the thing to have women in such positions at the time. Then I had a stint on the foreign desk, and now I'm here.'
'Where have you liked it the best?'
'I enjoy writing the most- doing the research and finding my way through something. I like it a lot at the crime desk. I can do my own thing, pretty much. I often dig out my own stuff. Pass me those cuttings, will you? Thanks.'
Annika stood up and walked over to her desk. Anne Snapphane hadn't returned. The place seemed empty and quiet when she was gone.
Annika's Mac had gone into some kind of power-saving state; the loud sound when it restarted made her jump. She quickly wrote what Daniella Hermansson had said to her: intro, body text, and a caption. Then she filed her copy into the list of stories held on the newsroom server. That's it! Great!
She was just off to get some coffee when her phone rang. It was Anne Snapphane.
'I'm at Visby Airport!' she shouted. 'Was it a murder in the park?'
'You bet,' Annika said. 'Naked and strangled. What are you doing on Gotland?'
'Forest fire. The whole island's going up.'
'The whole island? Or just nearly all of it?'
'Details. I'll be away until tomorrow, maybe longer. Can you feed the cats?'
'Haven't you got rid of them yet?' Annika said tartly.
Anne ignored her. 'Can you change the cat litter as well?'
'Sure…'
They hung up.
Why can I never say no? Annika thought, and sighed. She went to the cafeteria and bought coffee and a can of mineral water. With the coffee in one hand and the water in the other, she restlessly paced the newsroom. The air-conditioning didn't quite make it all the way up here, so the air wasn't much cooler than outside. Spike was on the phone, of course, two big patches of sweat in his armpits. Bertil Strand stood over by the picture desk talking to Pelle Oscarsson, the picture editor. She went up to them.
'Are those the photos from Kronoberg Park?'
Oscarsson double-clicked on an icon on his big screen. The deep green of the park filled the entire surface. The harsh sunlight put flecks all over the scene. Granite gravestones floated between the wrought-iron bars. A woman's whole leg could be discerned at the center of the picture.
'It's good. Disturbing,' Annika said spontaneously.
'Wait until you see this one,' Picture Pelle said, and clicked again.
Annika recoiled as the clouded eyes of the woman met her own.
'These are the first few pics,' Bertil Strand said. 'Lucky I moved, wasn't it?'
Annika swallowed. 'Daniella Hermansson?'
Picture Pelle clicked a third time. A tense Daniella with the boy in her arms looking up toward the park with frightened eyes.
'Great,' Annika said.
' 'It could have been me,'' Picture Pelle said.
'How did you know that's what she said?' Annika said in surprise.
'That's what they always say,' Pelle said smugly.
Annika walked on.
The doors at the editorial end of the office were all shut. She had not seen the editor in chief today. Come to think of it, she had barely seen him all week. The subeditors hadn't arrived yet. The men responsible for the layout of the paper usually turned up after seven in the evening, sunburned and drowsy after a long afternoon in the Ralambshov Park. They would start the night by guzzling two pints of black coffee each, rant about all the mistakes in yesterday's paper, and then set to work. They would try out headlines, cut copy, and clatter away at their Macs until the paper went to print at six in the morning. Annika was a little scared of them. They were loud and brash, but their skill and professionalism were great. Many of them lived for the newspaper; they worked for four nights and had four off, year in, year out. The schedule rolled on over Christmas, Easter, and Midsummer Day, four off, four on. Annika didn't know how they could stand it.
She walked over to the empty sports desk. The Eurosports Channel was showing on a TV in a corner. She stopped in front of the large windows at the far end and stood gazing at the multistory garage opposite. The concrete looked as if it were steaming in the heat. If she put her face right up to the windowpane and looked to the left, she could just make out the Russian embassy. She leaned her forehead against the glass and marveled at how cool it was. Her sweat left a sticky patch on the pane and she tried to wipe it off with her hand. She drank the last of the mineral water. It tasted metallic. She slowly walked back across the newsroom floor, an intense feeling of happiness gradually spreading inside her.
She was here. She'd been accepted. She was one of them.
It's going to work, she thought.
It was after three and time to call the police.
'We don't know enough yet,' came the terse answer from a lieutenant at the duty desk of the criminal investigation department, Krim. 'Call the press officer.'
The police press officer had nothing to say.
The police communications center confirmed that they had dispatched patrol cars to Kronoberg Park, but she already knew that. The emergency services control room reconfirmed that they had received a police call from a private person at 12:48 P.M. There was no telephone subscription at the care-of address the tipster had given.
Annika let out a sigh. She pulled out her pad and leafed through it. Her eyes landed on the fleet number of the Hawaiian detective's car. She gave it a moment's thought, then phoned the police communications center again. The car belonged to Krim at the Norrmalm precinct. She called there.
'That car's out on loan,' the officer on duty informed her after checking a list.
'To whom?' Annika wondered, her pulse quickening.
'Krim, the criminal investigation department- they haven't got their own cars. There's been a death on Kungsholmen today, you see.'
'Yes, I've heard about that. Do you know anything about it?'
'Not my turf. Kungsholmen's in the Sodermalm District. My guess is it's already with Krim.'
'The guy who borrowed the car has short blond hair and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Do you know who that is?'
'That must be Q.'
'Q?' Annika echoed.
'That's what he's called. He's a captain in the Krim. There's another call coming in…'
Annika thanked the officer and ended the call. She phoned the switchboard again.
'I'd like to speak to Q in the Krim.'
'Who?' the operator said, puzzled.
'A captain called Q who works in the Krim.'
She heard the operator groan. It was probably as hot there as it was at the paper.
'One moment, please…'
The signals went through. Annika was just about to hang up when someone answered in a gruff voice.
'Is this the Krim?' she inquired.
Another groan. 'Yes, this is the Krim. What's this about?'
'I'm looking for Q.'
'Speaking.'
Bingo!
'I wanted to apologize. My name is Annika Bengtzon. I ran into you today in Kronoberg Park.'
The man sighed. She heard a scraping noise in the background, as if he was sitting down on a chair.
'Which paper are you with?'
