Knutas was annoyed, but he had to admit that she was right. Legally, he couldn’t investigate the young man, but there was nothing to prevent him from asking Johan to find out the name of the girl. So the police were at the mercy of the journalist’s goodwill. And that was a pisser.
Just as Johan entered the editorial offices of Regional News, his cell phone rang. It was Knutas.
“I wonder if you’d be willing to help us with something.”
“What is it?”
“Do you think the witness would remember the name of the girl he was with when he saw Dahlstrom and another man down at the harbor?”
“I don’t know. It sounded as if she was someone he spent only that one evening with.”
“Could you ask him?”
“Sure. But it’ll have to wait awhile. I just arrived at the newsroom.”
The police wanted his help. How nice. This was a switch from the normal situation when, as a journalist, he had to beg, plead, and cajole to get any information. He would keep Knutas waiting for just a bit.
A pleasantly drowsy Friday mood had settled over the newsroom. Fridays often had a slower pace than usual because half of the evening news program was devoted to a longer story.
Grenfors was sitting alone at the big table in the middle of the room, the so-called news desk. It was the workplace for editors, anchormen, and broadcast producers-all the key people whose job it was to put together the programs, make decisions, and assign the stories. At this time of day the anchormen and producers hadn’t yet put in an appearance. Most of the reporters were sitting at their own desks with phones pressed to their ears. In the morning they did their research and made appointments for interviews. The day often started off at a leisurely pace, which then accelerated and finally reached a crescendo of stress right before the broadcast. That’s when they had to deal with stories that weren’t finished in time, something in a report that had to be changed at the last minute because the editor wasn’t happy with it, computers that crashed, video-editing machines that broke so that certain images couldn’t be transmitted, and all sorts of other problems. Time was short, and they always worked up until the very last second. Everyone was used to that; it was their normal work tempo.
“Hi, there,” Grenfors greeted Johan. “That was a good report yesterday. Great that we’ve got the story now. It feels like it’s going to get bigger. We’ll have to wait and see how it develops. Meanwhile… something else has come up.”
The editor shuffled through the documents and newspapers that were heaped in a big, messy pile on the table.
“The police seized a record amount of Rohypnol in Kapellskar this morning. Could you look into it?”
Oh, right, look into it, thought Johan. That sounded easy enough, but he knew what Grenfors expected. A substantial story that he could use at the top of the broadcast, containing information that was a Regional News exclusive. He had strong doubts that it was a record amount. He had lost count of all the drug busts that had been made over the past year.
“Isn’t National News doing the story?” he asked wearily. He had been hoping to go home early.
“Sure, but you know how they are. They do their report and we do ours. Besides, you have better contacts than all their reporters put together.”
“Okay.”
Johan went back to his desk. Before he got started, he called Niklas Appelqvist in Grabo.
He answered at once. Yes, he had kept in touch with the girl for a short time. He might still have her last name and phone number somewhere. He recalled only that her first name was Elin and she lived in Uppsala. He promised to call back as soon as possible. Before Johan could pick up the receiver to call the Customs Agency, the phone rang. He heard his mother’s voice.
“Hi, my dear boy. How are you? How was it on Gotland?”
“It was fine.”
“Did you see Emma?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
He was close to his mother, and by this time she knew almost everything about his complicated relationship with Emma. She listened and offered advice without expecting that he would follow it. She never judged him, and he appreciated that.
Johan’s relationship with his mother had deepened after his father died of cancer almost two years ago now. There were four brothers, but Johan was the oldest, and he was closest to his mother. They had a need for each other. During the past year his mother had needed him more, and they had spent a great deal of time together, talking about his father and how life had changed. Especially for her, of course. She now lived alone in the big house in the suburb of Bromma. He had tried to persuade her to move so that she wouldn’t have to take care of all the practical matters by herself. Her sons did help out quite a bit, but they also had their own lives.
She had now recovered from the worst of her grief. She had even started seeing a man who belonged to the same bowling club. He was a widower, and she seemed to enjoy his company. Whether there was anything romantic going on between them she had never mentioned, and Johan didn’t want to ask. The fact that his mother was seeing this man took a lot of the pressure off because he no longer had to worry as much about her being alone.
Fanny was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the reflection of her face in the window. She was alone. Her mother was at work, as usual. The neighbors across the courtyard had hung up their Advent stars already. In another month it would be Christmas Eve. Yet another Christmas alone with her mother. Other people got together with family and friends to celebrate with Christmas trees and presents. The coziest thing of all must be to sit around a big table and eat Christmas dinner together. A warm apartment, candles, and good company. But she and her mother had only each other. And Spot, of course. They never went to visit relatives. Fanny had begun to realize why. The relatives were afraid that her mother would either get drunk or have one of her outbursts. She was so unpredictable that no one could ever relax when she was around. They never knew what might happen. If someone said or did something that her mother took as a criticism, the rest of the evening would be ruined. That’s why she and her mother were always alone. Not even her maternal grandmother was around anymore; she was senile and lived in a retirement home.
They never bought a real tree for Christmas, either. They just set up a dreary-looking plastic tree on the table, as if they were a couple of old retired people. They usually ate Christmas dinner in front of the TV. Store- bought meatballs, beet salad, and ready-made Jansson’s Temptation, the traditional casserole of herring, potatoes, and onions in a cream sauce. All they had to do was heat it up in the microwave. Her mother would drink aquavit and wine and get more and more tipsy as the evening wore on. There was always some movie on TV that she wanted to see, but before long she would fall asleep on the sofa. Fanny would have to take Spot out for his evening walk. She hated Christmas. The fact that it was also her birthday didn’t make matters any better. She was going to turn fifteen-that meant she was practically grown up. She felt like a child in an adult’s body. She didn’t want to get any older; she had nothing to look forward to. She leaned her head on her hands, inhaling the scent of her newly washed hair. In some strange way she found that comforting. She looked down at the curve of her breasts. They had caused all the problems; her body had ruined everything. If she hadn’t gotten older, this whole thing would never have happened. Her body was a weapon that could be used both against others and against herself.
And him. Now she mostly felt sick whenever she thought of him. His sweaty hands would paw at her, wanting to get under her clothes; he whimpered and whined like a baby. He wanted to do all sorts of strange things with her, and she didn’t dare protest. She felt disgusted with herself, revolted. He told her that now they were both involved, and she had to keep quiet about what they did together. He talked as if they shared a secret agreement, a pact. But that’s not how it was. Deep in her heart, she knew that. He said that he needed her, that she was important to him, and he gave her presents, which she had a hard time resisting. And that made her feel guilty. She was equally at fault, and she had only herself to blame. But now she didn’t want to go on. She wanted to get away from him, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how to do that. In her day-dreams she wished that someone would come around the corner and rescue her from everything. But no one ever showed up. She wondered what her father would say if he knew.
She went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Spot followed and looked up at her with his sweet eyes. She took out the green box of razor blades and sat down on the toilet seat. Carefully she took out a blade and held it between her fingers. Tears welled up, hot and salty, and rolled down her cheeks to land on her lap. She held out one hand and studied her fingers. What use was this hand? The blue veins ran from her wrist and
