table, the text consisted of two letters: OK.

Annika shuddered and swallowed, quickly throwing the note away. Sven entered the kitchen, naked and with tousled hair.

Annika had to smile. "You look like a little boy."

He kissed her softly. "Are there any good places to run around here?"

"No tracks that are illuminated, but there are footpaths all around Kungsholmen where you can run."

"Last man out is a monkey!" Sven rushed out into the hallway and into his jogging suit.

They raced each other the whole way. Sven won, of course, but Annika wasn't far behind. Then they made love in the basement shower, fervently but quietly so the whole backyard wouldn't hear.

Back up in the flat, Annika made coffee.

"My training starts next week," Sven said.

Annika poured coffee into mugs and sat down opposite him at the table. "I'll be staying here a while longer."

Sven fidgeted.

"I've been thinking about something. It's silly for us to have one apartment each in Hälleforsnäs. We could rent a bigger one together, or buy a house."

Annika got up and opened the fridge. It was as empty as it had been the night before. "Do you think you could do some shopping? There's a market down on the square."

"You're not listening to me."

She sat down with a sigh. "I am. But you're not listening to me. I'm going to stay here."

Sven stared into his coffee mug. "How long?"

Annika breathed for a few seconds. "I don't know. At least a few more weeks."

"What about your job?"

"I told you, I'm on leave."

Sven leaned across the table and put his hand across hers. "I miss you."

She gave his fingers a quick squeeze, then got up and picked out the recycling from the cupboard under the sink. "If you can't do the shopping, I'll do it."

He got to his feet. "You're not listening, damn it! I want us to move in together. I want to get married. I want us to have children."

Annika felt her hands drop. She stared down at the cans. "Sven, I'm not ready for any of that."

He threw his hands out. "What are you waiting for?"

She looked up at him, fighting to keep her cool. "All I'm saying is that I want to finish off a project first. And it may take a while."

He took a step closer to her. "And I'm saying that I want you to come home. Now. Today."

She put the last Coke can in the bag, the last drops splashing onto the floor. "You're the one who's not listening now." She left the kitchen. She got dressed and went down to the shop in Kungsholms Square. She didn't really like this place; it was cramped, confusing, and pretentious. The shelves were full of fancy little jars with umpteen different kinds of marinated garlic cloves. The staff frowned at her as she lugged the bags with cans and bottles to the deposit machines. She didn't care. She got enough deposit money to buy a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs.

The apartment was quiet and empty when she returned. Sven had taken off.

She found a bottle of cooking oil and a can of mushrooms in the kitchen cupboard, fried them up with three eggs, and made a big omelette. She sat staring out at the building opposite while she ate, then she lay down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Patricia opened the door to Studio 69 with a key and by punching in a code on a code lock.

"You'll get your own key eventually," she said over her shoulder.

Annika swallowed and felt her heartbeat. She was regretting this so badly her whole body was screaming.

The darkness inside the door had a red shimmer to it. A spiral staircase led down toward the red light.

"Be careful on these stairs," Patricia said. "We've had customers nearly break their necks here."

Annika desperately hung on to the banister while she slowly glided into the underworld.

The underworld of porn, she thought. This is what it looks like. She felt shame and anticipation, curiosity and revulsion.

Straight ahead in the foyer was the roulette table, the sight of which filled her with some sense of calm and self-confidence. There were a couple of black leather armchairs and a round table; to the right, a small, high reception desk with a phone and a cash register.

"This is the entrance," Patricia said. "That's Sanna's responsibility."

Annika looked at the grubby white plaster walls. The parquet floor was covered with cheap IKEA copies of Oriental carpets. A lowwattage lamp was in the ceiling, the dim light barely penetrating the lampshade.

Behind the reception desk were two doors.

"These are the locker room and the office," Patricia said, nodding at the doors. "We'll start by getting changed. I've washed Jossie's bikini for you."

Annika took a deep breath and forced down the feeling of morbid excitement. Patricia stepped inside the locker room, turned a switch, and the cold, bluish light from strip lights in the ceiling filled the room.

"This is my locker. You can have number fourteen."

Annika put her bag in the metal locker she'd been allotted. "There's no lock." She thanked God she had emptied her bag of anything that could point to her identity.

"Joachim says we don't need them. Here, I think they'll fit you." Patricia held out a bra with sky-blue sequins and a minimal G-string. Annika took them, the material burning her hands, turned around, and undressed.

"We've got exotic dancing, a bar, and private shows." Patricia took out a plastic bag with makeup from her locker. "I do the bar and hardly ever do any shows. Jossie mostly danced, Joachim wouldn't let her work the booths. It made him too jealous."

Patricia did up her bra at the back. Annika saw that she rolled up her socks and put them in the cups.

"Joachim thinks they're too small," Patricia explained, and closed her locker. "Here, take these shoes."

Annika put on her bra. "Does everybody wear these?"

"No." Patricia started to put on makeup. "Most of the girls are completely naked, except when they dance. Then they have to wear a G-string. Dancing naked is illegal in Sweden."

Annika swallowed, then bent forward and did up the ridiculously high stilettos. "What kinds of men come here?"

Patricia brushed her eyelashes upward. "All kinds. But they all have money. I check out the credit cards, for fun mostly. They're lawyers, car dealers, company directors, politicians, police officers, guys that work in the laundry business, real estate, advertising, the media…"

Annika stiffened. Jesus, what if someone she knew turned up? She licked her lips. "A lot of celebrities?"

Patricia handed her the bag with makeup. "Here. Put lots on. Yes, some celebrities. We've got one TV guy who's a regular. He's always dressed in women's clothes and pays for two girls to come into a private room. Joachim checked last week- so far the guy had spent two hundred sixty thousand kronor over twenty or so visits this year."

Annika raised her eyebrows, recalling Creepy Calls. "How can he afford it?"

"Do you think he's paying for it himself?"

Patricia picked up a bunch of keys from the vanity table. "Joachim will come in later. Hurry up and I'll show you around and explain the prices before the other girls arrive. You'll have to talk to Joachim about the roulette."

Patricia waited for Annika in the doorway, a commanding air about her. Annika quickly put on a thick layer of dark green eye shadow, blush, and eyeliner. On her way out of the locker room, she caught sight of herself in a full-length mirror. She looked like a Las Vegas hooker.

"Admission is six hundred kronor." Patricia patted the reception desk. "The customer can pay for a private room straightaway; that costs twelve thousand kronor and then we waive the admission. He can choose any girl he wants in the bar."

"Do you mean this is a brothel?"

Patricia gave a laugh. "Course not! The girls can touch the customer, massage him and stuff, but they must never touch his dick. The guys can satisfy themselves while the girl has to stay at least six feet away."

"Why the hell would somebody shell out twelve thousand to jerk off?" Annika said in disbelief.

Patricia shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't care. I've got my hands full at the bar. Here's the office."

Patricia unlocked the door with one of the keys on the bunch. The room was the same size as the locker room, furnished with plain office furniture, a photocopier, and a safe.

"I'll leave the door unlocked," Patricia said. "I've got to enter the bar takings for August. Joachim will only keep the books here until Saturday."

They came into the main room, and in spite of herself Annika held her breath. The walls and the ceiling were black, and the floor had dark red, wall-to-wall carpeting. The furniture was black and chrome and smacked of cheap eighties styling. All along the left wall was a long bar; on the right were black-painted doors leading to the private rooms. Straight ahead was a small stage with a chrome pole from floor to ceiling. The room had no windows, and the low ceiling was supported by black concrete pillars, which intensified the sensation that you were in a bunker.

"What was this place originally? A parking garage?"

"I think so." Patricia walked behind the bar. "Plus a car wash and repair shop. Joachim put a Jacuzzi in the inspection pit." She put some bottles on the bar. "Check this out. Nonalcoholic champagne at sixteen hundred a bottle. The girls get to keep twenty-five percent on the first two bottles they sell; the third one they get fifty."

Annika blinked with her stiff eyelashes. "Unbelievable."

Patricia looked at the stage. "Jossie was great at selling. She was the most beautiful of all the girls. She would drink with the johns all night but she never went into a private room. The guys would keep paying, she was so pretty." Patricia's eyes were moist with emotion. She quickly removed the bottles.

"Josefin must have made a lot of money."

"Not really. Joachim took her money to pay for the breast job. That's why she worked here. And she was only here on the weekends, she did her schoolwork during the week."

"Does Joachim take the other girls' money as well?"

"No. Everyone's here for the money. They make a packet, around ten thousand a night, tax free."

Annika's eyes narrowed. "What do the authorities think of that?"

Patricia let out a sigh. "No idea. Joachim and Sanna handle the accounts."

"But if you're entering the bar takings in the accounts, you'll have to pay tax on it."

Patricia got annoyed. "They keep two sets of books. Come on, let's go out to the roulette table."

Annika hesitated. "What about me? How much will I get?"

Patricia frowned and walked off into the foyer. "I don't know what Joachim has in mind."

Annika turned her back on the horrible, dark room. She wobbled on her high heels, which sank dangerously into the carpet.

The roulette table was worn, and the green baize was marked with cigarette burns and covered in ash. The table layout with its familiar figures and squares dispelled slightly her feelings of insecurity.

"It needs a good brush," Annika said.

While Patricia was finding the equipment, Annika let her hand slide along the edge of the table. She'd be all right, it wasn't so bad. She wouldn't be in a booth, and this foyer wasn't so different from the hotel lobby in Katrineholm.

Patricia showed Annika where the equipment was kept. Then Annika brushed the table and took out the chips.

"Why are there different colors?" Patricia asked.

"To separate the players." Annika put the chips in stacks around the wheel, twenty in each pile. "Where's the ball?"

"There are two, a small one and a big one." Patricia took out a box. "I don't know which one's the right one."

Annika smiled and weighed the balls in her hand. It was a familiar feeling as well. "They have different spinning times. I prefer the big ones."

