Vanished (46 page)

The choice is always our own.

Annika drew a surprised breath. It was as simple as that. Laughed. It wasn’t difficult at all.

She took out the carton of juice and poured herself a big glass, turned on the burner and put the frying pan on it.

Drank. Drank.

Broke eggs and dropped them in the pan and topped them with snipped pieces of bacon. She toasted some bread and spread it with garlic cheese. While she stirred the omelette, she munched away.

Ate. Ate.

The food landed in her stomach, followed by hot coffee, its warmth radiating inside her, the caffeine kicking in. She lit the candle on the table – Gran’s wedding present, the brass candlestick from Lyckebo – and the flame danced and flickered. She smiled at the woman reflected in the window, the woman in the robe with wet hair, the candlelit woman who was going to have a child.

She went into her bedroom, turned on the overhead lamp and saw the gold glinting there on her night-stand. Got dressed, picked up the chain and weighed it in her hand.

It was heavy. Damn heavy.

For the first time in over a month Annika went into the tiny room behind the kitchen, the maid’s room, almost bare apart from a table in a corner and a chair with a broken backrest. She never used the room that she still thought of as Patricia’s.

Here
, she thought. You could sit here and write.

She looked at her watch; it was almost seven. The goldsmith on the other side of the street opened at seven. Once, by mistake, she had gone in there to look for a pair of earrings for Anne Snapphane’s birthday. A large, bald man in a heavy leather apron brandishing a pair of tongs in one hand had materialized in front of her. He had towered over her, causing her to ask with a gulp if she had come to the right place. She had, the smith really did sell gold earrings, and she had somehow ended up buying a pair of fussy-looking drop ones.

Annika blew out the candle, towel-dried her hair, pulled on a cap, put on her jacket and her shoes and went downstairs.

It had snowed during the night and a soft white blanket still covered the sidewalks. Her feet left a trail from the door of her building, across the street and over to the man’s shop.

It was open. The goldsmith was wearing the same apron and the same happy expression.

‘You’re up early,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Christmas shopping?’

She smiled, shook her head and handed him Aida’s necklace.

‘That’s one hell of a cable you’ve got there,’ the goldsmith said, weighing the chain in his hands.

Annika saw the metal glint in his huge hands. He could probably turn the murderer’s gratitude into something beautiful.

‘It it real gold?’ she asked.

The man scraped the surface by the clasp, then turned around and fiddled with something.

‘At least eighteen-carat gold,’ he said. ‘Want to unload it?’

Annika nodded and the smith placed the necklace on a scale.

‘That was one heavy mother,’ he remarked. ‘One hundred and ninety grams – a gram is worth forty-eight kronor.’

He turned on a calculator.

‘Nine thousand, one hundred and twenty kronor – that all right with you?’

Another nod. The goldsmith went into the next room and came back with the money and a receipt.

‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Don’t spend it all in one place.’

Annika smiled a little.

‘Actually, that’s exactly what I had in mind.’

The computer guys around the corner didn’t officially open until nine, but Annika saw that one of them was there already, hammering away at a keyboard in a room behind the shop. She knocked on the window, the guy looked up, she smiled and waved and he went through the shop and unlocked the door.

‘I know I’m early,’ Annika said, ‘but I’d like to buy a computer.’

He opened the door and laughed.

‘And you can’t wait until we open?’

She smiled.

‘Do you have anything for nine thousand, one hundred and twenty kronor?’

‘Mac or PC?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, ‘as long as it doesn’t crash all the time.’

The guy looked around the untidy store. According to the sign in the window they sold computers, used ones and new ones, did repair work, programming, supplied service and support and constructed websites. Annika passed the place eight times a day or so, and as far as she could tell they mainly seemed to spend their time playing computer games.

‘This one,’ the guy said, lifting a big grey box up on a table. ‘It’s used, but the processor is new and it’s got a lot of memory capacity. What do you need it for?’

‘Writing,’ Annika said. ‘And to surf the Internet a little.’

The guy patted the box.

