'Front and windscreen,' Inspector Suup said without hesitation.

'You must have worked out that this was no ordinary accident. The skull was crushed and his back was broken, all the internal organs mashed up.'

'Quite right, the results of the post mortem came through this afternoon. So someone saw the whole thing?'

'The witness wants to stay completely anonymous.'

'You can't persuade the person in question to contact us?'

'I've already done what I can, but I'm happy to try again. What do you think?'

'If the witness information is correct, which it may well be, then we'll have a premeditated murder on our hands.'

Annika typed the quote directly onto her laptop.

'Can you think of anything off the top of your head that Benny Ekland wrote that could explain why someone wanted him dead?'

'Ekland wasn't afraid of controversy and unpleasantness, so it's not impossible. But I wouldn't be doing my job if I speculated like that at this point. If the witness information is correct, and I mean if, then obviously we'd be open to any possible motive.'

'Are you in charge of the investigation?'

'No, I'm only the PR guy these days, but I'm the one you need to talk to. The preliminary investigation was allocated to Andersson, in the prosecutor's office, I think, but she's been in court all day so I don't imagine she knows anything about this yet.'

When they had hung up Annika found her way to the newsroom. In a narrow room full of long tables and static electricity she found a group of lethargic editors, all white faces and evasive eyes.

'We have to talk,' she told the night editor.

With surprising ease the fat man got up and walked ahead of her through the room, past the sports desk, and opened the door to a small s.p.a.ce that functioned as the smoking area.

Annika stopped in the doorway; the stench was awful. The man lit a cigarette and coughed violently.

'I gave up nine years ago,' he said, 'but yesterday morning I started again.'

She took a step forward, leaving the door ajar. The walls closed in around her. She was having difficulty breathing.

'What's this about?' Pekkari said, blowing a sad little plume of smoke towards the ventilation unit.

'Benny was murdered,' Annika said, her heart racing. 'I have a witness who saw how he died. The police have confirmed that the witness's story matches what they know so far. Do we have to stay in here?'

The editor stared at her like he'd seen a ghost, holding his cigarette motionless, halfway to his mouth.

'Please?' Annika said, unable to wait, as she pushed the door open and staggered through it.

She went over to the other corner of the almost empty sports section; one lone reporter looked up anxiously from his large computer screen.

'Hi,' Annika said.

'Hi,' the man replied, then looked down again.

'Murdered?' Pekkari whispered in her ear. 'You're kidding?'

'Not at all. I'll write the article, and you can publish it in its entirety, but you don't get to release it to the agencies. We get to do that.'

'Why would you give away something like that?'

'Call it solidarity,' Annika said, concentrating on getting her pulse rate down. 'Besides, we don't exactly share the same readers. We're not compet.i.tors, we complement each other.'

'I'll get our guy onto it,' the editor said.

'No,' Annika said. 'My byline. This is my story, but you can publish it.'

He looked at her in astonishment.

'That's one I owe you,' he said.

'I know,' Annika said, and went back to her laptop.

Thursday 12 November

11.

Anne Snapphane woke up with a dull ache in her head and white lights in her eyes. Her mouth tasted disgusting and there was a terrible noise coming from under the bed. After much confusion, her brain finally worked out that it was the phone ringing. Her hand fumbled clumsily beside the bed and eventually caught the spiral cord of the receiver. She lifted it to her mouth with a groan.

'Have you seen the paper?' Annika said on the other end. 'It's f.u.c.ked. If I didn't have a mortgage I'd resign today. No, make that yesterday.'

Her voice had a strange echo, like it was. .h.i.tting a gla.s.s wall.

'What?' Anne said, a croak that bounced off the ceiling.

'Paula from Pop Factory forced into oral s.e.x,' Annika read with her echoing voice.

Anne tried to sit up.

'Who?'

'I don't know if there's any point in doing this any more,' Annika said. 'I've uncovered the murder of a reporter, possibly with links to terrorism, we're the only ones with the story, and what happens? Radio and television news have led all morning with Benny Ekland, giving us the credit, and what do we decide to run on the front f.u.c.king page? A f.u.c.king b.l.o.w.j.o.b!'

Anne gave up, slumping back onto the pillows, and laid an arm over her eyes. Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer, making her break out in a sweat. A vague feeling of anxiety was turning her stomach.

I shouldn't have had that last one, she thought vaguely.

'Anne?'

She cleared her throat.

'What time is it?'

'Ten or so. I've come out to that b.l.o.o.d.y museum on the airbase again, and do you think the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who runs it is back at work? Like f.u.c.k he is, so I'm sat out here like an idiot.'

She made no effort to understand, merely accepted that she had lost it. Again.

'That's bad,' she agreed.

'Are you coming this evening?'

Anne rubbed her forehead several times, trying to remember what they'd agreed.

'Can we talk later? I was just-'

'I'll be home after five.'

She dropped the receiver on the floor, where it lay emitting a dead buzzing sound. Carefully she opened her eyes again, forced herself to look at the empty s.p.a.ce beside her.

He wasn't there. Not any more. She looked up at the ceiling, then across at the window. She remembered his smell, his laughter, and those angry little wrinkles. The gradual realization that he would no longer be with her had left her stiff, numb and cold. They had a deal, an agreement. A wonderful child, a shared life, the perfect mix of freedom and responsibility. No guilt, no demands, just care and support. Separate homes, their daughter spending a week at one, then the other, with a few shared evenings and weekends, Christmases and birthdays.