She started the wheel spinning counterclockwise, took the big ball between her middle finger and thumb, held it against the inside rim of the wheel, and shot it off clockwise.

Patricia was impressed. "How did you do that?"

"It's in the wrist. The ball has to do at least seven turns around the wheel or the spin is invalid. I used to average eleven."

The ball slowed down and fell into number 19. Annika leaned over the wheel. "Next time I spin the ball, I have to start on the number I last picked it up from."

"Why?"

"So you can't cheat."

"How do you calculate the winnings?"

Annika gave a brief account of what en plein, à cheval, transversale pleine, sixain, en carré, simple, and all the other bets stood for. All the different bets gave different payoffs.

Patricia shook her head despairingly. "How on earth can you calculate all that?"

"It's quite simple once you've figured it out. It helps at first if you're good at mental arithmetic, but you soon learn the different combinations."

Annika demonstrated how she calculated the winnings- twenty chips in each stack, halve them and let your fingers slide along the edge so the rest of the chips followed.

Patricia watched Annika's nimble movements with fascination. "That's so neat. Maybe roulette is for me after all."

Annika laughed and spun the ball.

At that moment the other girls turned up.

Sanna, the hostess, was standing stark naked next to the reception desk when the men started arriving. She smiled and teased, flirted and coaxed, telling the guys what a good time they were going to have. Annika recognized Sanna's voice from the answering machine. When Sanna had got the men to part with their money, they would turn their gazes toward Annika. Their stares bore into her like steel arrows, making her feel as if the bra were shrinking, baring more of each of her breasts. She averted her eyes and stared at the burns on the table. She had to force herself not to cover herself with her hands. Nobody was interested in the roulette.

"You've got to flirt with them," Sanna said coldly when a group of Italian businessmen had disappeared inside the strip bar. "Be sexy, girl."

Annika swallowed self-consciously. "I'm not very good at it," she said in a far too high-pitched voice.

"You've got to learn. There's no point in your being there if you don't bring in any money."

Annika's eyes flashed. "The table's here," she said, raising her voice. "Does it hurt you if I'm standing here? Or do you want me to pay you for the air that I'm using?"

A man's big burst of laughter emanating from the spiral staircase shut them up. "Sounds like we've got two wildcats in a cage down here."

Annika knew immediately that this was the famous Joachim. He had long blond hair and expensive, fashionable clothes. A thick gold chain dangled on his chest. This was the guy Josefin had had her breasts done for.

She walked up to him and introduced herself. "I'm Annika. It's nice to be here."

Sanna pursed her lips.

Joachim looked Annika up and down, giving an approving nod when he reached her chest. "You'd look good onstage. If you want, you can go on tonight."

No one has asked for my surname, Annika thought, and tried hard to give him a natural smile. "Thanks, but I think I'll try the roulette first."

"You know, Sanna is right. You have to bring in your share of dough, or you're gone."

Annika's smile died. "I'll try." She looked down.

"Maybe you should start in the bar with the other girls for a few nights, have them show you the ropes."

The man stood a bit too close for comfort; Annika could feel his electricity. He was a looker, she had to admit that.

She closed her eyes for a moment before looking up and meeting his gaze. "Yeah, that's a good idea. But I'd like to try and see if I can make some of the customers stay here on their way out."

At that very moment, two half-drunk men in business suits staggered out of the strip bar. Their brows were damp and their clothes were rumpled.

Annika walked up to them, pushed her tits in their faces, and put her arms around them. "Hi, guys. You've just fallen in love, right? But if the night's going to be really good, you need to try your luck with me."

She smiled her most playful smile, her knees shaking. Joachim now had his thigh pressed against her behind, and she just wanted to scream out loud.

"Nah," one of them said.

Annika took a step forward to escape Joachim and gave the other guy a hug. "What about you? You look like a lucky guy, a real gentleman. Why don't you come and play with me?"

The man grinned. "What do I win? You?"

Annika managed a laugh. "Who knows? Maybe you'll win enough to buy any girl you want."

"Okay," the man said, and pulled out his wallet. His friend reluctantly followed suit.

The first man put a hundred on the table.

Annika smiled a troubled smile. The guy had just shelled out several thousand to drink sparkling apple juice and to look at naked girls, and now he was going to make her sweat for a hundred kronor.

"That won't even spin the ball," she said sweetly. "We play for high stakes here, handsome. High stakes, high winnings. It's a thousand for twenty chips."

The man was wavering, and Annika made a sweeping movement with her hand over the table. "A corner bet pays five thousand, a street, six thousand eight hundred. That's nearly seven thousand. Fifteen seconds, boys. You could win back all the money you've spent here tonight."

A light came on simultaneously in both men's eyes. She was right…

They bought chips for a thousand each on their credit cards and placed streets on numbers 11 and 16, their bets worth twelve hundred in all. Annika spun the wheel and launched the ball fast and hard. It rolled almost thirteen turns before it started slowing down.

"No more bets," she said, remembering how it went.

The ball dropped on slot number 3. With practiced movements she cleared the table and stacked the chips.

"Place your bets," she said, glancing at the men's disappointed faces. They were more careful this time, only doing corner bets and changing to numbers 9 and 18. New spin, no more bets, number 16. One of the guys won ten chips.

"Here you go." Annika pushed the small pile over to him. "Five hundred kronor. Didn't I say you were a lucky guy?"

The man lit up like a sun, and Annika knew she had them right where she wanted them. Both men spent another three thousand each before they paid Sanna with their credit card and slunk away. Annika saw that Sanna wrote "food and drink" on the receipt.

Joachim had been watching her from behind the reception desk.

"You know what you're doing," he said, and came closer. "Where did you learn to spin the wheel?"

"At the hotel in… Piteå." She smiled and swallowed hard.

"Then you must know Peter Holmberg?" He flashed a smile.

Annika felt her own smile quiver in the corners of her mouth. Shit, she thought, he'll catch me out before I even get started.

"No, but I know Roger Sundström on Solandergatan. Do you know him? Or Hans on Oli-Jansgatan out in Pitholm?"

Joachim dropped the subject. "You're charging too much for the chips, by the way. That's illegal. The stakes are too high."

"I can adjust the price according to the players. Nobody knows what anybody else pays for their chips, it doesn't say on them. I'm following the rules."

"You'll risk breaking the bank."

Annika stopped smiling. "There's only one way for a gambler to win at roulette, and that's to win straightaway, stop at once, and keep the winnings. And nobody who starts winning does that. It's a snap being a croupier. All you need to do is keep the people playing until they've lost all they've won."

Joachim smiled subtly. "I think we'll get along, you and me." He let his hand slide down her arm.

He went into his office. Annika turned around, feeling Sanna's eyes bore into her back. They're an item, she realized. Joachim and Sanna are a couple.

The sound of high heels coming down the spiral staircase made Annika look up. She couldn't believe her eyes. The TV presenter Patricia had told her about was teetering down the stairs of Studio 69 dressed in a miniskirt, stockings, and a see-through blouse showing the bra underneath.

"Hello, my friends," said the man in a squeaky voice.

"Welcome, madam," Sanna said, and flashed a flirtatious smile at him. "What little goodies can we tempt you with tonight?"

As the man named a few of the girls, Annika realized she was staring at him. She used to watch his show, irreverent panel debates with politicians and celebrities. She knew the man had a family.

He maneuvered himself into the strip bar with Sanna. Annika heaved a weary sigh. The shoes hurt her feet. For a moment, she contemplated taking them off; nobody would notice the difference behind the table, but at that moment some Italian guys showed up. Annika went up to them and talked to them in English. It didn't work. She tried French, no luck, but Spanish was okay.

They gambled away thirteen thousand, and Sanna's face got darker and darker the more the men lost.

She doesn't like me, Annika thought. She knows I'm Patricia's friend, and she sees me as a continuation of Josefin. Maybe it's not so strange.

She glanced down at her minimal sequined, sky-blue bikini, Josefin's work clothes.

The evening dragged and faded into intangible night. Down in the old garage it was always nighttime. Annika sat with her eyes closed in the bluish light of the locker room, feeling the tears burn inside her eyelids.

What am I doing here? she thought. Is there any chance I might slowly slip into this world and get comfortable? I could make more money modeling in the private rooms. Will I do that? What I'm doing with the price of the chips is illegal. I could go to jail if I get caught.

She put on more makeup. Her face looked pale without it.

Patricia came into the locker room and smiled encouragingly. "You're doing well, I hear."

Annika nodded. "Not bad."

Patricia looked proud. "I knew you were good."

Annika closed her eyes, I mustn't take it in, she thought, mustn't listen to it. I mustn't find my new affirmation here. I'm not going to make my career in a strip joint. I deserve better. Patricia deserves better.

She touched up her lipstick and went out.

In the small hours, Sanna disappeared into a private room with an older man.

"He's a regular," the hostess whispered as she left with the guy. "There are hardly any customers left. You get the money from them when they leave- the checks are on the desk."

Confused, Annika stood in front of the roulette table, not knowing the procedure. If she tried to get people to play roulette, then who would take the money if someone was leaving?

She made a quick decision to skip the roulette, and just then the TV guy appeared in the foyer.

"Where's Sanna?" Annika recognized the man's voice from the show.

"She's busy," Annika said, smiling. "Can I help you?"

The man put his card on the reception desk, and Annika anxiously licked her lips. She walked over to the desk and searched among the papers on it. There, she found the man's check.

She put the card in the machine and made out the credit card slip. She knew Sanna would get the cut on the sum; her code was logged in. The man signed the slip.

"Sweetie, are you leaving already?" a girl in the doorway squeaked. She was naked, with her pubes shaved off. She had pigtails and painted-on freckles.

"Oh, my little baby," TV man said, and gave her a bear hug.

"Just one moment, please," Annika said, and stole into the office. The room was empty. She put the credit card slip in the photocopier, shut her eyes, and prayed.

Dear God, please don't let it be noisy, don't let it be slow, let there be paper in the tray.

