Tuesday 4 September
Patricia had slept for a few hours when she woke up with a vague sense of unease. She sat up on her mattress, brushed her hair from her face, saw the man, and screamed.
'Who are you?' the guy in the doorway asked. He was crouching and looked at her as if he'd been there for a while.
Patricia pulled up the cover to her chin and backed up against the wall. 'Who are
'I'm Sven. Where's Annika?'
Patricia swallowed and tried to get a grip on the situation. 'I… she… I don't know.'
'Didn't she get back from her holiday yesterday?'
Patricia cleared her throat. 'Yes… Yes, I think so. Her clothes had been hung out to dry when I got home.'
'Home?'
She looked down. 'Annika said I could stay here for a while. I was sharing with a friend who… I didn't see her yesterday. I don't know where she is. She didn't come home last night.'
The words hung in the air, pulsating. Patricia was hit by a monstrous feeling of deja vu.
'Where do you think she is now?'
She had heard that question before; the whole room spun, and she gave the same answer now as then. 'Don't know, maybe she's gone shopping, maybe she's with you…'
The guy gave her a searching look. 'And you don't know when she'll be back?'
She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyelids.
Sven stood up. 'Well, we've established who I am and what I want. Who the hell are you?'
She swallowed. 'I'm Patricia. I got to know Annika when she worked at
The man looked at her closely; she pressed the cover tighter against her chin.
'So you're a journalist too? What do you write about? Have you known her long?'
The unease sent shivers up and down her spine. She had answered so many questions, had been held responsible for so much that had nothing to do with her.
The man moved a few steps closer so that he stood right above her. 'Annika hasn't been herself lately. She thought she'd make some kind of career here in the big city, but it was a nonstarter. Was it you who got her into all this?'
The words flashed through Patricia's mind and she yelled straight back at him, 'I didn't get anyone into anything! No way.' She glared up at the man, who started back.
'Annika will be moving to Halleforsnas soon. I hope you've got somewhere else to go then. I'll be staying here a few days. Tell her I'll be back tonight.'
Patricia heard him walk out of the apartment, the front door shutting. A whimper rose in her mouth; she curled up in a small, hard ball, clutching her hands tightly, desperately.
Hans Snapphane was having coffee and reading the local newspaper when Annika padded into the kitchen.
'There are some boiled eggs on the stove,' he said.
Annika fished one out and ran cold water over it.
'My daughter is still asleep, I imagine?'
Annika nodded and smiled. 'She's worked hard for a long time.'
'I'm glad she got away from there. That place did her no good. This new TV job seems to have decent hours. There are more women in management too.'
Annika glanced at him furtively; he seemed to have a brain.
'Could I use your phone to make a few calls?' she asked as he got up and grabbed his briefcase.
'Sure, but go easy on Jim Steinman for a while, will you? Britt-Inger's working late again tonight.'
He waved to her from the car as he drove off.
Annika gobbled down the egg and sprinted upstairs. She began by phoning the Civil Aviation Administration flight information at Arlanda.
'Hello, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I need to know when a particular flight departed.'
'Sure,' the customer service man said. 'Which one?'
'It's a bit complicated. I only know which gate it left from.'
'That's no problem- if it was today or yesterday, that is.'
'Oh… No, it wasn't. Is it impossible to find out?'
'Have you got the time of departure? We can see the flights one day back and six days ahead.'
Annika's heart sank. 'This was five weeks ago.'
'And all you have is the gate number? That makes it a bit tricky. I can't check that far back, I'm afraid.'
'Don't you have timetables?'
'You'd have to get in touch with the airline. What's it about? Is it an insurance matter?'
'No, not at all.'
They fell silent.
'Well,' the man said, 'you'd have to contact the airline.'
She sighed. 'I don't know which airline it was,' she said glumly. 'Which airlines fly out of Terminal Two?'
The man listed them. 'Maersk Air, a Danish company that runs services to Jutland, among other places; Sabena to Brussels; Alitalia; Delta to the U.S.; Estonian Air; Austrian Airlines; and Finnair.'
Annika jotted down the names of the airlines. 'And do they all fly from all gates by turns?'
'Not really. The international flights usually use gates sixty-five to sixty-eight. Seventy to seventy-three are on the floor below for bus transfers.'
'Gate sixty-five is international?'
'Yes. Customs and the security checkpoint are inside.'
'And sixty-four, what kind of gate is that?'
'Mostly domestic. The gates are in pairs. But that can be altered by moving the doors about in a certain way-'
'Thanks a lot for your help,' Annika said quickly, and rang off.
International indeed… Christer Lundgren traveled abroad on the night of the twenty-seventh of July and returned just after five in the morning on the twenty-eighth.
'So he didn't go to the U.S.,' Annika said out loud, crossing out Delta Airlines.
He could have flown to Jutland, Finland, Brussels, Tallinn, and Vienna and back. The distances were short enough for it to be possible. Italy was more unlikely.
The question was, however, how did he get home in the middle of the night? It must have been a damned