She had kept her part of the bargain; never let any other man get too close.

But then he went and moved in with a radically monogamous woman from Swedish Television who believed in coupledom and true love.

If only the other woman had been different, Anne thought vaguely. If only she'd been nice and pet.i.te and blond and pretty and inoffensive. If only he'd picked someone for something I didn't have, but she was the same. Same sort of look, even pretty much the same job If only she'd been nice and pet.i.te and blond and pretty and inoffensive. If only he'd picked someone for something I didn't have, but she was the same. Same sort of look, even pretty much the same job. The sense of betrayal was somehow magnified. It wasn't because there was anything superficially wrong with her, Anne. No, she was wrong as a person. Her att.i.tude to life was wrong, her affections and loyalties.

As tears of self-pity started to bubble up, she forced them back with sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-minded will-power.

He wasn't worth it.

Annika was clenching her jaw so hard it hurt.

She was not going to cry, not because of this. Not because of the stupid priorities of the nightshift. It was like being a trainee again, only worse. Then, more than nine years ago, she had had no idea of context, was able to excuse errors of judgement and getting trampled on by management by thinking she obviously hadn't understood. There must have been a higher purpose that she was unaware of, and if she could only concentrate hard enough she'd understand. She had taken pride in being open and willing to learn, not smug, ignorant and critical like a lot of beginners.

Now she knew how things worked, and the knowledge paralysed her.

Sometimes she got the impression that it was just about money. If it was just as lucrative to sell drugs, the proprietors would have done that instead. Other days things felt better. She could see the connections in the way she had been taught, commercialism guaranteed freedom of expression and democracy, the newspaper was produced according to the wishes of the readers, and the income secured continued publication.

She eased her rigid grip of the steering wheel, forcing herself to calm down. F21 disappeared behind her as she pulled onto the long straight leading to the main road. She dialled the police station, but Inspector Suup's line was busy, and he already had calls waiting.

It doesn't matter how good I am, she thought, failing to stifle her bitterness. The thought grew and blossomed into a sentence before she could stop it: The truth isn't interesting, only the fantasy it can construct The truth isn't interesting, only the fantasy it can construct.

To stop herself wallowing in self-pity, and to stay on the line, she started asking the poor and increasingly stressed receptionist a pointless series of questions about the organization of the police station. The trick was to keep talking to the receptionist until the extension was free.

'I can put you in the queue now,' the receptionist said when Suup had ended one of his calls.

She was put on hold, but at least it was silent. An electronic version of 'Fur Elise' would have pushed her over the edge.

She had already pa.s.sed the roundabout at Bergnaset before there was a click on the line and it was her turn.

'Well, I owe you a debt of thanks,' Inspector Suup said. 'Linus Gustafsson's mother called us at seven this morning to say that her son is the secret witness in the Norrland News Norrland News today. She said you'd tried to persuade the boy to talk to the police or another adult about what he'd seen; she was pleased about that. She said that the boy hadn't been himself since Sunday night not sleeping or eating properly, not wanting to go to school . . .' today. She said you'd tried to persuade the boy to talk to the police or another adult about what he'd seen; she was pleased about that. She said that the boy hadn't been himself since Sunday night not sleeping or eating properly, not wanting to go to school . . .'

She felt a tentative sense of calm. 'That's good to hear. What do you think about his story?'

'I haven't spoken to him myself, I've been stuck on the phone since you released the story to the agencies, but our officers have been at the scene with him and he seems credible.'

'Quick work,' Annika said, trying to sound impressed.

'They wanted to strike while it was still dark, to get the same conditions as the time of the crime, and before the media storm broke. They seem to have made it.'

'And . . . ?' she said, braking at a red light just before the Bergnas bridge.

'Let's just say that the investigation has gone from hit-and-run to premeditated murder.'

'Are you going to call in the national murder unit?'

The reply was ambiguous. 'We'll have to see what we turn up after the first day or so . . .'

The traffic light turned green. She slid over the junction with Granuddsvagen.

'Benny had written a whole series of articles on terrorism in recent months,' Annika said. 'I'm actually on my way back from F21 right now. Do you think his death could have something to do with the article he wrote about the attack out there, or anything else he wrote?'

'I don't want to speculate. Can you hold on a moment?'

He didn't wait for her to reply. There was a dull thud in her ear as the inspector put the phone down and crossed the floor, then the sound of a door closing.

'But on the other hand,' he said, back on the line, 'there is something that I've spoken to Captain Pettersson about this morning that concerns you.'

She took her foot off the accelerator in sheer shock.

'I don't want to discuss it on the phone,' the inspector went on. 'Have you got time to come up here this afternoon?'

She shook her arm vigorously to get her watch to slide out of the sleeve of her coat.

'Not really,' she said, 'my plane leaves at two fifty-five and I have to get over to the Norrland News Norrland News before that.' before that.'

'Okay, I'll meet you there,' he said. 'We've got a team there now, and I've just promised that I'd go and talk to them about what we're looking for.'

The receptionist's face was puffy from crying. Annika approached cautiously and respectfully, well aware that she was disturbing her.

'The paper's closed to visitors,' the woman snapped. 'Come back tomorrow.'

'My name's Annika Bengtzon,' Annika said gently. 'I'm the one who-'

'Is there something wrong with your hearing?' the woman said, getting up, visibly trembling. 'We're in mourning today, in mourning mourning; one of our reporters has . . . left us. So we're closed. All day. Go away.'