Rapidly and without a sound, the selenium-coated aluminum drum got to work underneath the glass; paper was released and fed into the machine; was sprayed with ink particles; then fixed and fed out again. She breathed out, but where the hell was she going to put the copy?

She quickly rolled it up into a hard tube, folded it in half, and pushed it in the crack behind the G-string- it was going to rub like hell.

"There we go," Annika said, and put the check and the slip on the desk.

The man was sucking at one of the baby doll's nipples. When the girl saw Annika, she pushed the man away. "I'm sorry," she said fearfully.

Annika blinked, puzzled. She suddenly realized the other girls saw her as a person of authority, maybe because Josefin had been one. She thought she'd try to make the most of it.

"Just don't let it happen again," she said sternly, and handed the man his receipt.

He left and the girl vanished into the bar. Annika waited for a couple of seconds, listening for noises from in there. The Muzak from the stage leaked out through the door, and she suddenly gave a shudder. It wasn't especially warm in here.

She slipped into the locker room, pulled out the photocopy, and pushed it down inside her shoe. She quickly returned to lean against the roulette table. She stood there until Sanna's hour in the private room was up.

"Everything okay?" the hostess wondered.

"Sure." Annika pointed to the credit card slip.

Sanna looked at the sum, smiled contentedly, and gave Annika a roguish look. "Do you pay your TV license?" Sanna wondered. She didn't expect a reply, just fanned herself with the slip, laughed to herself, and went into the office.

Annika smiled at the closed door.

Patricia was making tea. Annika sat on the couch in the living room, staring into the turquoise-gray dusk of the room. She had blisters from the horrible stilettos and was so tired she could cry.

"How can you stand it?" she said quietly.

"What?" Patricia said in the kitchen.

"Nothing," Annika said, just as quietly.

The feeling of disgust lay like an undefined sensation of nausea somewhere in her midriff, and as she closed her eyes, she saw the scrawny nakedness of the baby-doll girl.

"Here you go." Patricia placed the tray next to the phone on the small table.

Annika sighed heavily. "I don't know how I'm going to cope with another night. How do you do it?"

Patricia smiled faintly, poured out the tea, gave Annika a mug, and sat down next to her on the couch.

"Everybody uses you," Patricia said. "It's no worse than in any other place."

Annika drank some tea and burned her mouth. "You're wrong. It is worse. The girls in the club, including you, have crossed so many boundaries to end up where you are. You don't see it anymore."

Patricia swirled the lemon slice in her mug. "Maybe. Do you feel sorry for me?"

Annika gave it some thought. "No, not really. I guess you know what you're doing. You've stepped over the line of your own free will. It takes strength to do that, it shows a kind of flexibility. You're not the type to be scared and that's a quality."

Patricia gave Annika a searching look. "What about you? What boundaries have you crossed?"

Annika gave a lopsided smile and didn't reply.

Patricia put her mug on the floor, sighed quietly, and looked down at her hands. "That morning, that last night… Josefin and Joachim were fighting like mad. They were screaming at each other, at first in the office, then on the stairs. Josefin rushed out and he followed her."

Annika didn't say a word; she knew this was an important confidence. Patricia sat silent for a moment before continuing.

"Josefin wanted to quit the club. She wanted some time off before starting her course. She'd been admitted to university, the media program, but Joachim didn't want her to leave. He was trying to trap her, tie her to the club and make her give up her education. Jossie said she would leave anyway and that she'd made enough money for him to pay for ten breast operations. She split up with him, said they were over. They were fighting."

Patricia fell silent again and the sounds of dawn crept in through the open windows. The night bus stopping outside the street door in Hantverkargatan, the never-ending sirens of the fire trucks, the fall winds' whispers of chill and rain.

"They used to make love in that cemetery," Patricia whispered. "Joachim got a kick out of it, but Jossie thought it was scary. They used to climb the fence at the back where it's not so high. I thought it was horrible. Just imagine- among the graves…"

Annika said nothing and they sat in silence for a long time.

"I know what you're thinking."

"What?" Annika said in a hushed voice.

"You're wondering why she stayed with him. Why she didn't leave."

Annika sighed deeply. "I think I know. At first she was in love and he was kind to her. Then he started making demands, affectionate little demands that Josefin thought were cute. He had an opinion on who she saw, what she should do, how she should talk. Everything was hunkydory until the bubble burst and Josefin wanted to enter the world again. Study, go to the movies, talk on the phone to her friends. It pissed Joachim off, he demanded that she stop and do what he wanted, and when she didn't- he beat her up. Afterward he was full of remorse, crying and saying he loved her."

Patricia nodded. "How do you know all this?"

Annika smiled a mournful smile. "There are books on battered women. The tabloids run series of articles on the violence. The abuse usually follows a pattern; I'm sure Josefin's was no different. All the time she thought things would improve if only she'd change and become like he wanted her. Some days were probably quite good, and Josefin thought they were moving in the right direction. But the guy's craving for control only grew and he probably got more and more jealous. He criticized her for everything, in front of other people, eroding her self-esteem."

Patricia nodded. "It was like a slow brainwash. He made her doubt herself, told her she'd never cope with university. She was nothing but a lousy, fat whore, and the only one who could love her was him. Jossie cried more and more; toward the end she cried almost constantly. She didn't dare leave him, he'd swear he'd kill her if she tried."

"Did he rape her? Sexual violence is very common. Some men get excited when the woman is terrified… What's wrong?"

Patricia had put her hands over her ears, her eyes were tightly shut, and she was clenching her teeth.

"Patricia, what's wrong?"

Annika took the woman in her arms and rocked her slowly. Her tears poured down as hard as the rain outside. She shook uncontrollably.

"That was the worst," Patricia whispered when her tears were finally exhausted. "The worst of it all was when he raped her. Her screams were just too much."

Nineteen Years, Six Months, and Thirteen Days

I see him coming through the mists of memory, the pattern repeating, the chorus picking up. He starts by stomping around, working himself up into his usual rage, then cursing, pushing me, and shouting. The usual thing happens to me: my field of vision shrinks, my shoulders drop; with elbows pressed against my sides I hold my hands up to protect my head. I lose my focus, the sounds take over, paralysis sets in. A corner to sink into, a soundless plea for mercy.

His voice echoes in my head, I can't hear my own. The song of terror is wailing inside me, the nameless fear, the unarticulated horror. Maybe I try to scream, I don't know, his roar rising and falling. I'm transported, the warmth spreads, the redness appears. No, I don't feel any pain. The pressure is red and hot. The song fades under the hardest blows, jumps like the pickup on an old vinyl record, then returns a semitone higher. Horror, horror, fear and love. Don't hurt me! Oh, please, my darling, love me!

And he says

he will never

let me go.

Friday 7 September

Annika was dog-tired when the alarm went off. With a groan she switched it off. Her legs were aching, heavy as lead. The rain was still beating down on the windowsill, an abstract rhythm with an erratic beat.

She went and sat on the couch and made two phone calls. She was lucky: both men were in. She made a date with the first one for an hour later, the other for the following day. Then she crept back into bed and fought against sleep for half an hour. When she got out again, she was even more tired. She smelled of sweat, strong and pungent, but she didn't have the energy to go down to the shower. She rolled on some deodorant and put on a thick sweater.

He was already there, sitting at a window table staring at the rain streaming down the window. In front of him was a cup of coffee and a glass of water.

"Do you recognize me?" Annika held out her hand.

The man rose to his feet and smiled mockingly. "Sure. We've bumped into each other. Literally."

Annika blushed. They shook hands and sat down.

"What is it you want, exactly?" Q asked.

"Studio 69 is being creative with its bookkeeping. Joachim keeps two sets of books. The real ones, where the actual figures are entered, are only at the club occasionally."

Annika drank the police captain's water at one go.

Q raised his eyebrows. "Be my guest. I wasn't thirsty anyway."

"They're there at the moment and they'll be there until Saturday."

"How do you know?" the police captain said calmly.

"I've got a job there as a croupier. I'm not a journalist anymore. I've resigned from my job and left the union. The girls at the club are paid cash. They don't pay taxes or contributions."

"Who told you this?"

"Patricia. She enters the figures from the bar. And then I saw it myself this morning."

The police officer got up and walked over to the counter, bought another cup of coffee, and poured out two glasses of water. He put it all on the table. "You look like you could do with a shot of caffeine."

Annika drank some of the coffee. It was lukewarm.

"Why are you telling me this?" Q said in a low voice.

She didn't reply.

"Don't you see what you're doing?"

She drank some water. "What?"

"You're cooperating with the police. I thought that was beneath your dignity."

"I don't need to worry about protecting my sources anymore," Annika replied sharply. "I don't represent the media, so I can say what I like to the police."

He gave her an amused look. "Oh, no, a leopard never changes its spots. If I know you at all, you're writing the lead about our meeting in your head right now."

"Bullshit," she said, wincing. "You don't know me at all."

"Yes, I do. I know the journalist in you."

"She's dead."

"Bullshit to you. She's wounded and tired. But she's just taking a rest."

"I'm not going back."

"So you're going to be a croupier in strip joints for the rest of your life? Pity."

"I thought you thought I was a pain."

He grinned. "You are, a big pain in the ass. That's good, we need that so we know we're alive."

She looked at him suspiciously. "You're being sarcastic."

He sighed. "A little, maybe."

"You could get him for the bookkeeping. I don't know the law, but there should be enough to at least shut the club down. I'm breaking the law myself, actually- illegal gambling at the roulette table. Joachim said it was okay."

"You'll get busted. Sooner or later."

"I'm going back tonight, then I'm done with it. I made eight thousand kronor last night. One more night and I'll be all right until I start getting my unemployment checks."

"That's what they all say."

Annika fell silent, shame burning on her face. She knew he was right. She stared at her hands. "I've done enough talking now. Now I want to listen."

The police captain got up and returned with a cheese roll. "This is absolutely off the record. If you ever write a word about it, I'll roast you slowly over an open fire."

