can help each other out here. Where have you got stuck?’
‘Before I’ve even started.’
‘Take it from scratch. One. There’s a serial killer on the loose, that’s the angle for the front page. Start with the summary, describe the deaths in Norrland, the quotes in the letters.’
‘I’m not allowed to,’ she said, and typed, ‘serial killer, describe Lulea’.
‘Well, just balance the information as best you can. Two. Bring in the murder of the Osthammar politician, that’s new and we’ve got an exclusive on that. The wife’s story, police work. Was it murder?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good. Three. Then you link Osthammar to Lulea and describe the police’s desperate search for the killer. You’ve got the front page, six, seven, eight, nine; and the centrefold for your old terrorist – we’ve already put him in.’
She made no response, just sat there in silence listening to the noises behind the editor’s voice, a newsreader speaking on the television, a phone ringing, the tapping of a keyboard. The press – a symphony of efficiency and cynicism.
She could see Gunnel Sandstrom in front of her, her wine-coloured cardigan and soft cheeks, and suddenly felt a huge, infinite sense of powerlessness.
‘Okay,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry about pictures,’ Jansson said. ‘We’ll fix that here. There was a bit of fuss about the fact that you went to Osthammar without a photographer, but I explained that you went on a hunch and had no idea you were going to get a hole-in-one. We’ve sorted pictures of the farm, the old girl didn’t want to be in them, but we’ve got the boy’s mother and the editor-in-chief of the
‘That’s right,’ Annika said quietly.
‘Any chance of a shot of the letters?’
‘Tonight? Difficult. But it wouldn’t be too hard to mock something up, you’ve got all the details.’
‘Pelle!’ Jansson yelled in the direction of the picture desk. ‘Studio shot of some letters, right away.’
‘Ordinary “Sverige” envelopes,’ Annika said, ‘stamps with an ice-hockey player on. The contents are just lined A4 pages from a pad, with slightly ragged edges like when you can’t be bothered to use the perforations, text written in ballpoint, every other line, filling up about half the page.’
‘Anything else?’
‘For God’s sake, make sure you say that the picture’s a mock-up.’
‘Yeah, yeah. When do we get your stuff?’
She looked at the time, on solid ground again.
‘When do you want it?’
26
Thomas emerged from the pitch-black interior of the jazz club onto the illuminated street, his legs soft with beer and his brain vibrating with music. He wasn’t really into jazz, was more of a Beatles man, but the band tonight were good, talented, tuneful, and had real feeling in their music.
Behind him he heard Sophia’s ringing laughter, her response to something the guy in the cloakroom had said. She knew everyone there, was a real regular, which is how they got the best table. He let the door swing shut, buttoned his coat and turned his back to the wind as he waited for her. The noise of the city had no rhythm, it sounded out of tune after the soft jazz. He looked up at the neon lights of the signs above him, feeling his skin reflecting pink and green and blue, fumes in his hair.
She was so at ease with life, so happy – her laughter ran like a silvery spring stream over the dark floor of the club, over the heavy conference table. She was ambitious and dutiful and quietly spoken and grateful for what life gave her. With her he felt happy, satisfied. She respected him, listened to him, took him seriously. He never had to justify who he was, she never moaned or nagged, she seemed genuinely interested when he talked about his parents and childhood in Vaxholm. And she sailed as well; her family had a place on Moja.
He turned round to see her step out of the darkness and take a few tentative moves down the steps in her neat little boots and tight skirt.
‘There’s going to be a jam on Friday,’ Sophia said. ‘That gets massive sometimes. Once I was here until half six the next morning. It was brilliant.’
He smiled into her warm eyes, sucked into the sheer blueness of them. She stood in front of him and pulled up her shoulders, put her feet close together and burrowed her hands deep into her coat pockets, smiling up at his face.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, noticing that his mouth was completely dry.
She carried on smiling as she shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly warm.’
He gave in and pulled her to him. Her head was just under his nose. She was taller than Annika. Her hair smelled of apples. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. A violent jolt went through his body, so hot and rigid that it took his breath away, making him gasp.
‘Thomas,’ she whispered against his chest, ‘if only you knew how much I’ve been longing for this.’
He gulped and closed his eyes, holding her even tighter, absorbing her smell, apples and perfume and the wool of her coat, then relaxed and saw her turn her face to his. He was breathing through his mouth as he stared into her eyes, saw the pupils contract, noticing that she was panting.
And he leaned forward and kissed her, endlessly slowly and carefully. Her lips were cold and tasted of gin and menthol cigarettes. Shivers ran up and down his spine. Then she took a little step towards him, almost imperceptible, but their teeth met and the warmth from her mouth entered his and a moment later he thought he was going to explode. Good God, he had to have this woman now.
‘Do you want to come home with me?’ she whispered against his neck.
He could only nod.
She let go of him and hailed a taxi, with her usual success. They stepped apart, she adopted a look that said sensible Federation of County Councils representative, adjusted her hair, and simultaneously sent him a radiant glance across the roof of the car. They climbed in their respective back doors; she gave the driver the address of her flat on Ostermalm. Then they sat in their corners of the back seat with their hands clasped hard together beneath her handbag as the taxi rattled them through the city centre and up towards Karlaplan.
He paid with his business account, signing with trembling fingers.
She lived at the top of a magnificent building from 1898. The marble staircase was discreetly lit by soft brass lamps; a thick carpet swallowed their steps as she quickly pulled him towards the lift. They closed the ornamental gate and she pressed the button for the sixth floor, then pulled off his coat. He let it fall to the floor, not caring if it got dirty, and took off her coat and jacket and blouse, filling his hands with her breasts. She moaned gently against his shoulder, both of her hands massaging his groin. Then she found the zip, opened it and pulled his erection out of his underwear. He couldn’t help closing his eyes and leaning back, afraid he was going to faint.
Then the lift stopped with a jolt, she kissed him and laughed into his mouth.
‘Well, project leader, come on. We’re nearly there.’
They gathered their clothes and bags and briefcases and tumbled out of the lift. She hunted for the keys in her handbag, and he ran his tongue over the back of her neck as she unlocked the door.
‘I have to turn the alarm off,’ she whispered.
After a few bleeping sounds they were in her hallway, his hands caressing her naked waist. They moved upwards and found her breasts, she pressed her body against him before turning round and pulling him with her onto the floor of the hall.
Her eyes were radiant, her breathing light and urgent, and as he pushed into her she held his gaze and he was lost, drowning, wanted to carry on drowning until he died, then he died and everything went black for a
