Exposed (37 page)

Expensive, though, she thought, remembering the fuss about the cost of the Prime Minister’s private flights. Chartered flights had to be paid for, and she doubted Christer Lundgren would have footed the bill. It would be against his religion.

She looked up, out through Hans Snapphane’s office window. Off to the right she could just make out one of the commonest sort of house in Piteå, a red, wooden, single-storey building from the seventies. In front of her, on the other side of the street, was a larger white
brick building with dark, stained gables. Beyond that she could see a small patch of forest.

There has to be a receipt, an expenses claim somewhere, she thought. Regardless of how he got back to Sweden, the Minister for Foreign Trade must have invoiced a government department or some other state-funded body.

It struck her that she didn’t even know which department foreign trade came under.

She went into Anne’s room and woke her up.

‘I have to get back to Stockholm,’ Annika said. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’

She went straight from the City Terminal to the Foreign Ministry building on Gustav Adolfs torg. The pale pink building was surrounded by dark, shiny cars, important-looking men with watchful expressions, and pensioners with cameras. The crowd made her nervous, and she walked uncertainly towards the main entrance. A large black car with a stylized crown on the number-plate stood in the way. As she walked round it a plump little guard in an olive-green uniform blocked her path.

‘And where are you going?’

‘In,’ Annika said.

‘There’s enough press in there already,’ the guard said.

Fuck, Annika thought.

‘But I’m going to see the registrar,’ she said.

‘You’ll have to wait,’ the man said, crossing his hands in front of his crotch.

Annika stood her ground. ‘Why?’

The guard looked less sure of himself.

‘There’s a state visit. The South African President is here.’

‘Shit,’ Annika said, realizing how out of the loop she was.

‘Come back after three p.m.,’ he said.

Annika turned on her heel and headed off across Norrbro. She looked at her watch: over an hour to wait. It had stopped raining and she decided to take a quick walk to Södermalm. She’d done a lot of running in Turkey and had noticed the difference regular exercise made to her mood. So she walked quickly through Gamla Stan towards the steps leading up to Mosebacke torg. With her bag strapped across her chest she ran up and down the steep steps until her pulse was racing and she was running with sweat. She stopped at the top of a narrow street, Klevgränd, and looked out over Stockholm, at the little alleys leading away from the water at Skeppsbron, at the gleaming white hull of the clipper,
af Chapman
, and at the pale-blue roller-coaster over at the funfair, Gröna lund, standing out against the greenery of Djurgården behind it like a tangled ball of wool.

I have to find some way of staying here, she thought.

At five minutes to three all the cars in front of the Foreign Ministry had gone.

‘I’d like to know the procedures for when government ministers travel abroad,’ Annika politely asked the woman behind the desk. She felt a drop of sweat running down her nose and quickly wiped it away.

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And you are?’

Annika smiled. ‘I don’t have to provide ID. You don’t even have the right to ask. But you are, however, obliged to answer my questions.’

The woman stiffened.

‘What happens when a government minister is planning a foreign trip?’ Annika asked sweetly.

The woman’s voice was frosty. ‘The minister’s PA books the trip through the agency currently being
used by the government according to agreed protocols. Nyman and Schultz have the contract at the moment.’

‘Do ministers have their own travel budgets?’

The woman sighed quietly. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘In that case I would like to make a request to consult a document in the public domain. An expenses claim signed for by the Minister for Foreign Trade, Christer Lundgren, on the twenty-eighth of July this year.’

The Foreign Ministry woman could hardly conceal the note of triumph in her voice. ‘No, that isn’t possible,’ she said.

‘Oh?’ Annika said. ‘Why not?’

‘The Minister for Foreign Trade comes under the Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications, not the Foreign Ministry. That’s been the case since the current Prime Minister took office,’ she said. ‘The Prime Minister moved the promotion of exports from the Foreign Ministry to the Ministry of Enterprise, and in return the Foreign Ministry assumed responsibility for asylum and immigration.’

Annika blinked.

‘So the Minister for Foreign Trade doesn’t claim expenses from this department at all?’