"Unlawful threat."

He flashed a quick smile, then turned serious again. "You're right. As far as the police are concerned, the murder of Josefin Liljeberg has been cleared up."

"Then why don't you bring him in?" Annika said, a bit too loud.

Q leaned forward across the table. "Don't you think we would if we could?" he said in a hushed voice. "Joachim has a watertight alibi. Six guys have vouched for him being at the Sturecompagniet club until five A.M. and then they all went in a limousine to another party. They all tell exactly the same story."

"But they're lying."

The police officer chewed on his dry roll. "Of course." He swallowed. "The problem is, how do we prove it? A waiter at the club has confirmed that Joachim was there, but he can't say exactly when. Neither can he say when Joachim left. The driver of the limousine confirms that he drove a bunch of drunken guys from Stureplan to Birkastan, and Joachim has the receipt. The driver can neither confirm nor deny that Joachim was there; he couldn't see the guys at the far back. At least Joachim didn't ride in the front or pay. The girl who lives in the flat at Rörstrandsgatan says that Joachim fell asleep on her couch sometime after six. She's probably telling the truth."

"Joachim was at the club just before five," Annika said agitatedly. "He was fighting with Josefin. Patricia heard them."

Q sighed. "Yes, we know that. But it's Patricia's word against the seven guys'. And if, and that's a big if- if we ever get this case to court and manage to blow these guys' stories, we'd have to prosecute them all for perjury. That's unfeasible."

They sat in silence. Annika finished the by now cold coffee, he his cheese roll.

"One of them might talk," Annika said.

"Sure," Q said. "The only problem is that most of them were too drunk to remember anything. They've been served this story as the truth and they really believe what they're saying. My guess is that only one, possibly two of the guys are actually aware they're lying. They're Joachim's best pals, and both of them suddenly have come into a lot of money, I would imagine. They'll never squeal."

Annika was tired, to the point of feeling nausated. "So what do you think really happened?" she said faintly.

"Exactly what you think. He strangled her behind that gravestone."

"And raped her?"

"No, not there, not then. We found semen inside her, and the DNA tests show that it was Joachim's. They had probably had sex a couple of hours earlier."

Annika closed her eyes and searched her memory. "But first you stated that it was a sex murder. You said there were signs of sexual violence."

The Krim captain rubbed his forehead. "They were mostly old injuries, especially in the anus. He must have raped her anally."

Annika felt like throwing up. "Oh, Christ…"

They were silent.

"That other woman who was murdered in the same park," Annika suddenly said. "Eva. That murder was never solved either, was it?"

Q sighed. "No, but it's the same thing there. We consider it cleared up. It was her ex-husband. We brought him in after a couple of years but had to release him. We never managed to nail him for it. He's dead now."

"And Joachim's going to get away scot-free?"

Q put on his jacket. "Not if your information is correct. We won't have time to organize a raid tonight, but we'll go in tomorrow. Stay well away."

He got up and stood next to her chair. "There's just the one thing we can't figure out."

"What's that?"

"How she got those injuries to her hand."

As Q left, Annika sat on her chair, her body like lead.

The hours at the club crept by. Patricia looked at Annika. "You look sick. Are you coming down with something?"

Annika wiped the cold sweat from her brow. Her hand was smeared with foundation. "I think so. I'm cold and I feel sick."

They were sitting on a wooden bench in the locker room; the blue light made the blisters on Annika's feet shine a glaring red.

"How much money have you made?" Patricia asked.

"Not enough." Annika looked down at her sky-blue bikini.

Now she really felt as if she was going to throw up. Today was Friday, and several more naked girls were prancing around the place. They would sit on the men's laps, rubbing themselves against their thighs, tempting them inside the private rooms where they would get to work with the body lotion. Generic, economy-size lotion that went a long way and was fragrance free.

"It has to be odorless, that's crucial," Patricia had explained. "They've got to go home to their wives afterward."

Annika was jittery and on edge. What if she'd misunderstood it all? She didn't dare ask Patricia any more questions about the double bookkeeping, and Patricia hadn't brought it up again. What if the police came tonight anyway? What if Joachim had already moved the books?

She brushed her hair away from her face with shaking hands.

"Would you like a sandwich, or some coffee?" Patricia asked with concern.

Annika forced a smile. "No thanks, I'll be all right."

Joachim was next door in the office. Mercifully, she'd been busy with some gamblers when he'd arrived.

How do you become like him? she wondered. What's wrong with you when you kill the one you love? How can you kill another human being and go on living as if nothing has happened?

"I've got to go back out," Patricia said. "Are you coming?"

Annika leaned forward and put new Band-Aids on her blisters.

"Sure."

The music was louder inside the strip bar. Two girls were onstage. One was wrapping herself around the pole, thrusting her hips toward the audience. The other had brought a man from the audience up onto the stage. He was smearing shaving foam all over her breasts while she arched backward, making as if she were groaning in ecstasy.

Annika followed Patricia behind the bar and poured herself a glass of Coke.

"Doesn't it get you down having to look at this all night?" Annika said into Patricia's ear.

"Put a bottle of champagne on the bald guy," one of the nudes said, and Patricia went over to the cash register.

Annika went back out to her foyer. She shuddered; it was cold out here. Sanna wasn't there. Annika sat down on a barstool she'd pulled in behind the roulette table.

"How's business?"

Joachim was standing in the office doorway, arms across his chest and a smile on his lips.

Annika immediately jumped down from the stool. "So-so. Yesterday was better."

He came up to the table, still smiling and holding her gaze with his. "I think you've got a real future here." He came up beside her behind the table.

Annika licked her lips and tried to smile. "Thanks." She batted her eyelashes.

"How did you decide to come work here?" His voice was a few degrees cooler.

Lie, she thought, but keep as close to the truth as you can.

"I need money." She looked up. "I got sacked from my old job, they thought I was a troublemaker. One of the… customers complained about me and my boss got cold feet."

Joachim laughed, then caressed her shoulder, his hand lingering just by her breast. "What was the job?"

She swallowed, fighting the instinct to recoil from his touch. "A grocery store. I worked in the deli section at Vivo on Fridhemsplan. Slicing salami all day long isn't exactly my idea of fun."

He laughed out loud and removed his hand. "I can understand why you quit. Who did you work with?"

Her heart stopped. Did he know someone there? "Why?" She smiled. "Do you have connections in the sausage business?"

He guffawed. "I think you should give the stage some thought." He moved closer to her. "You'd look fantastic in the spotlight. Have you ever wanted to be a star?"

He pushed both his hands into her hair and gave her neck a hug. To her dismay, she felt a pang of excitement in her genitals.

"A star? What, like Josefin?"

The words slipped out of her before she had time to think. He reacted as if she'd punched him, let go of her head, and took a step back.

"What the hell? What do you know about her?"

Jesus, how fucking stupid can I be? she thought, and cursed her big mouth.

"She worked here, didn't she? I heard about her," she said, unable to control her trembling voice.

Joachim backed off farther. "Why, did you know her or something?"

Annika smiled nervously. "No, not at all, I never met her. But Patricia told me she used to work here."

He went up and stood face-to-face with her. "Josefin came to a really fucking bad end," he said in a tense, deliberate voice. "We get some powerful people here, and she thought she could con some money out of them. Don't. Don't ever try to roll anyone here. Not the customers, not me."

Joachim spun round and went up the spiral staircase.

Annika was holding on to the roulette wheel, ready to faint.

Nineteen Years, Seven Months, and Fifteen Days

I'm driven by my wish to understand. I realize that I'm looking for explanations and a framework where there aren't any. What do I really know about the terms of love?

He isn't really bad- only vulnerable and thin-skinned, scarred by his childhood. There is nothing to suggest his powerlessness will always find the same expression. When he becomes more mature, he'll stop hitting. My own mean doubts run stakes of shame through my abdomen; I've judged him far too rashly. I take my own development for granted, his I completely ignore.

Yet the chill has built a nest in my breast.

Because he says

he will never

let me go.

Saturday 8 September

She felt strange using the elevator again. She remembered the last time she'd stood here, thinking she'd never be here again.

Nothing is forever, she thought. Everything goes around in circles.

The newsroom was bright, quiet, and weekend-empty, just as she preferred it. Ingvar Johansson had his back turned and was on the phone; he didn't see her.

Anders Schyman was sitting behind his desk in his fish tank.

"Come in." He indicated for her to sit down on his new burgundy leather couch. Annika pushed the door closed behind her and looked out at the newsroom behind the tired old curtains. It felt strange that everything should look exactly as it did when she'd left, as if she'd never existed.

"You're looking good."

I've heard that one before, Annika thought. "I wasn't that tired before," she said, and sat on the couch. The upholstery was hard, the leather cold.

"How was the Caucasus?"

She wasn't following and pressed her lips together.

"You were going," Schyman said.

"There were no last-minute trips left. I went to Turkey instead."

The deputy editor smiled. "Lucky for you. It looks like war down there. They seem to be mobilizing the army."

Annika nodded. "The government forces got hold of some weapons."

They sat in silence for a while.

"So what have you got cooking?" Schyman said after a while.

Annika took a deep breath. "I haven't written it. I don't have a computer. I was going to outline it to you and see what you think."

"Shoot."

Annika pulled up her photocopies from the bag. "It's about the murder of Josefin Liljeberg and the minister."

Anders Schyman waited in silence.

"The minister is innocent of the murder," she said. "As far as the police are concerned, the murder has been cleared up. The boyfriend did it, the strip-club owner Joachim. They can't nail him, though, as he has six witnesses that give him an alibi. They couldn't prosecute them all for perjury, but the police are convinced that they're lying."

Annika fell silent and leafed through her papers.

"So no one's going to be brought to trial for the murder?" Schyman said slowly.

"Nope. It'll remain unsolved unless the people giving the alibi start talking. And in twenty-five years the statute of limitations will expire."

