Patricia lowered her gaze. 'Jossie wanted me to.'
'Why?'
'She was afraid.'
'Of what?'
'I can't tell you.'
But Patricia saw in the journalist's eyes that she knew.
Annika stepped outside in the heat of Dalagatan and screwed up her eyes against the sun. It was a relief to come out of the dark and dingy apartment. Black curtains- that was a bit macabre. She didn't like Josefin's house. She didn't like what she'd found out. Why the hell would she choose to be a stripper?
If she had chosen.
The subway station was just around the corner, so she took it the two stops over to Fridhemsplan. She went out the Sankt Eriksgatan exit and walked past the gym where Josefin and Patricia had met, then took a right up to the murder scene. Two small bunches of flowers were by the entrance. Annika had a suspicion they'd soon be accompanied by many more. She stood for a while next to the fence. It was just as hot as the day before and she soon got thirsty. Just when she had made up her mind to leave, she saw two young women, one blond, one dark, slowly walking toward the park from Drottningholmsvagen. Annika decided to stay. They were dressed in the same miniskirts and high heels; both were chewing gum and had a Pepsi in their hand.
'A girl died in there yesterday,' the blond woman said, and pointed in among the graves as they walked past Annika.
'No kidding?' the dark one said, eyes open wide.
The first one nodded in a bossy way and waved her hand around. 'She lay in there, completely cut open. She'd been raped after she was killed.'
'That's awful.'
They stopped a few yards away, engrossed in the dark shadows among the stones. After a minute or so, they were both crying.
'We've got to leave a message,' the blond woman said.
They dug out a piece of paper from one bag, a pen from another. The blonde leaned on the other's back to write the note. Then they dried their tears and walked off toward the subway.
When they'd disappeared around the corner, Annika walked over and read the note:
'We miss you.'
At that moment she saw a team from the Rival step out of a car parked by the playground on Kronobergsgatan. She turned around and quickly walked down Sankt Goransgatan; she most definitely did not want to stand around chatting to Arne Pahlson.
On her way down to the 56 bus stop, she walked past Daniella Hermansson's street door, the cheery mother who always slept with her window open. She fished out her pad- yes, she had the entry code jotted down next to Daniella's address. Without deliberating any further, she punched in the code and entered the building.
The current of air that hit her was so cold that she shivered. She stopped to hear the street door close behind her. The entrance was decorated with murals with park motifs.
Daniella lived on the third floor. Annika took the elevator. She rang the doorbell but nobody answered. She looked at her watch: ten past three. Daniella was most likely in the park with her kid.
She sighed. The day hadn't been particularly productive so far. Especially in terms of material she could write about. She looked around the hallway. There were a lot of doors, so the apartments had to be small. On the mailboxes were the names of the tenants in plastic lettering that had turned yellow. Annika walked up and studied the one nearest to her. Svensson, she read. She might as well get some reactions from other neighbors now that she was here.
Annika rang the Svenssons' bell, and through the narrow crack that opened came the stench of acrid BO. Annika took a step back. A shapeless woman in a mauve and turquoise polyester dress peered out through the opening: myopic eyes, gray tangle of greasy hair. She was holding a fat little mutt of indeterminable breed.
'Excuse me for disturbing you. I'm from the newspaper
'We haven't done anything.' The woman gave Annika a frightened look.
'No, of course not,' Annika said politely. 'I'm just knocking on the doors of this house to hear how people in the neighborhood are reacting to a crime being committed nearby.'
The woman pulled the door closed a bit. 'I don't know anything.'
Annika started regretting disturbing the woman; maybe it wasn't such a good idea. 'Perhaps you haven't heard that a young woman was murdered in the park,' she said calmly. 'I thought the police might have been here and-'
'They were here yesterday.'
'So then they would have asked-'
'It wasn't Jasper!' the woman cried out unexpectedly, making Annika take an involuntary step back. 'There was nothing I could do to stop him! And I don't believe the minister had anything at all to do with it!'
The woman slammed the door on Annika. Jesus, what had happened?
A door at the other end of the hallway opened a crack. 'What's going on?' an old man's irritated voice sounded.
Annika picked up her pad and took the stairs down. Well out on the street, she started walking to the right without looking at the park.
'Thanks for feeding the cats.'
Anne Snapphane was back and was sitting on her chair with her feet on the desk.
'How was Gotland?' Annika asked, dropping her bag on the floor.
'Scorching. Like having a fire next to a pizza oven. But they've got it under control now. But what the hell's happened to you?'
'What?' Annika said, not understanding.
'You've got a great big cut above your eye!'
Annika's hand flew up to her left eyebrow. 'Oh, that. I hit my head on the bathroom cabinet this morning. Guess where I've been.'
'At the murder victim's house?'
Annika smiled broadly and sat down.
'Well, I never,' Anne said.
'Have you had lunch?'
They went to the cafeteria.
'So tell me about it,' Anne Snapphane said with curiosity, loading a big forkful of pasta shells into her mouth.
Annika reflected. 'Her roommate's an immigrant, or first-generation Swedish. From South America, is my guess. A bit odd, believes in astrology, but I like her.'
'And what was Josefin like?'
Annika put down her fork. 'I don't know. I can't figure her out. Patricia says she was really smart, the deputy principal that she was a stupid blonde, and her classmate Charlotta didn't seem to know the first thing about her. She wanted to be a journalist and help children, and at the same time she worked as a stripper.'
'Stripper?'
'Her boyfriend runs some kind of strip joint.
'But that's that radio show. Boring old P3 trying to be intellectual. I hate it.'
Annika nodded. 'Yep. Joachim, the boyfriend, apparently thought it was hilarious. Studio 69 must be the most pretentious radio show around.'
'If his aim was to bait those hotshots at the radio station, it points to a certain degree of intelligence.'
