Thomas hadn’t called. Not once. That night had never existed, the intoxicating feeling had been a mere recollection from a dream. She cried quietly for the love that had never got off the ground, rocking, rocking. Monday, 5 November, that was their day, their night, the one that had vanished. That had been twenty-eight days ago, she was a whole month older now, and twenty-seven days had passed since Gran had died, making her twenty-seven years lonelier. She wondered how long she would count the days following her abandonment: one year, two years, seven years?
The pain in Annika’s stomach wouldn’t go away and her back never stopped aching. She stopped rocking and stared at the table. Her apartment had swallowed her up; she had spent the past four weeks here, mostly alone. The doctor in Katrineholm had prescribed sick leave for the rest of the year. Anne Snapphane came by a few times a week, bringing food, a VCR and a boom-box.
‘They belong to the production company,’ she explained. ‘I’m borrowing them for a while.’
The silence and emptiness had to compete against video rentals and the music of Jim Steinman and Andrew Lloyd Webber.
She would have liked to have him. She’d had him that one night twenty-eight days ago, a night she wouldn’t be able to remember soon.
A twinge deep in her belly, a familiar sensation: it was her period. Annika groaned and went into the bedroom to find a pad.
The package was empty. She stood there holding the tattered, empty bag and tried to figure out whether she had a stash of sanitary napkins anywhere else.
She went into the hall and dug out her bag. The wrappers on the pads had come undone and now they were covered with lint from her bag. Overcome by dizziness, she sat down on the floor, feeling sick to her stomach, and checked her panties.
Nothing. No sign of her period.
Twenty-eight days ago.
She gasped, struck by an overwhelming thought, and fished out her appointment book; today’s names were Oskar and Ossian, the moon was waning, and Christmas Eve would be on a Monday this year.
Counting, considering; when was the last time? Could it have been the weekend around 20 or 21 October? She couldn’t remember.
What if . . .?
The thought set. Annika stared at her date book, her hand unconsciously moving to her stomach, resting on a spot just below her navel.
It couldn’t be true.
‘Do you have a minute?’
Anders Schyman looked up. Söjlander and Berit Hamrin were hovering in the doorway. He indicated the chairs by his desk.
‘We’re ready to run the Paradise Foundation story,’ the crime-desk editor said. ‘Berit put the finishing touches on Annika Bengtzon’s draughts. It’s certainly one hell of a scam.’
Anders Schyman leaned back in his chair and Berit Hamrin placed a stack of papers on his desk.
‘Here are the pieces so far,’ she said. ‘You can read them later. I haven’t mentioned Rebecka Björkstig by name. Sjölander wants us to publish her name and photo, but let’s discuss that after I’ve put you in the picture.’
The deputy editor waited while she arranged the papers in different stacks.
‘To start off with, we have the main story,’ she said. ‘The information that Annika dug up appears to hold water. The authorities in Nacka and Österåker were a bit reluctant, but once the official from Vaxholm revealed what happened to him they agreed to talk.’
Berit picked up the first article and glanced through it.
‘For the first day of publication,’ she said. ‘An exposé of the Paradise Foundation, Rebecka’s version, and a review of the lies and the facts.’
‘Who are we quoting on this?’ Schyman asked.
‘Mostly the guy from Vaxholm, a really nice accountant with Social Services there. His name is Thomas Samuelsson. You could say that he was the hero of the story. He was assaulted when he tried to discuss an invoice with Rebecka.’
‘Yes,’ the deputy editor responded, ‘Annika told me that. Has he reported the incident to the police?’
‘Yes indeed. Then there are the other bureaucrats: they want to remain anonymous but they do confirm that Paradise is a sham.’
‘How much have they paid?’
‘One place paid 955,500 kronor, the other 1,274,000, in instalments. Vaxholm refused to pay since their client was dead by the time the invoice arrived.’
The deputy editor whistled.
‘You’re already pretty familiar with the rest of the story,’ Berit said. ‘That’s the bit that worries us.’
She picked up another article.
‘Rebecka Björkstig may be guilty of plotting a murder,’ Berit said.
Schyman’s jaw dropped.
‘What the hell . . .?’ he exclaimed.