She got up and put two photocopies on the deputy editor's desk. "Check this out. Here's the receipt from Studio 69 from the early hours on July twenty-eight. Seven people spent fifty-five thousand six hundred kronor on entertainment and refreshments. Josefin rang it up- you can see that on the code here, and it was paid for with a Diners Club card in Christer Lundgren's name. Look at the signature."

Anders Schyman picked up the photocopy and studied it. "It's illegible."

"Yep. Now look at this."

She held out the invoice for the Tallinn trip.

"Christer Lundgren," Schyman read, and looked up at Annika. "The two signatures were written by different people."

Annika nodded and licked her lips. Her mouth was completely dry. She wished she had a glass of water. "The minister for foreign trade was never at the strip club. I think the Studio 69 receipt was signed by the undersecretary at the ministry."

Anders Schyman picked up the first slip and held it close to his glasses. "Yes. Could be."

"Christer Lundgren was in Tallinn that night. He flew out on Estonian Air at eight in the evening of the twenty-seventh of July, you can tell from the invoice. He met with someone there and flew back in a privately chartered plane the following morning."

The deputy editor changed papers. "What do you know… What was he doing there?"

Annika drew a light breath. "It was a highly secret meeting. It had to do with an arms deal. He didn't want to hand in his invoices to his own ministry where they could be found, so instead he sent them to the National Inspectorate of Strategic Products."

Schyman looked up at her. "The authority that controls Swedish arms exports?"

Annika nodded.

"Are you sure?"

She pointed at the verifications.

"Indeed," said the deputy editor. "Why, though?"

"I can only think of one reason. The export deal wasn't quite, shall we say, all in order."

A furrow appeared between Schyman's eyebrows. "It doesn't make sense. Why would this government do a shady arms deal? Who with?"

Annika straightened up and swallowed. "I don't think they had any choice," she said quietly.

Schyman leaned back in his swivel chair. "You'll have to be precise."

"I know, but the fact is that Christer Lundgren went to Tallinn that night on some business that's so controversial he'd rather get caught up in a murder investigation and resign than make it public. That's a fact. And what could be worse?"

She was standing up and gesticulating. Anders Schyman watched her with interest.

"I imagine you have a theory," he said, amused.

"IB. The lost archives, original documents that would sink the Social Democrats for a long time."

Schyman leaned forward. "But they've been destroyed."

"I don't believe so. A copy of the foreign archive turned up at the Defense Staff Headquarters on the seventeenth of July this year. It came from abroad, via diplomatic mail. I think it was a warning to the government: do as we say or we'll make the rest turn up. The originals."

"But how would this have happened?"

Annika sat on his desk and sighed. "The Social Democrats were spying on the Communists all through the postwar era, storing up as much information on them as they could lay their hands on. Meanwhile, do you think the guys over here were just sitting around doing nothing?" She pointed over her shoulder toward the Russian embassy. "Hardly. They knew exactly what the Swedes were up to." She got up, got her bag, and pulled out her pad. "In the spring of 1973, Elmér and the boys at IB knew that the journalists Guillou and Bratt were on their heels. The Social Democrats began to panic. Of course the Russians knew. And they knew that the Swedes would try to sweep away all traces of their spying. So what did they do?"

She held out her copies of the news items in the broadsheet from April 2, 1973.

"The Russians stole the archives. The Stockholm embassy's KGB man saw to it that they were taken out of the country, probably in large courier's bags."

Schyman took her pad and read.

"And who was the Stockholm head of KGB in the early seventies?" Annika said. "Yes, the man who today is the president of a troubled nation in the Caucasus region. He even speaks Swedish. This president has one gigantic problem: he's got no weapons to fight the guerrillas with and the international community has decided that he can't be sold any."

The deputy editor was fingering the papers.

Annika sat down on the couch to deliver her conclusion. "So what does the president do? He digs up the old documents from twenty-four Grevgatan and fifty-six Valhallavägen. If the Swedish government doesn't supply him with weapons, he'll see to it that they lose power for a long time to come. At first the government refuses to listen. Maybe they don't believe he has any archives, so he sends his warning to the Defense Staff Headquarters. A selection of copies from the foreign archive- not enough to topple the government, but enough for the Social Democrats to be saddled with an IB debate in the middle of an election campaign. So the prime minister decides to send his minister for foreign trade to meet the president's representatives. They meet halfway, in Estonia. They make a deal and agree on the consignment of arms to be delivered immediately via some third country, probably Singapore. The army prepares for war."

Annika rubbed her forehead. "Everything goes according to plan. Except there's a hitch- a young woman is murdered outside the minister's front door on the same night that the meeting in Tallinn takes place. Through the most ill-fated coincidence it turns out that the minister's undersecretary has brought a bunch of German union reps to the strip club where the murder victim worked and paid the check with the minister's credit card. The minister's up the proverbial creek- his hands are tied. He can't say where he's been or what he's been doing."

The silence in the office was tangible. Annika could see that Schyman's brain was working at full speed. He fiddled with the pad and the photocopies, made a note, scratched his head.

"I'll be damned. I'll be damned… What does he have to say for himself?"

Annika swallowed, desperately trying to moisten her throat. No success. "I've only spoken to his wife, Anna-Lena. Lundgren refuses to come to the phone. Then I tried reaching him through his former press secretary, Karina Björnlund. I gave her the whole scenario, how I think it all came about. She was going to try to get a comment, but she never phoned back."

They sat without talking for a while, then the deputy editor cleared his throat. "How many people have you told this to?"

"None," Annika instantly replied, "just you."

"And Karina Björnlund. Anyone else?"

Annika closed her eyes and thought. "No. Only you and Karina Björnlund." She felt herself tense up. The counterarguments would come now.

"This is incredibly interesting, but it's unpublishable."

"Why?" Annika quickly replied.

"Too many loose ends. Your line of argument is logical, even possible, but it can't be proved."

"I've got the copies of the invoices and the receipts!" Annika exclaimed.

"Sure, but it's not enough. You know that."

Annika didn't respond.

"That the minister was in Tallinn is news, but it doesn't give him an alibi for the time of the murder. He was home by five, the time when the girl was murdered. You remember the neighbor who bumped into him?"

Annika nodded.

Schyman continued, "Christer Lundgren has resigned, and you don't kick-"

"Someone who's down, I know. But you can publish facts, the burglaries at the addresses where the archives were kept, the invoices, the strip club receipt…"

The deputy editor sighed. "For what purpose? To show how the government smuggles arms? Imagine the court case involving the freedom of the press that would follow."

Annika stared down at the floor.

"This story is dead, Annika."

"What about the trip to Tallinn?" she said quietly.

Schyman sighed again. "Maybe, if circumstances had been different. Unfortunately, though, the editor in chief is allergic to this story. He won't hear the mere mention of either the murder or the minister. And for a minister to go to a meeting in a neighboring country isn't controversial enough for me to put my job on the line. We've got nothing to show who he met or for what purpose. The minister for foreign trade probably travels for three hundred days of the year."

"Why did he hand in his travel-expenses invoice to the Inspectorate of Strategic Products?"

"It's strange, but hardly worth writing about. The ministries hand over hundreds of invoices for payment every day; this isn't even controversial. There's nothing fishy about a minister for foreign trade going abroad."

Annika felt her chest tighten. At heart she knew that Anders Schyman was right. Now she just wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

The deputy editor got to his feet, walked up to the window, and looked out over the newsroom. "We need you here."

Annika was startled. "What?"

Schyman sighed. "We could do with someone of your character on the crime desk. Right now there are only three people working there: Berit Hamrin, Nils Langeby, and Eva-Britt Qvist. It would do Berit good to have a competent person by her side."

"I've never met the other two," Annika said quietly.

"What are you doing now? Did you get another job?"

She shook her head.

The deputy editor came and sat down next to her on the couch. "I'm sincerely sorry that we can't publish your stuff. You've done a fantastic piece of research, but the story is simply too incredible to be told."

Annika didn't reply, just stared down at her hands.

Schyman watched her in silence. "The worst of it is that you're probably right."

"I've got something else. I can't do it myself, but you can give it to Berit."

She pulled out the copy of the TV guy's credit card slip. It was a second-generation photocopy; she'd made a copy of her original copy at the post office.

"He rented two girls and spent nearly an hour with them in a private room. On his way out he bought three videos. With animals. The thing is, he paid for it all with a Swedish Television credit card."

Schyman whistled. "What do you know. This can go straight into the paper- TV star visits brothel, pays with TV license-payers' money."

Annika smiled tiredly. "Glad to be of service," she said acerbically.

"Why don't you write it yourself?"

"You don't want to know."

"But you've got to have something for it. What do you want?"

Annika looked out over the deserted newsroom, which was bathed in the slanting rays of the fall sun.

"A job," she whispered.

Schyman walked over to his desk and flipped through the pages in a binder. "Subeditor on Jansson's night shift, starting in November, covering for parental leave. How does that sound?"

"Sounds fine. Offer accepted."

"It's a six-month contract so I have to take it up with the executive. The hours are awful; you start at ten P.M. and work until six A.M., four days on, four days off. You'll have to wait for a formal offer of a job, but this time I won't give in. This contract is yours. How about that?"

He got up and held out his hand to her. She got up and shook his hand, embarrassed at the cold clamminess of hers.

"Good to have you back." Schyman smiled.

"Just one more thing. Do you remember that they said on Studio 69 that they'd found the strip-club receipt at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs?"

Schyman blinked, gave it some thought, then shook his head. "Don't remember."

"I'm sure they did. But the receipt wasn't there, it was at the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communication. What do you think that means?"

Schyman gave her a penetrating look. "Probably the same as you. They didn't find the slip themselves."

Annika gave a faint smile. "Exactly."

"Some lobbyist put it in their hands. It was planted."

"Now, isn't that ironic?" Annika said, and left the fish tank.

