the same position we found her in.’
Patricia swallowed once more.
‘How did she die?’
‘She was strangled. She was found in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen just after lunchtime today.’
Patricia put her hand to her mouth, her eyes opened wide and filled with tears.
‘We usually cut through the park on our way home from work,’ she whispered.
‘It’s not certain that this girl is your friend,’ the man said. ‘I need you to be as relaxed as you can and have a good look at her. You’ll be okay.’
‘Is there … much blood?’
‘No, not at all. She’s in a reasonable state. The body has started to dry out, which is why the face looks a little sunken. Her skin and lips are discoloured, but not too badly. She’s not going to scare you.’
The man’s voice was calm and low. He took her by the hand.
‘Are you ready?’
Patricia nodded. The bitch opened the door. A cool draught swept out of the room inside. She breathed in the smell, expecting it to reek of corpses and death. But there was nothing. The air was fresh and clean. She took a cautious step inside. The floor was stone, shiny, grey-brown, the walls pure white, plastered, a little uneven. Two electric radiators hung on the far wall. She lifted her eyes. An uplighter hung from the ceiling. Twelve glowing bulbs spread a smooth light over the room. It reminded her of a chapel. Two candelabra, tall, wooden. They weren’t lit, but Patricia could still make out the smell of wax. Between them stood the mortuary trolley.
‘I don’t want to,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ the man said. ‘We can ask her parents to come, or her boyfriend. The only problem is that that would take time. The killer’s already got a head start. Whoever did this can’t be allowed to get away with it.’
She gulped. Behind the trolley hung a large blue tapestry. It covered the whole of the back entrance. She stared into the blue of it, trying to make out a pattern.
‘Okay, I’ll do it, then,’ she said.
The man, still holding her hand, pulled her slowly over to the trolley. She was lying under a sheet. Her hands were raised above her head.
‘Now Anya’s going to lift the sheet slowly from her face. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.’
Anya was the bitch.
She saw movement from the corner of her eye, the white cloth being pulled down, the faint movement in the air. She let go of the blue tapestry and let her eyes fall to the trolley.
It’s true, she thought. She looks okay. She’s dead, but she isn’t disgusting. She just looks a bit surprised, like she didn’t really know what had happened.
‘Josie,’ Patricia whispered.
‘Is this your friend?’ the man asked.
She nodded. Her tears poured out; there was nothing she could do to stop them. She reached out a hand to stroke Josefin’s hair, but stopped herself.
‘Josie, what have they done to you?’
‘Are you quite sure?’
She closed her eyes and nodded.
‘Oh, God,’ she said.
She put a hand to her mouth and screwed her eyes tight shut.
‘So you can confirm that this is your flatmate, Josefin Liljeberg? You’re one hundred per cent sure?’
She nodded and turned away – away from Josie, away from death, away from the blueness hanging behind the trolley.
‘I want to get out of here,’ she said quietly. ‘Get me out of here.’
The man put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her towards him, stroking her hair. She was crying helplessly now, soaking his nasty tropical shirt.
‘We’d like to search the flat properly tonight,’ he said. ‘It would be good if you could be there.’
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and shook her head.
‘I have to go to work,’ she said. ‘With Josie gone I’ll have even more to do. They’ll be missing me already.’
He looked hard at her.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
She nodded.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
10
The press release rolled out of the fax machine at 21.12. Because the press
Patricia swallowed once more.
‘How did she die?’
‘She was strangled. She was found in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen just after lunchtime today.’
Patricia put her hand to her mouth, her eyes opened wide and filled with tears.
‘We usually cut through the park on our way home from work,’ she whispered.
‘It’s not certain that this girl is your friend,’ the man said. ‘I need you to be as relaxed as you can and have a good look at her. You’ll be okay.’
‘Is there … much blood?’
‘No, not at all. She’s in a reasonable state. The body has started to dry out, which is why the face looks a little sunken. Her skin and lips are discoloured, but not too badly. She’s not going to scare you.’
The man’s voice was calm and low. He took her by the hand.
‘Are you ready?’
Patricia nodded. The bitch opened the door. A cool draught swept out of the room inside. She breathed in the smell, expecting it to reek of corpses and death. But there was nothing. The air was fresh and clean. She took a cautious step inside. The floor was stone, shiny, grey-brown, the walls pure white, plastered, a little uneven. Two electric radiators hung on the far wall. She lifted her eyes. An uplighter hung from the ceiling. Twelve glowing bulbs spread a smooth light over the room. It reminded her of a chapel. Two candelabra, tall, wooden. They weren’t lit, but Patricia could still make out the smell of wax. Between them stood the mortuary trolley.
‘I don’t want to,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ the man said. ‘We can ask her parents to come, or her boyfriend. The only problem is that that would take time. The killer’s already got a head start. Whoever did this can’t be allowed to get away with it.’
She gulped. Behind the trolley hung a large blue tapestry. It covered the whole of the back entrance. She stared into the blue of it, trying to make out a pattern.
‘Okay, I’ll do it, then,’ she said.
The man, still holding her hand, pulled her slowly over to the trolley. She was lying under a sheet. Her hands were raised above her head.
‘Now Anya’s going to lift the sheet slowly from her face. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.’
Anya was the bitch.
She saw movement from the corner of her eye, the white cloth being pulled down, the faint movement in the air. She let go of the blue tapestry and let her eyes fall to the trolley.
It’s true, she thought. She looks okay. She’s dead, but she isn’t disgusting. She just looks a bit surprised, like she didn’t really know what had happened.
‘Josie,’ Patricia whispered.
‘Is this your friend?’ the man asked.
She nodded. Her tears poured out; there was nothing she could do to stop them. She reached out a hand to stroke Josefin’s hair, but stopped herself.
‘Josie, what have they done to you?’
‘Are you quite sure?’
She closed her eyes and nodded.
‘Oh, God,’ she said.
She put a hand to her mouth and screwed her eyes tight shut.
‘So you can confirm that this is your flatmate, Josefin Liljeberg? You’re one hundred per cent sure?’
She nodded and turned away – away from Josie, away from death, away from the blueness hanging behind the trolley.
‘I want to get out of here,’ she said quietly. ‘Get me out of here.’
The man put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her towards him, stroking her hair. She was crying helplessly now, soaking his nasty tropical shirt.
‘We’d like to search the flat properly tonight,’ he said. ‘It would be good if you could be there.’
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and shook her head.
‘I have to go to work,’ she said. ‘With Josie gone I’ll have even more to do. They’ll be missing me already.’
He looked hard at her.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
She nodded.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
10
The press release rolled out of the fax machine at 21.12. Because the press
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