‘Then this one’s perfect. Everything’s on it already, all the programs you need – Word, Excel, Explorer . . .’

‘I’ll take it,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘Along with a monitor and stuff like that.’

The computer guy hesitated.

‘You mean you want the works for nine thousand kronor?’

‘Nine thousand, one hundred and twenty. After all, the hard drive is used.’

He sighed.

‘Okay, but only because it’s so God-awful early in the morning.’

The guy left her standing in the store, went into the back room and brought out a small computer monitor.

‘It’s not very big, but it’s a certified screen,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t emit a lot of radiation – you’ve got to be careful with that kind of thing. Old screens make you dizzy, they fry your brains. Anything else? Disks and stuff?’

‘All I have is nine thousand, one hundred and twenty kronor.’

He sighed again and produced a paper bag that he stuffed with a pair of speakers, a mouse, a mouse pad, a few packs of disks, cables and a keyboard.

‘And a printer,’ Annika said.

‘Have a heart,’ the guy exclaimed. ‘For nine thousand, one hundred and twenty kronor?’

‘I’ll take a used one,’ Annika said.

He went back to the storeroom again and brought out a big box with the words
Hewlett Packard
on it.

‘Now I’ve given that hard drive away,’ he said. ‘Any more freebies while you’re at it?’

She laughed. ‘No, this will be fine, but how do I get this stuff home?’

‘Now that’s where I draw the line,’ the guy said. ‘You’ll have to carry it home yourself. I know you live in the neighbourhood, I’ve seen you around.’

Annika’s cheeks got hot.

‘You have?’

He flashed her a slightly embarrassed smile. He was kind of cute, and had dark curly hair.

‘You pass by the shop all the time,’ he said. ‘And you’re always in a hurry. You must lead an interesting life.’

She took a deep breath.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re right in that department. But I’m not all that strong. I’ll be needing a hand.’

He groaned and rolled his eyes, got a better grip on the printer and headed for the door.

‘I hope you live nearby,’ he said.

‘It’s a top-floor flat, and there’s no elevator,’ Annika informed him, smiling.

The sky was beginning to get light by the time Annika could sit down at the table in the tiny maid’s room, her notepad next to her. Looking out over the courtyard she saw the Christmas decorations, the straw stars, sway.

This is a great room
, she thought.
Why haven’t I used it before?

She ran through the entire story, over and over again, writing, deleting, making changes. So absorbed by her task that time and space no longer mattered; the words flowing, the letters dancing.

All of a sudden she became aware that she was hungry again and ran down to pick up a pizza at the joint around the corner and ate it while she sat at the computer.

By the time the printout was done – an ink-jet printer, excruciatingly slow – it was dusk. Annika stuffed the papers in a plastic pocket, saved the document on a disk and went over to the police station.

‘You can’t just barge in here whenever you feel like it,’ Q said in an annoyed voice when he came down to the front desk. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve written an article and I’d like to hear what you think of it.’

He moaned.

‘And I guess this can’t wait, as usual?’

‘Right.’

‘Let’s go to the cafeteria.’

They went to the coffee shop around the corner and ordered coffee and sandwiches. Annika pulled out the plastic folder.

‘I don’t know if this will be published,’ she said. ‘I’ll be going to the office after I’ve seen you and I’ll give them the material then.’

The detective gave her a searching look and took the printout.

He read it silently, leafing through the pages and rereading certain passages.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is a complete description of the operations conducted by the Yugoslav Mafia, in Sweden and all over the world. Every last stockpile, vehicle, headquarters, contact, procedure . . .’

She nodded and he stared at her.

‘You are fucking incredible,’ he said. ‘Where the hell did you get this information?’

‘I have two TIR seals in my purse,’ she said.

He quickly leaned back in his chair, letting an arm hang down over the backrest.

‘I get it,’ he said. ‘You have this talent for killing people.’

Annika froze, her chest hurting as if she’d been stabbed.

‘What are you talking about?’

For several seconds Q stared at her, contemplating the report on his desk about last night’s suicide at the Plaza, the Yugoslav colonel with a diplomatic passport.