The rain was hanging in the air just above the treetops, and the wind was cold. She turned up her collar and walked toward Fridhemsplan. She felt a warm tranquillity inside. Perhaps she was going to make it. Subediting wasn't her favorite thing, but it still felt as if she'd hit the jackpot. She'd be sitting with the backbench subs at the night desk going through the other reporters' copy, correcting spelling and grammar, cutting where necessary, adding a sentence. She'd be writing captions and little fact boxes, making suggestions for headlines and rewriting bad intros.

She didn't have any illusions as to why Schyman had been able to offer her the job. Nobody else at the paper wanted it, they needed to get someone from outside. Even though the work was vital, it was seen as menial. No byline, no glamour, it was thoroughly uncool.

Well, they've never run an illegal gambling outfit in a brothel, Annika thought.

The wind was getting up as she came out onto the bridge. She walked slowly, pulling down the air into her lungs, holding it. She closed her eyes against the damp and let her hair fly free in the wind.

November, she thought. Nearly two months away. She had some time to think and refuel her energy supply. Clear out the apartment in Hälleforsnäs, draft-proof the windows in the apartment on Hantverkargatan. Go to the Museum of Modern Art, catch a musical at the Oscars Theater. See Grandma, hang out with Whiskas.

She suddenly missed her cat. But she couldn't have him with her in the city. He'd have to stay with Grandma.

She had to break up with Sven.

There it was- the thought that she'd been putting off all summer. She shuddered in the wind and pulled the jacket tighter around her. The summer was definitely over, time to get the winter clothes out.

She walked along Drottningholmsvägen, kicking at the wet leaves that were piling up on the sidewalk. Not until she was right next to the park did she look up at the foliage.

The vegetation sat brooding on the Kronoberg hill like a big, moldering mass.

She slowly walked up to the cemetery. The damp made the fence shine. The air stood still, the wind didn't reach here. The sounds of the city were muffled and drifted away.

Annika stopped by the entrance gate, put her hand on the padlock, and closed her eyes. All at once, the glow of the summer returned to her: the heat and the dizziness of the day Josefin lay in there among the graves; the sunlight dancing across the granite stones; the vibrations from the subway deep below.

How futile, she thought. Why did Josefin Liljeberg live? Why was she born? Why did she learn to read, count, write? Why did she worry about the changes in her beautiful body? For what purpose- only to die?

There has to be a meaning, Annika thought. There has to be a purpose to it all. How can we go on otherwise?

"Hi there! What are you doing here?"

Annika groaned inwardly. "Hi, Daniella. How are you?"

"I'm fine, just fine," Daniella Hermansson chirped. "We've been to the park, but it got a bit too cold. Skruttis is starting day care on Monday. We both feel a bit nervous about it. Don't we, Skruttis?"

The kid just looked up sadly at them.

"Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee? It's time for Skruttis's afternoon nap, so we could talk."

Annika remembered Daniella's weak coffee. "Some other day." Annika smiled. "I'm on my way home."

Daniella took a quick look around and stepped closer to Annika. "Listen, you're in the media," she said in a stage whisper, "did they ever catch the guy who did it?"

"Who killed Josefin? No, they didn't. Not for the murder."

Daniella sighed. "It's awful that he should be walking free."

"The police know who he is. They're going to bring him in anyway, for something else. He'll go to jail."

Daniella breathed a sigh of relief. "God, that's so good to know. Well, we never thought it was Christer."

"Not your neighbor either, the lady with the dog?"

Daniella giggled, a nervous and conspiratorial little laugh. "Now listen, you mustn't tell anybody about this, but Elna had already found the body at five in the morning."

Annika felt herself stiffen, forcing herself to look friendly. "Oh, how's that?"

"You know her dog, Jasper? Sweet little thing. Anyway, the dog went off inside the cemetery and chewed the girl a bit, and Auntie Elna was beside herself. She didn't dare call the police, for fear they'd put Jasper in jail. Did you ever hear of such a thing!" Daniella chuckled.

Annika swallowed. "No, actually, I haven't."

Skruttis started bawling. He wanted to get moving.

"There, there, darling. We'll go home and eat a banana now. You like that, don't you, little friend?"

The woman moved off down Kronobergsgatan toward her building. Annika looked at her for a long time.

There's an explanation for everything, she thought.

She slowly started walking in the opposite direction, toward the fire station. As she rounded the street corner, she saw the police cars blocking the whole street. She stopped.

They're early, she thought. I hope they find the books.

She took another way home.

Nineteen Years, Eleven Months, and One Day

Roughness against naked skin, the air full of dust, the oxygen used up: my living space shrunk to the size of a coffin. The ceiling presses against my brain, my knees and elbows get scratched.

Deep hole, dark grave, smell of dirt.

Panic.

He says that I've misunderstood it all, that I've got the wrong sense of proportion. It's not my life that's too small, I'm too big.

His love is infinite. He still loves me. No one else could give me what he gives me. There is only the one condition.

He says

he will never

let me go.

Sunday 9 September

Her decision matured during the night. She was determined. She would break up with Sven. There was another life, she had found her way out.

The situation filled her with sadness and a sense of loss. She and Sven had been a couple for so long. She had never made love with another man. She cried a little in the shower.

The rain had stopped and the sun was pale and cold. She made coffee and called the railway station to check the departure times. The next train to Flen was in an hour and ten minutes.

She opened the window in the living room, sat down on the couch, and looked at the slow billowing of the curtains. She was going to stay here. She could live her own life.

Annika had put her jacket on and was getting ready to leave when she heard keys jangling in the front door. She stiffened, but relaxed when she saw it was Patricia. "Hi. Where have you been?"

Patricia closed the door quietly behind her, her hand staying on the door handle for a moment before she looked up at Annika.

"How could you?" she said in a stifled voice.

Her face was blotchy, her eyes red with weeping. Annika was dismayed at first, then realized what had happened.

"You sold me out. You blew the club sky-high. How could you?" Patricia came toward her, her mouth twisted, her hands like claws.

Annika tried to stay calm. "I didn't blow the club."

"It must have been you."

Patricia lunged forward and gave Annika a shove, throwing the keys on the floor. Annika stumbled backward.

"I did it to help you!" Patricia screamed. "You needed the money so I fixed you up with a job! How could you do this to me?"

Annika held up her hands and backed into the living room. "Patricia, please, I didn't want to hurt you, you know that. I wanted to help you, help you get away from that club and the degradation-"

"Don't you see what's going to happen?" Patricia screamed. "He'll finger me! He's been fucking all the other girls there, they've all been with him! I was Josefin's friend, he's got no loyalty toward me. He's going to drag me down with him! Oh, my God!"

She cried out loud, and Annika grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "No, that won't happen. The other girls will tell the truth. Go to the police and tell it like it is, they'll believe you."

Patricia threw her head back and gave a loud, shrill laugh. "You're so naive, Annika." Tears streamed down Patricia's cheeks. "You think that truth will always prevail. Grow up! It never does."

She broke away and rushed into her room, threw her things into her bag, and came out again, dragging the mattress behind her. It got jammed in the door. Patricia tore at it and cursed.

"Please, don't leave," Annika said.

The mattress came loose and Patricia nearly fell over. She was shaking with sobs, pulling at the foam-rubber mattress.

"I'm staying here. I got a job at Kvällspressen. You can stay for as long as you like."

Patricia had reached the front door and stopped dead. "What did you say? You got a job?"

Annika smiled nervously. "I got hold of a lot of information that I ran past the deputy editor, and he hired me again."

Patricia let go of the mattress, turned around, and walked up to Annika. Her black eyes were on fire. "Fuck you," she hissed. "Fuck anyone who stabs their friend in the back."

"But it had nothing to do with you, or the club…"

"And you ratted to the police, you fucking bitch! How the hell else could they know that the books were there just then? You sold me out, your friend, for a fucking job!" Patricia shrieked. "You are such a stinking piece of shit! Fuck you forever!"

Annika backed, hearing her own words inside her head. Jesus, Patricia was right. What have I done, what have I done?

The woman ran back to her mattress, pulled it along, and left the apartment without closing the door. Annika rushed up to the window and saw Patricia running across the yard dragging the mattress over the gravel. Annika pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Slowly she walked over to Patricia's room. A glass lay on its side on the floor, and hanging on the wall was Josefin's pink suit. Annika felt the tears welling up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The numbness stayed with her all the way to Flen. Unable either to feel or eat, she saw the farmsteads of Sörmland fly past. The rhythmic beat of the wheels of the train became an incantation in her mind: Your fault, Patricia, your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault…

She covered her ears with her hands and shut her eyes.

At least the bus was waiting at the railway station. It left for Hälleforsnäs a few minutes later, passing Mellösa and stopping at the builders' merchant in Flenmo.

This may be the last time I go home when I come here, she mused.

Her mother wasn't particularly happy to see her: "Come on in. I've just made coffee."

Annika sat down at the kitchen table, still dazed and ashamed.

"I've found a house," her mother said, putting another cup on the table.

Annika pretended not to hear, just looked out at the roofs of the works.

"It's got a carport and a pool," her mother went on, a bit louder. "White brick. It's big, seven rooms in all. There's space for you and Sven."

"I don't want to live in Eskilstuna," Annika said without looking at her mother.

"It's in Svista, outside Eskilstuna- you know, Hugelstaborg. It's a nice area. Respectable people."

Annika blinked away the image before her eyes, closing her eyes tight in irritation. "What do you want with seven rooms?"

Her mother stopped puttering around. She sounded hurt. "I want to have space for you all, for you and Sven and Birgitta. And for my grandchildren, of course."

Annika hadn't thought about her sister in ages. Her mother must be really deluded if she thought they could all live together like a happy family. She got to her feet as her mother winked knowingly.

"Then you'll have to rely on Birgitta," Annika said. "I won't be having any kids for a while yet."

She walked over to the counter, took a glass out of the cupboard, and filled it from the tap. Her mother's gaze followed her, somewhat reproachful.

"Doesn't Sven have a say in that, then?"

Annika spun around. "What do you mean by that?"

