no to the question would mean that the consignments will be made.'
Karina breathed quietly down the phone. 'Maybe you should talk to the reporter yourself.'
Goddamn it, he had to fire this woman. She was brain-dead. 'No, Karina. It's your job to formulate this in the appropriate manner so that my intention is conveyed with an accurate quotation. What do you think you're being paid forty thousand kronor a month to do?'
He switched off before she had time to reply. To be on the safe side, he turned off the phone and threw it into the bag.
The silence was oppressive. Slowly, the sounds of the vehicle increased inside the car: the whining of the seal, the asphalt, the wheezing of the fan. Exasperated, he tore open his top two shirt buttons and turned on the radio again. He couldn't stand the prank phone calls on P3 so he pressed a station at random and got Radio Rix. Some old hit rolled out of the speakers; one he recognized from his youth. He had some kind of memory related to this tune but couldn't place it. Some girl, probably. He resisted an impulse to switch the radio off- anything was better than the racket the car was making.
It was going to be a long night.
The subediting crowd tumbled in just before seven, noisy as ever. Their chief, Jansson, parked himself opposite Spike at the desk. Annika and Berit had just returned from the canteen- known as the Seven Rats- both having eaten beef stew.
The food sat heavily with Annika and gave her a stomachache. The boisterous subs weren't helping. She wasn't getting anywhere with her calls. She couldn't get hold of the tipster. The police press officer was kind and had the patience of a saint, but he didn't know anything. She'd spoken to him three times during the afternoon. He didn't know who the woman was, when or how she had died, or when he would find out. It all made Annika nervous and probably contributed to the stomachache.
She had to find out something about the woman for the front page, or her name wouldn't be getting on it either.
'Take it easy,' Berit advised her. 'We'll get there. And tomorrow is another day. If we don't get hold of the name, no one else will either.'
Of course, TV2's
Next came the Gotland forest fire, with exactly the same news assessment
After the fire, there wasn't much in the way of news. There was a labored piece on the election campaign's making a false start. Annika thought they could have run this about six months ago. The Social Democratic prime minister, hand in hand with his new wife, was walking across the square in his Sodermanland hometown. Annika smiled when she saw the sign of her old workplace in the background. The prime minister gave a brief comment to the former party secretary's article about the IB affair.
'It's not an issue we want to drag with us into the twenty-first century,' he said wearily. 'We're going to get to the bottom of this matter. If the need arises, we shall order a review.'
Then they'd dug out a feature they must have had on file. The public service network, Sveriges Television, had sent their masterly Russia correspondent to the Caucasus to report on the long and bloody conflict in one of the old Soviet republics there. This is the advantage of the silly season, Annika thought. They show things on the news programs that you'd never get to see normally.
The aging president of the republic was interviewed. He surprised the reporter by answering the questions in Swedish.
'I was posted in the Soviet embassy in Stockholm from 1970 to 1973,' he said with a strong accent.
'Amazing,' Annika said.
The president was deeply concerned. Russia was supplying the rebels with arms and ammunition, whereas he suffered under the international weapons embargo imposed on his country by a UN decree. He had been the target of repeated assassination attempts, and on top of all this he had a heart condition.
'My country is suffering,' he said in Swedish, and stared straight into the camera. 'Children are dying. This is wrong.'
Christ, what a world, Annika thought, and went to get a mug of coffee. When she returned, the news program had moved on to the smaller domestic news items: a car crash in Enkoping; a young woman found dead in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm; the strike among air-traffic controllers that had been averted after the union had accepted the final offer of the arbitrator. The bulletins were read in rapid succession, accompanied by nondescript archive footage. Some cameraman had apparently dragged himself over to Kungsholmen as a few seconds of blue- and-white police tape and park foliage appeared on the screen. That was all there was.
Annika gave a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy.
Patricia was cold. She hugged herself and pulled her feet up on the seat. A combination of exhaust fumes and pollen was being whisked around by the air-conditioning. She sneezed.
'Have you got a cold?' the guy in the front passenger seat asked. He was kind of cute but he was wearing a hideous shirt. No style. She liked older guys, though; they were less eager.
'No,' she replied morosely. 'I have allergies.'
'We'll be there in a minute.'
The woman driving the car was a real bitch. She was one of those women cops who had to be twice as tough as the guys to get respect. She'd said a stiff hello to Patricia and after that had ignored her.
She's looking down on me, Patricia thought. She thinks she's better than me.
The bitch had driven along Karlbergsvagen and was crossing Norra Stationsgatan. Only buses and taxis were allowed to do this, but she didn't seem to care. They drove under the West Circular and entered the Karolinska Institute grounds the back way. They rolled past redbrick buildings from different periods; it was a town within the town. There wasn't a soul around- it was Saturday night, after all. The rust-colored palace of the Tomteboda School towered on the hill above them to the left. She turned right and parked in a small parking lot. The guy in the loud shirt got out and opened the door for Patricia.
'You can't open it from the inside,' he said.
She couldn't move. She sat with her feet drawn up on the seat, her knees under her chin. Her teeth were rattling.
This isn't happening, she thought. It's just a bunch of bad omens. Think positive thoughts. Think positive thoughts…
The air was so dense that it didn't penetrate her lungs. It stopped somewhere at the back of her throat, thickening, choking her.
'I can't do it. What if it's not her?'
'We'll soon know that,' the guy said. 'But I understand if it's hard for you. Come on, I'll help you out of the car. Do you want something to drink?'
She shook her head but accepted the hand he was holding out to her. She climbed out onto the asphalt on shaky legs. The bitch had started down a small path, the gravel crunching under her feet.
'I feel sick,' Patricia said.
'Here, have some chewing gum,' the guy said.
Without replying, she stretched out her hand and took a Stimorol.
'It's down here,' he said.