Berit handed him the article.
‘The woman who was killed at Sergelstorg a month or so ago – you remember her, don’t you? She was one of Paradise’s clients.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Schyman said.
The reporter sighed.
‘The woman in question, Aida Begovic, threatened to blow the whistle on Björkstig. Rebecka threatened to have her killed. That’s nothing remarkable, she’s made statements to that effect on several occasions. All the women in contact with Paradise realized fairly quickly that they wouldn’t be receiving any help. Naturally, many of them were upset and the clients from Nacka and Österåker intended to tell Social Services about the deception.’
‘How did they get involved with Paradise?’ Schyman asked.
‘In those two particular cases the harrassed women met Rebecka while they were accompanied by a representative from Social Services. They were all served the same fantastic story and, strangely enough, they all bought into it. Once the first invoice was paid, the clients were allowed to come to the house in Järfälla owned by Paradise. Rebecka took all their documents, read through them and checked that all the pertinent information was there, and then she turned them out.’
‘The clients?’
Berit nodded, her lips compressed into a straight line.
‘One of the clients was a single mother of two, the other a mother of three. Rebecka threatened her, saying: ‘I know who’s after you, and if you breathe a single word to the authorities, I’ll tell them where to find you.”
‘Christ!’ Schyman said.
‘And Aida died,’ Söjlander added. ‘A witness heard Rebecka threaten her, and the next day she was dead.’
‘What do the police say?’
Berit picked up the third article.
‘I just talked to them. The fraud squad has been looking for Rebecka for some time now, but this new information means that there are even more charges against her, and of a more serious nature too. The police would like to arrest her straight away, so we have to run these articles as soon as possible.’
‘Okay,’ Schyman said. ‘Day one will be dedicated to the story of the set-up, the scam and the threats. What do we have for day two?’
Berit leafed through her notes.
‘The stories of the victimized women. Annika wrote the main story before she got sick: it features a woman called Maria Eriksson. I’ve covered the other two cases and their stories. In addition, we’ll have to stand by in case people call in about any other cases after the story breaks.’
Schyman took notes.
‘Good, we’ll be ready. Day three?’
‘Reactions,’ Berit said. ‘I have a few prepared: a professor specializing in Criminal Law, an associate professor specializing in Social Psychology, the chairman of the National Association of Women’s Shelters. By that time I expect that the police will want to make a statement as well, and maybe even the Minister of Health and Social Affairs and the Attorney General. It’s possible that other city councils will press charges as well.’
‘How does the Björkstig woman justify all this?’ Anders Schyman said.
‘Rebecka Björkstig claims that our information is a defamation of her character, pure slander. She has no idea who would want to treat her so badly. Her organization hasn’t yet been fully developed, and to maintain that she would have threatened anyone is a pack of lies.’
‘Something that we can definitely disprove,’ Schyman said. ‘Is she threatening to sue us for libel if we publish this information?’
The reporter sighed.
‘She certainly is. She mentioned the damages she had in mind, too: thirty million kronor.’
Anders Schyman smiled.
‘Well, she can’t sue us if we don’t publish her name and picture. If she hasn’t been pinpointed, they can’t fault our press ethics.’
‘I still think we
should
publish her name and picture,’ Söjlander said. ‘She ought to get a taste of how it feels to be in a tight spot.’
Schyman shot the crime-desk editor a neutral glance.
‘Since when is this paper an instrument of punishment?’ he asked. ‘Rebecka Björkstig is not a celebrity or a public figure. Naturally, we will describe her operations and how she has changed her identity numerous times, as well as listing her shady dealings and odd threats. But revealing her name doesn’t make the story any better at this point.’
‘It’s chicken not to use everything we’ve got,’ Söjlander said. ‘Why should we be considerate to a bitch like her?’
Anders Schyman leaned forward.
‘Because we promote the truth,’ he explained. ‘We’re not here to bash criminals. We have ethical considerations, we have been invested with the power and the authority to define reality in this society of ours. We will not use this power to destroy anyone, it doesn’t matter if they happen to be politicians, criminals or celebrities. Being in the papers is not being put in a tight spot.’