Her mother bridled. "Some people think you push him around. Moving up to Stockholm just like that, without discussing it with him."

Annika turned white with rage. "What do you know about that?"

Her mother fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. She had to try the lighter a few times before she got it to work. She took a deep drag and started coughing immediately.

"You don't know a thing about me and Sven," Annika said while her mother coughed. "Are you saying I should have turned this opportunity down for his sake? Should my career and living be dependent on his whims? Is that really what you think? Huh?"

Her mother had tears in her eyes when she got her breath back. "My, my, I really should quit." She attempted a smile.

Annika didn't return it. "Of course I think you should concentrate on your job. You're very talented. Though it's a hard life up there, everybody knows that. No one's blaming you for failing to make it."

Annika turned around and filled her glass up.

Her mother came up to her and patted her arm awkwardly. "Annika, don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you," Annika said in a low voice without turning around.

Her mother hesitated. "Seems like it sometimes."

Annika turned around and looked at her mother with tired eyes. "I just don't understand why you keep thinking that you're going to move into a fancy villa in Eskilstuna. You don't have the money. And what would you do if you did? Would you commute to work at the supermarket here?"

Now her mother turned her back. "There are plenty of jobs in Eskilstuna," she said sullenly. "Honest and scrupulous checkout assistants don't grow on trees."

"Why don't you start by finding a job then? You're starting at the wrong end by looking at luxury houses, surely you must see that?"

Her mother was sucking hard at her cigarette. "You don't respect me."

"Of course I do!" Annika exclaimed. "Jesus, you're my mother! I just want you to be realistic. If you want to live in a house so badly, then get one here in Hälleforsnäs. They cost next to nothing! I saw one for sale up on Flensvägen today. Do you know what they're asking for it?"

"Finns," said her mother contemptuously.

"Now you're being silly."

"What about you? You don't want to live here either. You just want to stay in Stockholm."

Annika flung her hands out. "Not because there's anything wrong with Hälleforsnäs! I love this place. But the job I want isn't here."

Her mother angrily stubbed her cigarette out in the sink. Her cheeks were burning with agitation, and her eyes were red around the edges. Her voice trembled as she said, "You must see that I don't want to live in any old rickety house in this godforsaken hole! I'd rather stay here in my apartment."

"Then do that," Annika said, and picked up her bag and left.

She got her bike and rode down to see Sven. No point in putting it off. He lived in the old works stables, a building that was once stately and impressive but which was now part of the shabby end of Tattarbacken.

He was at home, watching soccer on TV with a beer in his hand.

"Darling." He got to his feet and hugged her. "I'm so happy you're home."

Gingerly, she pulled away from his arms, her heart thundering and her legs shaking.

"I've come here to pack up, Sven," she said, her voice trembling.

He smiled. "So you think we can move in together?"

She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Sven, I've got a job in Stockholm. At Kvällspressen. They want me back. I'm starting in November."

She was clutching her bag tightly with her hands.

Sven shook his head. "But you can't. You couldn't commute every day, that'd be impossible."

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears welling up. "I'm moving, for good. I've given the landlord here notice, and I've resigned from Katrineholms-Kuriren."

She instinctively backed toward the door.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sven came closer.

"I'm sorry," she said through her tears. "I never wanted to hurt you. I really have loved you."

"Are you leaving me?" he said in a stifled voice, grabbing her by her upper arms.

She put her head back and closed her eyes, her tears rolling down her face and neck.

"It has to be like this," she said breathlessly. "You deserve someone who loves you more. I can't any longer."

He started shaking her, slowly at first, then more and more violently.

"What the hell do you mean?" he shouted. "Are you breaking up? With me?"

Annika cried, her head hitting the door. She tried pushing him back.

"Sven. Sven, listen to me-"

"Why the hell should I listen to you?" he screamed in her face. "You've been lying to me the whole summer! You said you wanted to give it a go in Stockholm, but you never intended to come back here, did you? You lying bitch!"

Annika suddenly stopped crying and looked him straight in the eye. "You're absolutely right. All I want is to be free of you."

He let go, staring at her in disbelief.

She turned around, kicked the door open, and ran away.

Nineteen Years, Eleven Months, and Twenty-Five Days

Yesterday the tears never came, nor the panicky fear after the attack. The heat got too much, it rose until the red became black. They say he saved my life. The kiss of life brought back the spirit that his hands tried to extinguish. I can't speak yet. The damage could be chronic. He says a piece of meat got stuck in my throat, but I can see in the doctors' eyes that they don't believe him. But no one asks any questions.

He cries with his face against my blanket. He's been holding my hand for many hours. He begs and pleads with me.

If I do what he wants, I'll dispose of the last barrier. I'll be erasing what's left of my personality and then there'll be nothing left. He'll have reached his goal. Nothing stops him from taking the final step. When he won't bring back my spirit.

He says

he will kill me

if I go.

Monday 10 September

Ho Lake sparkled like an icy sapphire in the morning sun. Annika walked slowly toward the water with Whiskas at her heels. The cat was bouncing and dancing around her feet, wild with happiness. She laughed and picked him up in her arms. The animal rubbed its nose against her chin, licked her neck, and purred like a machine.

"Aren't you the silliest little cat?" Annika said, and scratched him behind the ears.

She sat down on the jetty and looked out over the lake. The wind, gentle and mild, rippled the glittering surface. Annika screwed up her eyes and saw the flat, gray rocks across the lake rise out of the water and melt into the dark green wall of fir trees. Even farther away, where the lake ended and the real forest began, Old Gustav lived. She would look in on him someday. It had been a long time.

The future lay open before her like an unpainted watercolor. She could choose how she wanted to continue with the picture.

She'd make it warm and rich, she thought, light and bright.

The cat rolled itself up on her lap and fell asleep. She closed her eyes and let her fingers play with the animal's silky fur. She breathed deeply and was filled with an intense feeling of happiness. This is what living should be like, she mused.

Her grandmother called from the cottage. Annika straightened up, listened. Whiskas started and jumped down on the jetty. The old woman cupped her hands and called out, "Breakfast!"

Annika ran up to the house. Whiskas thought it was a race and rushed off like a maniac. He lay in wait on the steps and attacked her feet. Annika picked up the wriggling animal, burrowed her nose in his fur, and blew on his stomach. "What a silly kitty you are."

Her grandmother had put yogurt and wild raspberries, rye bread and cheese, on the table. The smell of coffee wafted in the air. Annika realized how ravenous she was.

"No, get down," she said to the cat, who was trying to jump up onto her lap.

"He's going to miss you," her grandmother said.

Annika sighed. "I'll come and visit often."

Her grandmother served coffee in fine china cups. "I want you to know that I think you're doing the right thing. You should concentrate on your work. I always thought that being able to support myself gave me a sense of self-esteem and satisfaction. You shouldn't be with a man who holds you back."

They ate in silence. The sun was shining in through the window, making the surface of the plastic tablecloth soft and warm to the touch.

"Are there a lot of mushrooms?"

Her grandmother chuckled. "I was just wondering how long it would be before you asked. The ground is covered!"

Annika jumped to her feet. "I'll go out and get some for lunch."

She dug out two plastic bags from a drawer and hurried out into the forest.

In the gloom of the forest, it took a few minutes before the pattern in the moss became visible to her blinking eyes. The ground really was covered with brown funnel chanterelles. They grew in clusters of hundreds, maybe thousands, on the edge of the forest clearing.

She filled both bags; it didn't even take her an hour. While she was picking the mushrooms, Whiskas caught two wood mice.

"Who's going to clean all these?" her grandmother said with mock alarm.

Annika laughed and emptied out the first bag on the table. "Let's do it!"

As usual, cleaning the mushrooms took longer than picking them.

They each had fried bread with a mountain of fried funnel chanterelles for lunch.

"I've run out of milk and bread," her grandmother said when they'd done the dishes.

"I'll cycle to the village and get some."

The old woman smiled. "That's nice of you."

Annika combed her hair and got her bag. "You stay with Grandma," she said to the cat.

Whiskas wasn't listening but merrily jumped ahead of her toward the barrier.

"No," Annika said, picking up the cat and carrying him back to the cottage. "I'm going to ride on the road, where you could get run over. Stay here."

The cat wriggled free and ran into the forest. Annika sighed.

"Put him inside when he comes back," she told her grandmother. "I don't want him running around on the road."

With swinging arms she walked to her bike. The sun shone over the landscape, clear and bright. She saw the chrome of the bike, resting against the barrier, from a long distance.

She didn't realize that something was wrong until she reached the bike. She grabbed the handlebars and looked. Both tires were slashed, the saddle as well. She stared at it in disbelief, not quite knowing what she was looking at.

"That's just the beginning, you fucking whore!"

She gasped and looked up. Sven was standing a few yards away. She knew what was coming.

"I've smashed up your whole goddamn place. I've cut all your fucking whore's clothes to pieces."

He sobbed and swayed. Annika saw that he was drunk. Watching him closely, she cautiously rounded the barrier.

"You're upset, Sven. And you're drunk. You're not yourself. Don't say anything you'll regret later."

He started to cry, waving his arms about. He came toward her.

"You're a whore and you're going to die!"

She dropped her bag on the ground and ran. She couldn't see. Everything went white. She ran, raced away; a branch hit her in the face, scratching her. She fell, got up. The sounds, where were all the sounds? Oh, God, run, run, legs hitting the ground, shit, shit, where is he, oh my God, help!

She ran blindly, in among the trees, across the road, down in the ditch, disappearing in the brush. She stumbled over a root and fell flat on her face, ants crawling over her cheek. She shut her eyes tight and waited for death, but it didn't come. Instead the sounds returned, the wind in the trees, her own panting breath, then silence.

He's not behind me, she thought. And then: I've got to get to where there are some people. I've got to get help.

Warily, soundlessly, she got to her feet and brushed away ants and bits of the forest floor. Listened. Where was he?

Not right here, not now. She looked around, she couldn't be far from Old Gustav's.

