Annika and Berit listened expectantly to the noise and the electronic tones for a minute, and then a male voice on Channel 2 South dispersed the electronic mist:
'This is 2110.'
The call was from a police car from the southern suburb of Skarholmen.
The response came after a second: 'Yes, 2110. We read you.'
'We need an ambulance to the address in question, a bag car, really…'
The noise took over for a moment. Annika and Berit looked at each other in silence. 'Bag car' was another phrase for hearse. The 'address' had to be Satra Hall because nothing else was happening in the south suburbs at that moment. The police often used that kind of language when they didn't want to spell things out over the radio. They'd say 'the place' or 'the address' and suspects were often called 'the subject.'
The control room replied: '2110, ambulance or bag car? Over.'
Annika and Berit both leaned forward. The answer was crucial.
'Ambulance, over.'
'One dead, but not quite as badly smashed up as Furhage,' Annika said.
Berit nodded.
'The head is still attached to the body, but the person's dead,' she commented.
For a police officer to be authorized to pronounce someone dead, the head has to be severed from the body. It was a pretty reliable indicator of someone's demise. This was obviously not the case here, even if it was evident that the victim was dead. Otherwise the police officer wouldn't have talked of a hearse, the 'bag car.' Annika went out to the desk.
'There's a victim,' she said.
Everyone around the desk where the paper was edited during the night stopped whatever he or she was doing and looked up.
'What makes you think that?' Spike said woodenly.
'The police radio,' Annika replied. 'I'll call Patrik.'
She turned around and went to her office. Patrik answered on the first signal, as always; he must have been holding the cellphone in his hand.
'What's it like?' Annika asked.
'Shit, the place is crawling with cop cars!' the reporter roared.
'Can you get past the cordons?' Annika said, forcing herself not to raise the level of her voice above normal.
'Not a chance in hell,' Patrik bellowed. 'They've cordoned off the entire complex and grounds around it.'
'Any reports of casualties?'
'What?'
'Any reports of casualties?!'
'Why are you shouting? No, no casualties, there are no ambulances or hearses here.'
'There's one on its way. We heard it over the radio. Stay put and report to Spike. I'm going home now.'
'What?' he roared down the line.
'I'm going home now. You report to Spike!' Annika yelled back.
'Okay!'
Annika hung up and then saw Berit in the doorway, grinning.
'You don't have to tell me who you were talking to,' she said.
She came home to the apartment on Hantverkargatan just after eight. She'd taken a taxi and had been seized with a severe dizziness in the backseat. The driver was angry because of something the paper had written and was going on about the responsibility of reporters and the autocratic ways of politicians. That was the problem with the company charge card. Half the drivers felt obliged to sound off as soon as they knew they had someone from the paper on board.
'Talk to one of the editors. I'm just the cleaner,' Annika had said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. The dizziness turned into a feeling of sickness as the car weaved its way through traffic on Norr Malarstrand.
'Are you not feeling well?' Thomas asked when he appeared in the hallway with a dish towel in his hand.
She sighed heavily. 'I'm just a bit dizzy,' she said and pushed the hair away from her face with both hands. Her hair felt greasy- she had to wash it in the morning. 'Any food left?'
'Didn't you eat at work?'
'Half a salad. A news break got in the way.'
'It's on the table- fillet of pork and roast potatoes.'
Thomas flipped the dish towel onto his shoulder and started walking back to the kitchen.
'Are the kids asleep?'
'An hour ago. They were wiped out. Ellen might have caught something. Was she tired this morning?'
Annika tried to remember. 'Not particularly. A bit clingy, perhaps. I had to carry her to the bus.'
'You know, I can't take any time off work right now,' Thomas said. 'If she gets ill, you'll have to stay home with her.'
Annika felt anger surge up within.
'But I can't stay at home right now, surely you know that. There's been another Olympic killing tonight, didn't you hear the news?'
Thomas turned around.
'Shit! No, I only heard the afternoon
Annika entered the kitchen; it looked like a bomb site. But a plate of food was waiting for her on the table. Thomas had put potatoes, meat, gravy, sauteed mushrooms, and iceberg lettuce on her plate. Next to the plate was a beer, which a couple of hours ago would have been ice cold. She put the plate in the microwave and set it for three minutes.
'You won't be able to eat the lettuce,' Thomas said.
'I've been wrong all along,' Annika said. 'I've made the paper suppress anything about terrorism because I've been getting the opposite information from the police. It seems I've been well and truly conned. There's been another explosion at Satra Hall tonight.'
Thomas sat down at the table, throwing the dish towel on the worktop.
'That place? It barely has stands, you couldn't have any Olympic events there.'
Annika poured a glass of water and removed the towel.
'Don't put that on here. It's filthy. Every damn arena in town seems to have been taken over by the Olympics. There are about a hundred facilities associated with the Games one way or another: arenas or training facilities or warm-up tracks.'
The microwave beeped. Annika took out the plate and sat down opposite her husband. She ate in silence, greedily.
'So how was your day?' she asked, opening the tepid beer.
Thomas sighed and stretched his back.
'Well, I had hoped to finish off getting ready for the advisory committee on the 27th, but I didn't manage it. The phone never stops ringing. The regional question's coming on, and I'm happy about that, but it seems some days all I do is sit in meetings and talk on the phone.'
'I'll do the nursery run tomorrow. Maybe you can get some of the work out of the way,' Annika said, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. She chewed the fillet; the microwave had made it tough.
'I was going to look at one of the interim reports now. One of my guys has been working on it for months. It's probably totally unreadable. It usually is when someone spends too long working on it. Hundred percent jargon.'
Annika smiled feebly. Sometimes she was overwhelmed by these feelings of guilt. Not only was she a useless boss and a terrible reporter, but she was also a bad wife and an even worse mother to boot.
'You sit down and read, honey. I'll clear up here.'
He leaned across the table and gave her a kiss.
