'Are you working tonight?'
She nodded again.
'Do you work every night?'
'Almost,' she said in a low voice.
'Okay, that's your business. Just don't mess the place up. That would make me unhappy.'
Patricia looked at her with wide eyes. 'How do you know you can trust me? You don't know me.'
Annika smiled wryly. 'There's nothing to steal.'
At that moment Pettersson came driving along Gjorwellsgatan; Annika could hear that by the way he stalled at the entrance.
'Take the bus over there on Ralambsvagen. Number sixty-two will take you all the way down Hantverkargatan.'
Patricia stood there looking at the keys.
Annika left her and walked toward the photographer.
'We'll have a thunderstorm tonight,' Pettersson said through the window.
Patricia waved good-bye and walked off. Annika forced a smile in Pettersson's direction. He was some freaking weather prophet too.
'Let's park a little ways away,' she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.
'Why?'
'I'm not a hundred percent sure they're going to like us being there.'
They drove in silence over to the cemetery. The car only stalled twice. They parked in a garage that had its entrance down by Fleminggatan.
Annika slowly walked along Kronobergsgatan up to the park. They were out in good time; the coaches would only have just left Taby. She sat down on a doorstep where she had a good view of the cemetery. The photographer wandered around on the other side of the street.
In the winter I'll wish I was back in this heat, she mused. When the wind is blowing hard and the snow falling, when I'm scraping the ice off the windshield in the morning- then I'll be longing for these days. When I drive into Katrineholm to cover yet another council meeting and talk to some angry women about the closure of another post office, then I'll be remembering this. Here and now. Chaos and murder. The hot city.
She looked straight up at the sky- it was bluer than blue. Beyond the park it was a shade of steely gray, shiny and sharp.
So maybe Pettersson was right, she thought. Maybe we'll have a thunderstorm.
The first coach drove up along Kronobergsgatan at twenty past two. Annika stayed in the doorway while the photographer put on a telephoto lens and started snapping the youngsters as they stepped out of the coach. The other two coaches appeared a few minutes later. Annika got to her feet and brushed off her pants. She swallowed; her mouth was dry. Damn it, she always forgot to bring water with her on assignments. She approached the group slowly, looking out for Martin Larsson-Berg, Lisbeth, and Charlotta. She didn't see them.
The youngsters were loud and seemed aggressive. Several of them were crying. She came to a stop in Sankt Goransgatan. She didn't feel good about this. Despite the distance, she could see that many of the kids looked tired. Their faces were gray with lack of sleep. She crossed the street to Pettersson's side.
'Hey,' she said. 'Let's give this one a miss.'
The photographer lowered his camera and looked at her, surprised. 'Why, for Christ's sakes?'
Annika nodded toward the coaches. 'Look at them. They're hysterical. I don't know if it's healthy to encourage mass psychosis like they do at that youth club. These kids probably haven't been home since last Sunday.'
'But they called us.'
Annika nodded. 'Yeah, they did. This is probably very important to them. But it's our responsibility to use our brains, even if they can't.'
The photographer was getting impatient. 'Goddammit. I'm not going to ditch a job just because you've suddenly developed a conscience.'
The group of youngsters was milling around, spreading out around the cemetery. Annika was still wavering.
At the same moment, Annika saw the car from the rival newspaper drive up and park in Sankt Goransgatan. Arne Pahlson stepped out.
That settled it. 'Come on, then. Let's go closer,' she said to Pettersson.
She approached the cemetery with the photographer in tow, aiming at the wrought-iron arches of the fence. Her mouth was dry as dust as she swallowed, her pulse quickening. When she was a few yards away from the kids, one pointed at her and started screaming.
'There they are. They're here! The vultures! The vultures!' Everybody's attention was directed at the two journalists.
'Is Lisbeth here?' Annika asked, but her voice didn't carry over the noise.
'Beat it, fucking assholes!' a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen screamed at them. He took a few hostile steps toward Annika, who drew back instinctively. The boy's face was swollen from crying and lack of sleep, his whole body shaking with adrenaline and fury. She stared at him, speechless.
'Listen,' she said, 'we didn't mean to intrude-'
A big girl stepped forward and gave Annika's shoulder a hard shove. 'Fucking hyenas!' she bawled, the spit flying.
Annika stumbled backward. She tried to catch the girl's furious gaze with calm. 'Please. Let's try to talk about this-'
'Fucking hyena!' the girl screamed. 'Asshole!'
The group of young people surrounding Annika grew denser. She was frightened. Someone pushed her in the back so she stumbled forward and collided with the big girl.
'What are you doing, bitch?' the girl screamed. 'Are you starting something?'
Annika frantically looked around for Pettersson. Where was he?
'Pettersson!' she cried out. 'Pettersson, where the hell are you?'
His voice reached her from somewhere over by the garage entrance.
'Bengtzon!' he yelled in panic. 'They're trying to take my cameras!'
Suddenly one voice could be heard above all the others. Menacing and frenzied, it cut through the noise.
'Where? Where are they?'
A girl who had grabbed hold of Annika's bag let go of it and turned her attention toward the voice. Annika saw a copy of
The girl was on the verge of collapse. Her eyes were red and the pupils were dilated and dark, and her movements were jerky and uncoordinated. Her hair was dirty and messy and her breathing ragged.
'You… scavenger!' she screamed, and made a lunge at Annika. 'You scumbag!'
With all her might, Charlotta whacked Annika over the head with the paper. Annika instinctively held up her hands as the blows rained down on her. The papers hit her on the arms and across her back while the screams around her rose to a collective roar.
Annika felt all thoughts disappear from her mind as she turned around, pushed kids out of the way, and started running. Away, God help her, away from here, and she heard her own steps thudding on the street. The green of the park flashed past on the right. She sensed Pettersson somewhere behind her, but so were the youths.
The slope down to the garage was pitch-dark after the strong sunlight in the park, and she stumbled.
'Pettersson!' she cried. 'Are you there?'
She had reached the car, and once her eyes had grown used to the dark, she could see the photographer running down the ramp. He had his cameras in one hand, his photographer's vest hung loose from one shoulder, and his hair stood on end.
'They tried to tear my clothes off,' he said, visibly disturbed. 'That was fucking stupid, walking up to