Cautiously, half crouching, she ran toward Lillsjötorp. The chanterelles squashed underneath her trainers. The tree trunks were brown and rough against her hands. She crossed a creek over by the deserted sawmill.

There, she glimpsed it between the trees, Old Gustav's red cottage. She straightened up and ran as fast as she could up to the house.

"Gustav!" she screamed. "Gustav, are you there?"

She dashed to the porch and tugged at the door. It was locked. She looked around, over to the woodshed where the old man spent most of his time, and someone was there- but it wasn't Gustav.

"I knew you'd come here, you little whore!"

Sven rushed toward her with something in his hand.

She jumped over the porch balustrade, landing in Gustav's bed of roses. Sweet fragrances filled her nose.

"Annika, I just want to talk to you. Stop!"

She stumbled into the forest, back down in the hollow, over the creek, rounding the fen- but the panting behind her didn't stop. Her feet crashed onto the moss, she flew over brush and stone, gasping, the surroundings dancing by.

I'm running, she thought, I'm not dead. I'm racing, I'm alive, it's not over, I've got a chance. Running isn't dangerous, running is the solution, I'm good at running.

She summoned up the idea of a tough workout, forcing the adrenaline back, focusing on breathing and the absorption of oxygen- breathe, breathe. Her vision returned, the roar inside her head lessened, thoughts began to take shape.

He can run faster than me, she thought, but he's drunk and I know the forest better. He's a better runner on flat ground so I'll have to stick to the rough terrain.

She immediately turned north, stopped following the road. Up there was Gorg Lake and Holm Lake; if she skirted them, she could go east, hit the big Sörmland Footpath and get to the village via the works.

Her legs were getting numb- she'd just eaten a pound of chanterelles. She forced them to speed up, gritting her teeth against the pain. The panting behind her was gone. She glanced over her shoulder: trees and bushes, sky and stones.

He could have taken one of the small roads to intercept me, she suddenly thought, and stopped dead.

Her pulse was beating hard and loud, she listened to the forest around her. Nothing, only the wind.

Where were the roads?

There was a rustle behind her, and she swung around, feeling the panic rising.

Oh, God, where is the road? There is a road here, but where?

She breathed and forced herself to think. What did the road look like?

It's a logging road, they drove timber on it, it's becoming overgrown, the brush is as tall as a man.

Run for the brush, she thought.

At the same moment her cat jumped out and rubbed against her legs so that she stumbled over him.

"Whiskas, you silly thing. Get out of here."

She kicked him lightly, tried to push him away.

"Run to Lyckebo. Run home to Grandma."

The cat meowed and jumped into the bushes.

She sprinted eastward and suddenly the terrain became more scrubby. She was right, over there was the road. She waited for a few seconds in the bushes by the road before she emerged, holding her breath; all clear. She walked past Gorgnäs, nobody at home; Mastorp, nobody at home; then headed straight east, toward the footpath, straight ahead.

He was standing in the last bend before she hit the Sörmland Footpath. She saw him three seconds before he spotted her. She dashed north, up toward the cooling pond. She'd seen something gleaming in his hand and she knew what it was. She lost her wits. She ran, screamed, stumbled, scrambled, reached the water, and rushed out into it, gasping from the cold. She swam until she hit the beach snorting and spitting. She staggered toward the sheds, fences, ran to the left, climbed a tall ash tree, in among the buildings, into the works compound.

"You can't get away from me, you fucking whore!"

She looked around but she didn't see him. She dashed past a white building, pulled a faded light-blue door open, and rushed into the dark. Blinded, she stumbled over a slag heap and got ash in her mouth, moved farther in, farther away, crying. She began to see in the gloom: the shadows took shape- a blast furnace, empty ladles. Rows of grimy windows under the roof, soot and rust. The door she had come through was like a rectangle of light far away, with the silhouette of a man slowly approaching her. She saw the knife flashing in his hand. She recognized it, his hunting knife.

She turned around and ran, the metal flooring booming under her feet, past the shaft furnace. Stairs, up; darkness, new stairs; she stumbled and cut her knee; the light returned, a platform, windows, winches; she hit her head on a valve or something.

"End of the line."

He was breathing hard, his eyes gleaming with hatred and alcohol.

"Sven," she sobbed, backing up as far as she could. "Sven, don't… You don't want to…"

"You whore."

At the same instant she heard a faint meowing from the stairs. Annika peered into the shadows, searching among soot and slag. The cat; oh, the little cat, he'd followed her all the way.

"Whiskas!" she called out.

Sven took a step forward and she backed up. The cat came nearer, meowing and purring, making little turns and capering about, rubbing its nose against the rusty machine parts, playing with a piece of coal.

"Forget about the fucking cat," Sven said hoarsely. She knew that voice, he was on the verge of tears. "You can't leave me like this."

He cried out. Annika couldn't respond, her throat was constricted, couldn't produce a sound. She saw the contours of the knife glint in a beam of sunlight, waving aimlessly while the crying intensified.

"Annika, for Christ's sake, I love you!" he screamed.

She sensed rather than saw the cat go up to him, stand on its back legs to rub against his knee, followed the shiny steel of the knife as it sliced through the air and landed in the cat's belly.

"No!"

A nightmarish, unconscious cry. The cat's body soared through the air in a wide arc over the coke chute, leaving a bright red trail of blood, the intestines falling out of his body, coiling like a rope under his belly.

"You bastard!"

She felt the surge of power like fire and iron- like the mass her ancestors had melted and molded in this damned building- blazing, raging, and uncontrollable. Her field of vision turned red, everything came to her in slow motion. She bent down and reached for a pipe, black and rusty. She grabbed it with both hands, strong as iron. She wielded it with a power that she didn't really have. She walked down to where he stood, her eyes fixed on his.

The pipe hit him flat on the temple. She saw in her slow-motion vision how it smashed his skull bone, cracked it like an eggshell; his eyes rolled up and showed the whites; something squirted out from where she had hit him. His arms flailed out to the sides and the knife flew through space. His body was thrown to the left, tumbling; his feet scraped the ground, dancing, falling down.

The next blow hit his midriff, she could hear the ribs crack. His whole body moved with the power. He stood. Blindly he flailed around, swept along by fire and iron. He staggered to the rail and slowly tipped over the edge, down into the furnace throat.

"You bastard," Annika panted.

Using the pipe, she heaved him into the furnace. The last she saw of him was his feet following the rest of the body over the lip.

She dropped the pipe on the concrete floor, the metal ringing out in the sudden silence.

"Whiskas," she whispered.

He lay behind the stockhouse, his breastbone slit open, a bubbling, sticky mass inside. Still breathing faintly, his eyes looked into hers and he tried to meow. She hesitated before picking him up. She didn't want to hurt him even more. She carefully pushed some intestines back into the belly with her forefinger, sat down, and held him in her arms. She gently rocked him as his lungs slowly came to rest. His eyes let go of her, turned blank and still.

Annika cried, rocking the torn little body in her arms. The sounds coming from her were plaintive, drawn-out, monotonous howls. She sat there until the crying stopped and the sun was setting behind the factory.

The concrete floor was hard and cold. She was shivering. Her legs were numb, and she clumsily struggled to her feet with the cat still in her arms. She walked toward the stairs, the dust dancing in the air. It was a long climb down; she moved toward the light, toward the shining rectangle. Outside, the day was just as clear, a bit chillier, the shadows longer. She wavered for a moment and then walked off toward the factory gates.

The eight men still employed at the works had obviously just been leaving for the day. Two of them were already in their cars. The others stood talking while the foreman locked up.

The man who spotted her gave a shout and pointed in her direction. She was covered in blood from her head down to the waist, carrying the dead cat in her arms.

"What happened?" The foreman was the first to collect himself and run over to her.

"He's over there," Annika said in a flat voice. "In a furnace."

"Are you hurt? Do you need help?"

Annika didn't respond, just walked toward the exit.

"Come here, we'll help you," the foreman said.

The men gathered around her; the two who'd started their cars switched the engines off and walked back. The foreman unlocked the door and escorted her into his office.

"Has there been an accident?"

Annika didn't answer. She sat on a chair, clutching her cat tight.

"Check the forty-five-tonner in the old plant," the foreman said in a hushed voice.

Three of the men walked away.

The foreman sat down next to her, looking at the dazed woman. She was covered in blood but didn't seem to have any injuries herself.

"What's that you're holding?"

"Whiskas. My cat."

She leaned her head and gently rubbed her cheek against his soft fur, blew softly into his ear. He was so ticklish, always used to scratch his ear with his back leg when she did that.

"Do you want me to take care of him?"

She didn't reply, only turned away, clutching the dead cat tighter. The man sighed and walked out of the room.

"Keep an eye on her," he said to one of the men standing in the doorway.

She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there when a man put his hand on her shoulder. How clichéd, she thought.

"How are you, miss?"

She didn't reply.

"I'm Captain Johnsson from the Eskilstuna police department. There's a dead man in a furnace over there. Do you know anything about that?"

She didn't react.

The man sat down next to her. He watched her closely for a couple of minutes, then said, "You seem to have been involved in something really serious. Is that your cat?"

She nodded.

"What's her name?"

"His. Whiskas."

So she could talk. "What happened to Whiskas?"

She started to cry again. The police officer waited silently by her side until she stopped.

"He killed him, with his hunting knife," she said finally. "There was nothing I could do. He slashed his whole belly open."

"Who did?"

She didn't reply.

"The men out there think the dead man is Sven Matsson. Is that correct?"

She hesitated, then looked up at him and nodded. "He shouldn't have gone for my cat. He really shouldn't have gone for Whiskas. Do you understand?"

The man nodded. "Absolutely. And who are you?"

"Annika Sofia Bengtzon."

He took out a notepad from his pocket. "When were you born?"

She met his gaze. "I'm twenty-four years, five months, and twenty days old."

"Well! You're very precise."

"I keep a count in my diary," she said, and leaned over her dead cat.