‘No, not at all,’ the woman said.

‘Nothing for entertainment, nor any other expenses claims?’

‘Not a single one.’

Annika was at a loss. The presenter of
Studio Six
had said they’d found the invoice from the sex club at the Foreign Ministry, she was absolutely sure of that. The entire programme was still echoing through her head, whether or not she wanted it to.

‘Where’s the Ministry of Enterprise?’

She walked up past the Museum of Mediterranean Antiquities to number 8, Fredsgatan.

‘I’d like to look at a claim for travel expenses and one for entertainment from the twenty-eighth of July this year,’ Annika said. ‘Will it take long?’

The registrar was a friendly, efficient-looking woman.

‘No, it should be pretty quick. Come back in an hour and we’ll have it ready for you. But don’t be any later than that, because we’ll be closed …’

She turned onto Drottninggatan, the pedestrian street running through the heart of Stockholm, and looked around her. It was drizzling, and dark clouds behind the parliament building suggested there was more rain to come. She wandered aimlessly, looking at the street performers, the posters and cheap clothes. It was all out of her reach, she had no money left at all. That impulsive trip to Piteå had swallowed her last few notes.

Anne Snapphane had been rather cross when she announced she wanted to come back to Stockholm.

‘Can’t you just let that damn minister go?’ she had said. ‘Let him rot in peace!’

Annika had been embarrassed, but had insisted.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she had said. ‘I want to know what happened.’

She walked up towards Klarabergsgatan, and went into some terrible American coffee-house in the square where she ordered iced water. They wanted ten kronor for a glass of tap water. Annika swallowed the urge to make a smart remark and dug out the money. It was starting to rain more heavily now, and it would be worth ten kronor just to stay dry.

She sat at the counter and looked around. The place was full of fashionable types with mugs of cappuccino and small cups of espresso. Annika took a sip of water and crunched on an ice-cube.

So far she had avoided thinking about it, but she
couldn’t avoid it any longer. She had forfeited a month’s worth of unemployment benefit because she had left the
Katrineholm Courier
voluntarily, and there was no more money coming from the
Evening Post
.

I don’t really have that many outgoings, she thought, and jotted them down.

The rent on the flat was only 2,970 kronor a month, and now there were two of them. Food didn’t have to cost much, she could live on pasta. She didn’t need a monthly travel card, she could make do with single bus tickets, walking and sneaking onto the underground without paying. The telephone was an essential, so she had to prioritize that. Clothes and make-up were no real sacrifice, at least not for a while.

I still need to make some money, she thought.

‘Is this seat taken?’

A boy with multicoloured hair and mascara was standing in front of her.

‘No, go ahead,’ Annika muttered.

She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. After all, it was free.

She was back at Fredsgatan within fifty minutes. The registrar disappeared at once to fetch some papers, and looked worried when she came back.

‘I haven’t found any travel claims for that date, but here’s the receipt for entertainment.’

Annika was given a copy of the receipt for the visit to Studio Six. It ran to all of 55,600 kronor, and was described as payment for ‘entertainment and refreshments’.

‘Bloody hell,’ Annika said.

‘It’s probably going to be tricky getting that one past the auditors,’ the registrar said without looking up.

‘Have many people asked to see this?’ Annika asked.

The woman hesitated. ‘Not many, actually,’ she said, looking up. ‘We were expecting considerably more, but so far there have only been a handful.’

‘But there’s no claim for travel expenses?’

The woman shook her head. ‘I checked one week further back, and a week forward as well.’

Annika thought for a few moments, looking at the receipt and the spidery signature.

‘Could he have made a claim through another department?’

‘The Minister for Foreign Trade? It’s unlikely. It would have ended up with us anyway.’

‘Any other government office? He must travel a lot, lobbying for different organizations and companies?’

The registrar sighed. ‘Yes, naturally,’ she said. ‘There may be some companies that pay, I don’t really know.’

Annika persisted. ‘But if he was travelling on government business and the claim wasn’t presented here, where else could it have gone?’