Sjölander’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink. Anders Schyman saw that he would be all right, though. Söjlander was good at eating crow. He’d already swallowed that particular mouthful.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re the boss.’
The deputy editor leaned back in his chair again.
‘No, that would be Torstensson,’ he said.
The three of them looked at each other, then broke into laughter,
Torstensson, what a joke.
‘What else is up?’ Schyman asked.
‘It’s pretty quiet,’ Sjölander said, sighing. ‘A little too quiet. Nothing’s happened for a while. We’ve been considering featuring the Palme assassination again – Nils Langeby has a new lead.’
A wrinkle appeared between the deputy editor’s eyes.
‘Be careful, I’m not sure I entirely trust Langeby’s sources. Anything come of the Yugo Mafia connection to the free-port killings?’
Sjölander sighed.
‘It came to nothing. The guy they suspected, Ratko, seems to have left the country.’
‘Did he do it?’
The crime-desk editor fidgeted a little, hesitated and remembered his previous accusations.
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘Ratko’s never been convicted of murder, but he’s a nasty character. Bank robberies, threats, assault, and he’s certainly been an enforcer. His speciality was scaring the crap out of people, making them talk. He’d pop the muzzle of a sub-machine gun into a person’s mouth and that would generally loosen their tongues.’
‘And then there’s his war crimes,’ Berit reminded the men.
‘It must have been difficult for him to cross borders,’ Anders Schyman said.
The Hague war tribunal had issued a warrant for him on Tuesday, 6 November, around noon. Ratko had been charged with war crimes committed in the early stages of the conflict in Bosnia.
‘He’ll probably drink himself to death in some Belgrade suburb,’ Sjölander said.
Schyman sighed.
‘What about the Bosnian woman who was killed downtown? Anyone know who killed her?’
Berit and Sjölander shook their heads.
‘Her funeral’s tomorrow,’ Berit said. ‘An awful business.’
‘All right,’ Schyman said. ‘I’ll run through these articles, and if you don’t hear anything from me, run them verbatim.’
The crime-desk reporters got up and left the office.
Annika turned the pages of a two-year-old issue of
Vi Föräldrar,
a parenting magazine. She had already polished off three issues of
Amelia,
a ladies’ magazine, two pamphlets on AIDS, and yesterday’s
Metro.
She couldn’t bring herself to go home, she didn’t want to be alone. She told the staff that she wanted to wait until her test results were ready. The attendant midwife gave her an odd look but didn’t protest.
Time had become incidental. Annika was reduced to being an onlooker. She couldn’t picture what her reaction would be.
Once, back when she’d been with Sven, she’d thought that she was pregnant. It was near the end of their relationship, when she was looking for a way out. She had been extremely worried: having a baby would have been disastrous. Her test had come back negative, but she hadn’t felt relieved. After all this time she still couldn’t understand why she had felt disappointed and empty.
‘Annika Bengtzon?’
Her pulse quickened, her heart leapt into her mouth and she swallowed. She got up and followed the white coat over to the counter inside the prenatal clinic.
‘Your test was positive,’ the woman said deliberately in a low voice. ‘That means you are pregnant. When was your last period?’
Annika’s mind began to reel.
Pregnant, expecting a baby, dear Lord, a baby . . .
‘I’m not sure, around the twentieth of October, I think.’
Her mouth was dry.
The midwife turned a cardboard wheel.
‘That would make you about seven weeks pregnant. You start counting from the first day of your last menstruation. That means you aren’t far gone yet. Are you considering termination?’
The floor tilted. Annika grabbed hold of the counter.
‘I’m . . . not sure.’
She swallowed.
‘Should you opt for termination, the sooner you decide to have the procedure, the better. If you plan to have the baby, we will set up an appointment for you. The first prenatal-care check-up takes a little over an hour. You will be assigned to a midwife who will be your contact here at the centre during your entire pregnancy. Do you live on Kungsholmen?’
‘Are you certain?’ Annika asked. ‘Am I really pregnant? It’s not an error?’
The woman smiled.
‘You’re pregnant,’ she said. ‘Definitely pregnant.’
Annika turned away and headed for the door. Her back ached and smarted – what if she had a miscarriage?