‘Nothing,’ he said, leaning forward and taking a sip of his coffee. ‘Nothing. It was a stupid thing to say. Sorry.’

‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is it on the level?’

He considered this for quite some time.

‘I’ll have to check everything out before I can make a statement of any kind. Like this pizzeria in Göteborg might not have any ties to the Yugoslav Mafia.’

A silent sigh escaped Annika.

‘When can you check it out?’ she asked him softly.

‘Hopefully,’ he said, ‘before you go public with this. Afterwards won’t be much use.’

‘I need confirmation before I can go to press,’ she said. ‘I only have one source.’

He looked at her for quite a while.

‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘All I want is for you to check around and see if there’s anything to this.’

‘I’d have to check out the prisons to be able to find anything,’ he said. ‘And as soon as I knock on the first door, the alarm will go off. Then it will be too late.’

Annika nodded.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘That had occurred to me. Let’s keep it like this: I have detailed information about the Mafia’s haunts, the whereabouts of their headquarters and stockpiles, but since I can’t get them verified, I can’t go public with them. This means I can deal with them in general terms only. The addresses aren’t the most important aspect. Once you check things out, we’ll know the answer, won’t we?’

Q hesitated, then nodded.

She gave him a nervous smile.

‘Am I correct in supposing that the police will be conducting a coordinated early-morning sweep sometime soon? Possibly on the day the first article will be printed?’

‘And when will that be?’

‘I can’t tell you the exact date, but the country editions start rolling right after six o’clock.’

‘Prior to that, how many people will have seen the articles?’

She thought for a minute.

‘Less than twenty people: the night team and the typesetters in the printing department.’

‘So there’s no risk of any leaks? Okay, then I can say that the check we’re talking about will take place during one of the next few days at six a.m.’

Annika packed up her things.

‘Then I can tell you that we will have quite a few photographers in the field that morning, around the time we get ready to go to press.’

Q pushed away his coffee cup and got up.

‘We do our job,’ he said, ‘for the citizens of this nation. Not for anyone else.’

Annika put on her jacket and got up.

‘So do we,’ she said.

Anders Schyman turned the pages of that day’s paper and gazed at the picture on the front page. Anneli from Motala and her retarded son Alexander, let down by the local authorities, desperate and vulnerable. Carl Wennergren’s inventory of the transgressions committed by Social Services and the lame excuses made by the local government representatives.

Life is the pits for some people
, Schyman thought. He longed for some Scotch. Longed for his wife, their dog, the easy chair at his house in Saltsjöbaden. It had been a tough week. Torstensson’s sudden reinstatement as the editor-in-chief had aggravated him more than he cared to admit. Torstensson had to go. There were no other alternatives if the paper was to survive.

Schyman scratched his head and sighed. As far as he could tell, they had three years to turn the sales figures around, and that was it. If this paper was going to make the transition to new technology and new methods, he would have to lead the way. He was going to fight for this and he needed some Scotch. A large Scotch. Right this minute.

There was a knock on the door.
Damn it.
He couldn’t take any more – what the hell could this be?

Annika Bengtzon put her head round the door.

‘Could you spare a moment?’

He closed his eyes.

‘I’m about to leave. What is it?’

Annika closed the door behind her, stood in front of his desk, dropped her bag on the floor and let her jacket follow.

‘I’ve written an article,’ she announced.

Well, hallelujah
, Schyman thought.

‘And?’ he said.

‘I think you’d better read it. You could say it’s controversial stuff.’

‘I see,’ he murmured and took the disk that she was holding.

He swivelled his chair, inserted the disk, and waited until the file popped up as an icon on his desktop. A double click – he would polish this off in no time.

His heart sank.

‘There are three articles here,’ he said.

‘Start with number one,’ Annika said, sitting down on one of the uncomfortable chairs that he kept for visitors.

It was a long piece, a complete description of the Yugoslav Mafia in Belgrade, their sphere of operations, the responsibilities of the different groups.