office. The upholstery reeked so badly of stale smoke that the couch smelled like an ashtray. He stood up again and sat by his desk instead. It was not a nice office. There were no windows; he only got indirect light from the newsroom through the glass walls. Beyond the sports desk he could just make out the contours of a multistory garage. Despondent, he looked at the mountain of boxes that had arrived from Swedish Television the night before.
Jesus, what a lot of crap a man can accumulate, he thought.
He decided to skip the unpacking for the time being. He spread out the paper before him. He slowly read through all the contentious articles. True, he wasn't legally responsible for the publication of the newspaper, but as of today, he knew that he had to learn the mechanisms that shaped it.
Something was not quite right about the terrorist article. How could the reporter be in the right place at exactly the right time? And why would the women speak to him? 'He was tipped off about it,' Spike had explained to him. That didn't make sense. If the group had wanted maximum publicity, they would have told all the media. But they wouldn't have had any control over the material. They must have made some kind of deal or made some special demands.
He would bring it up with the reporter.
The story about the minister wasn't that strange. Ministers could be interviewed for information in connection with various crimes. Personally, he thought the radio program had gone too far in singling out Christer Lundgren as a suspect. As far as he understood, nothing indicated this was the case. Still, a paper like
Schyman sighed.
He might as well get used to it.
Nobody came to the door. Annika pushed the doorbell over and over, but the woman pretended not to be at home. Through the mail drop she could hear the panting dog and the woman's heavy steps.
'I know you're in there!' she called through the mail drop. 'I just want to ask a few questions. Please open the door!'
The footsteps disappeared but she could still hear the dog. She waited another five minutes.
Stupid woman, Annika thought. She rang Daniella Hermansson's doorbell instead. The young mother opened the door, the child on her arm and a bottle in her hand. 'Oh, hi!' Daniella said cheerily. 'Come in! The place is a mess, but you know what it's like when you have kids.'
Annika mumbled something and stepped into the dark hallway. The apartment was long and narrow, meticulously decorated and tidy. Straight ahead were a mirror wall and a rustic-style chest of drawers, a vase of wooden tulips on top. Annika winced when she caught a glimpse of her own face. She looked pale and the skin was taut over her cheekbones. She quickly looked away and took off her shoes.
'Isn't it a marvelous summer we're having?' Daniella chirped from the kitchen. 'Feel free to look around, see what our apartment looks like.'
Annika dutifully had a quick look at the bedroom facing the yard and the living room facing the street. She said it was a lovely apartment. Do you own or rent, it must have been expensive. No- really? What a bargain!
'It's horrible, this thing with Christer Lundgren,' Daniella said while the coffeemaker spluttered next to them on the kitchen table. The child clung to Annika's legs and dribbled on her skirt. She tried to ignore him.
'How do you mean?' She bit into a cracker.
'As if he'd be a murderer? It's so silly. Sure, I know he's tightfisted, but he's no killer.'
'It sounds like you know him personally.'
'Of course I do,' the woman said, offended. 'He's put off the repairs to the facade for a year now. Milk and sugar?'
Annika blinked. 'I'm sorry. I'm not following you.'
'It isn't really his apartment. It belongs to some Social Democratic local paper in Lulea. He's the chairman of the board and he's been using their overnight apartment. He's a real cheapskate.' Daniella topped up Annika's cup.
'You mean he lives in this building!' Annika exclaimed.
'Left stairwell on the fifth floor. He's got a four hundred square foot studio apartment with a balcony. Nice little place. Our apartments are close to fifteen hundred kronor a square foot, you know.'
Annika finished her second cup of coffee and leaned back.
'Jesus. Fifty yards from the murder scene.'
'More coffee?'
'Tightfisted, you said. In what way?'
'I'm the secretary of the board of the condominium. Christer used to be a member of the board. Every time we'd discuss any form of improvements or repairs, he'd oppose them. He absolutely doesn't want the charges to go up. I think it's pathetic. He doesn't even pay for his apartment like the rest of us but is sponging off the party paper. All he pays is the monthly charge- Hello, Skruttis, so you want your momma now?'
Daniella took her son into her arms. He immediately tipped over his mother's cup so that the hot drink flowed over the table and down onto Annika's lap. It didn't burn her but made yet another stain on her skirt.
'It's okay,' Annika said.
When Daniella came running with an evil-smelling dishcloth and tried to wipe her skirt, Annika quickly retreated to the hallway and put her shoes on.
'I have to go,' she said, and left the apartment.
'I'm sorry, Skruttis didn't mean to do it…'
Annika took the stairs to the ground floor and pushed the button for the left elevator. It wasn't working. She groaned and started walking up the stairs. By the time she reached the fourth floor she was exhausted. She had to stop to catch her breath.
I should start taking vitamins, she thought.
She tiptoed up the last set of steps, breathing soundlessly with her mouth open while studying the eight apartment doors. Hessler. Carlsson. Lethander & Son Trading Co. Lundgren. Her eyes landed on the minister's mail slot. The nameplate was handwritten and taped to the mail slot. She approached the door slowly, listening for any noise. She placed her finger on the doorbell, hesitated. Instead she opened the mail slot. Warm air from inside the apartment washed over her face.
At that moment a telephone rang somewhere behind the door. Frightened, she dropped the slot, which closed without a sound. She put her ear against the door. The ringing signal wasn't repeated, so someone must have answered the phone. She caught the sound of a man's mumbling voice. Sweat trickled down her upper lip and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She looked at the mail slot. She shouldn't be doing this.
But then the Social Democrats carried out burglaries and bugged people, she thought. So I can eavesdrop a little.
She stooped down and opened the mail slot again. The air hit her in the face. She turned her head and put her ear against the slot; the draft made a whistling sound.
'They want me to go back for another interview,' she thought she heard the man's voice say.
Silence. She shifted her head to hear better.
'I don't know. It's not good.'
New silence. The sweat trickled between her breasts. When the voice returned again, it was louder, more agitated.
'What the hell do you want me to do? The girl's dead!'
Annika shifted position to be more comfortable, going down on her knees. She thought she heard someone clearing his throat and steps, then the voice again, but softer now.
'Yes, yes, I know. I won't say anything… No, I'll never confess. Who the hell do you take me for?'
The door opposite, Hessler, opened slowly. Annika's heart jumped and she quickly and clumsily got to her feet. She resolutely put her finger on the doorbell and glanced at Hessler. The man had to be close to eighty years old, with a small white dog on a lead. He eyed Annika suspiciously.
Annika gave him a big smile. 'Isn't it hot?'