The woman’s phone rang, and Annika could see her getting stressed.

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘Keep the copy, you’re welcome to it.’

Annika thanked her and left as the woman answered the call.

It was quiet and peaceful in the flat. She went straight to the maid’s room and peered in. Patricia was lying asleep, rolled up like a little ball. She shut the door carefully, and it closed with a little click.

‘Annika?’

She opened the door slightly.

‘Annika!’

To her surprise, Patricia sounded scared and upset, and she went in.

‘What is it?’ Annika said with a smile.

Patricia rushed up and wrapped her arms round Annika’s neck, in floods of tears.

‘Goodness, whatever’s the matter?’ Annika said, alarmed. ‘Has something happened?’

Patricia’s hair had caught on Annika’s eyelashes and she tried to push it away so she could see.

‘You didn’t come home,’ Patricia said. ‘You didn’t sleep at home, and your boyfriend came and asked for you. I thought … something had happened to you.’

Annika laughed, stroking the young woman’s hair.

‘You daft thing,’ she said. ‘What could happen to me?’

Patricia let go of Annika, dried her eyes and nose on her T-shirt.

‘Don’t know,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not Josefin,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

She could see the other woman’s confusion and couldn’t help laughing.

‘Come on, Patricia! You’re worse than my mum! Would you like some coffee?’

Patricia nodded, and Annika went out into the kitchen.

‘A sandwich?’

‘Yes, please,’ Patricia said.

Annika prepared a snack as Patricia pulled on some tracksuit bottoms. The atmosphere round the table was a little subdued.

‘Sorry,’ Patricia said, spreading some marmalade.

‘Oh,’ Annika said, ‘don’t worry about it. You’re just a bit jumpy, but that’s hardly surprising.’

They ate in silence.

‘Are you going to move out?’ Patricia asked quietly after a while.

‘Not at the moment,’ Annika said. ‘Why?’

Patricia shrugged. ‘Just wondered …’

Annika poured more coffee.

‘Has there been much in the papers about Josefin while I’ve been away?’ she said, blowing on her cup.

Patricia shook her head. ‘Hardly anything. The police say that their inquiries are pointing in one direction, but that they won’t be arresting anyone. Not yet, at least.’

‘And everyone thinks that means the minister is guilty?’ Annika said.

‘Pretty much,’ Patricia said.

‘Has there been much about him?’

‘Even less. It’s like he died the moment he resigned.’

Annika sighed. ‘You don’t kick a man when he’s down.’

‘What?’ Patricia said.

‘That’s the thinking. You don’t keep digging when someone has faced up to the consequences of their mistakes and resigned. What else have they written since I’ve been gone?’

‘They’re saying on the news that a lot of voters are ignoring the election,’ Patricia said. ‘A lot of people are saying they aren’t going to vote at all. People really don’t like politicians at the moment. They’re saying the Social Democrats might not manage to hold on.’

Annika nodded; that made sense. Having a minister under suspicion of murder must be a nightmare for them.

Patricia wiped her hands on a sheet of kitchen roll and started to clear the table.

‘Have you spoken to the police recently?’ Annika asked.

Patricia stiffened. ‘No.’

‘Do they know you’re living here?’

The young woman stood up and went over to the sink.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Annika got up.

‘Maybe you ought to tell them. They might need to ask you about something.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Patricia said abruptly.

She turned her back and filled a saucepan with water for the washing-up.

Annika sat down at the table again, looking at the young woman’s tensed back.

Okay, be like that, she thought, and went into her own room.

Rain was beating hysterically against the window ledge. God, it just won’t stop, Annika thought, sinking onto
her bed. She lay on top of the covers without turning on the lights.

The room was gloomy and shadowless. She stared at the old council wallpaper, grey, slightly yellowing.

It had to fit together somehow, she thought. Something happened immediately before 27 July that made the Minister for Foreign Trade take a flight from Terminal 2 at Arlanda, so wound up and stressed that he didn’t even notice that some of his relatives were calling to him. The Social Democrats must have been in a real panic.