section of the Stockholm Police always sent their communiqués to the editorial secretary, Eva-Britt Qvist, who didn’t work weekends, no one noticed it. It wasn’t until the main news agency sent out an alert at 21.45 that Berit picked up the information.
‘Press conference in Police Headquarters at ten p.m.,’ she called to Annika as she hurried towards the picture desk.
Annika dropped her pen and notebook in her bag and headed for the exit. A sense of expectation was churning in her stomach: now she was about to find out. The uncertainty was making her nervous; she had never been to a press conference in Stockholm Police Headquarters before.
‘We have to shift the fax machine away from Eva-Britt’s desk,’ Berit said in the lift.
They squeezed into Bertil Strand’s Saab, just like before. Annika sat in the back again, in the same seat. She closed the door gently. As the photographer accelerated towards the Western Bridge she realized that she hadn’t shut the door properly. She quickly clicked down the lock and took a firm hold of the handle, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice anything.
‘Where are we heading?’ Bertil Strand wondered.
‘Kungsholmsgatan, the Falck entrance,’ Berit said.
‘What do you think they’re likely to say?’ Annika asked.
‘They’ve probably found out who she is and informed the relatives,’ Berit said.
‘Yes, but why call a press conference?’
‘They haven’t got a single thing to go on,’ Berit said. ‘They need as much coverage in the media as they can get. It’s a matter of shaking a bit of life into their unpaid helpers, the general public, while the body is still fresh. And we’re the alarm clock.’
Annika gulped. She switched to hold the door handle with her other hand and looked out of the window. The evening looked cloudy and grey through the tinted glass. The neon signs of Fridhemsplan shone dully in the fading evening light.
‘Oh, to be sitting on a terrace with a glass of red,’ Bertil Strand said.
Neither of the women responded.
As they passed the park Annika could see the police tape fluttering. The photographer headed round the park, aiming for the Falck entrance at the top of Kungsholmsgatan.
‘It’s almost ironic,’ Berit said. ‘The largest concentration of police in the whole of Scandinavia is just two hundred metres from the scene of the murder.’
The brown-panelled mass of National Crime Headquarters loomed up to Annika’s right. She turned and looked at the park through the rear window. The green of the hill lay in shadow now, filling the window. All of a sudden she felt faint, caught between the building and the heavy greenery. She dug about in her bag and found a roll of strong English mints. She popped a couple in her mouth.
‘We’re just going to make it,’ Berit said.
Bertil Strand parked a bit too close to the junction, and Annika hurried to get out. Her wrist felt stiff after holding on to the door all the way there.
‘You look a bit pale,’ Berit said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Annika said.
She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and headed for the entrance, chewing aggressively on the mints. A guard from Falck Security was standing by the door. They showed their press cards and went into a narrow space, where most of the floor area was taken up by a photocopier. Annika looked around curiously. Long corridors stretched off to the left and right.
‘Those are the departments for identification and fingerprinting,’ Berit whispered.
‘Straight ahead,’ the guard said.
The words ‘National Crime Department’ were printed in reverse in blue letters on the glass doors in front of them. Berit pushed them open. They found themselves in yet another corridor with beige, panelled walls. Some ten metres along they found the room for the press conference.
Bertil Strand sighed. ‘This is the worst room in the whole of Sweden for taking pictures in,’ he said. ‘You can’t even get a decent
‘Press conference in Police Headquarters at ten p.m.,’ she called to Annika as she hurried towards the picture desk.
Annika dropped her pen and notebook in her bag and headed for the exit. A sense of expectation was churning in her stomach: now she was about to find out. The uncertainty was making her nervous; she had never been to a press conference in Stockholm Police Headquarters before.
‘We have to shift the fax machine away from Eva-Britt’s desk,’ Berit said in the lift.
They squeezed into Bertil Strand’s Saab, just like before. Annika sat in the back again, in the same seat. She closed the door gently. As the photographer accelerated towards the Western Bridge she realized that she hadn’t shut the door properly. She quickly clicked down the lock and took a firm hold of the handle, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice anything.
‘Where are we heading?’ Bertil Strand wondered.
‘Kungsholmsgatan, the Falck entrance,’ Berit said.
‘What do you think they’re likely to say?’ Annika asked.
‘They’ve probably found out who she is and informed the relatives,’ Berit said.
‘Yes, but why call a press conference?’
‘They haven’t got a single thing to go on,’ Berit said. ‘They need as much coverage in the media as they can get. It’s a matter of shaking a bit of life into their unpaid helpers, the general public, while the body is still fresh. And we’re the alarm clock.’
Annika gulped. She switched to hold the door handle with her other hand and looked out of the window. The evening looked cloudy and grey through the tinted glass. The neon signs of Fridhemsplan shone dully in the fading evening light.
‘Oh, to be sitting on a terrace with a glass of red,’ Bertil Strand said.
Neither of the women responded.
As they passed the park Annika could see the police tape fluttering. The photographer headed round the park, aiming for the Falck entrance at the top of Kungsholmsgatan.
‘It’s almost ironic,’ Berit said. ‘The largest concentration of police in the whole of Scandinavia is just two hundred metres from the scene of the murder.’
The brown-panelled mass of National Crime Headquarters loomed up to Annika’s right. She turned and looked at the park through the rear window. The green of the hill lay in shadow now, filling the window. All of a sudden she felt faint, caught between the building and the heavy greenery. She dug about in her bag and found a roll of strong English mints. She popped a couple in her mouth.
‘We’re just going to make it,’ Berit said.
Bertil Strand parked a bit too close to the junction, and Annika hurried to get out. Her wrist felt stiff after holding on to the door all the way there.
‘You look a bit pale,’ Berit said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Annika said.
She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and headed for the entrance, chewing aggressively on the mints. A guard from Falck Security was standing by the door. They showed their press cards and went into a narrow space, where most of the floor area was taken up by a photocopier. Annika looked around curiously. Long corridors stretched off to the left and right.
‘Those are the departments for identification and fingerprinting,’ Berit whispered.
‘Straight ahead,’ the guard said.
The words ‘National Crime Department’ were printed in reverse in blue letters on the glass doors in front of them. Berit pushed them open. They found themselves in yet another corridor with beige, panelled walls. Some ten metres along they found the room for the press conference.
Bertil Strand sighed. ‘This is the worst room in the whole of Sweden for taking pictures in,’ he said. ‘You can’t even get a decent
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