Vanished (4 page)

‘Coffee, black.’

He couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t understand what the hell had happened, and he couldn’t figure out how he was supposed to explain it to his superiors. They would demand total retribution. Dead bodies weren’t the problem, even if liquidation had certain drawbacks. Murders attracted the attention of the police – you had to be more cautious for a while. The problem was the truck. It wouldn’t be enough to locate the shipment and replace it, he personally would have to clean up all the loose ends after the screw-up. Someone had squealed. He had to find the shipment and he had to find the person who arranged for it to disappear.

No matter how he twisted and turned the facts, he realized that what happened must have something to do with the woman. She had to be involved, or she wouldn’t have been there.

He downed his coffee like he had his drink, in a single gulp. Scalding his throat.

‘You’re dead, whore.’

The elevator lighting was as cold and unflattering as ever – she looked like a dead fish. Annika shut her eyes to blot out her reflection. She hadn’t been able to go back to sleep and had taken a walk in the park at Rålambshov instead in an unsuccessful attempt to find some light and air. The ground had been soft and worn by rain and thousands of feet until it was mushy and brown. She had walked over to the paper.

Being a Sunday, the newsroom was deserted. She went over to her desk. The news-desk editor Ingvar Johansson was at the desk next to hers, talking on the phone, so she went over to the crime desk instead. Her mind a blank, she sank down on Berit Hamrin’s chair and called her grandmother.

The elderly lady was in her apartment in Hälleforsnäs, taking care of the laundry and the shopping.

‘How are you doing?’ her grandmother asked. ‘Has it been windy?’

Annika laughed.

‘That’s for sure. One of my windows was blown out.’

‘I hope you weren’t hurt,’ the elderly lady said in a concerned voice.

Annika laughed again.

‘No, and don’t be such a worrywart. How are things over at your end? Are the woods still standing?’

Her grandmother sighed.

‘More or less, but quite a few trees have fallen down. There was a blackout this morning, but now the power’s back on again. When are you coming down for a visit?’

Annika’s grandmother had been allotted a cottage in the grounds of Harpsund after years of service as the matron of the estate used by the Prime Minister for official functions and recreation, a small cottage with no electricity or running water, where Annika had spent every school vacation she could remember.

‘I’ll be working tonight and tomorrow night, so I’ll be coming over sometime Tuesday afternoon,’ Annika replied. ‘Would you like me to bring anything?’

‘Nothing at all,’ her grandmother replied. ‘Just bring yourself, that’s all I want.’

‘I miss you,’ Annika said.

She took a paper, leafing through it mechanically. Today’s edition of
Kvällspressen
maintained fairly high standards. Already familiar with the coverage of the hurricane, she skipped it. Carl Wennergren’s piece about the double homicide at the free port, on the other hand, was hardly anything to write home about. The dead men had been shot in the head, it said, and the police had eliminated the possibility of suicide. Right. This was followed by a description of the free-port compound that was actually vaguely poetic. Carl had obviously cased the area and picked up on the vibes. The place was ‘beautifully weathered’ and had a ‘Continental atmosphere’.

‘Hello, gorgeous,
que pasa
?’

Annika swallowed.

‘Hello, Sjölander,’ she replied.

As was his habit, the crime-desk editor plunked himself down on top of the desk next to her.

‘How are you?’

Annika tried to smile.

‘I’m fine, thanks. A little tired.’

Aiming a playful punch at her shoulder, the man winked.

‘Rough night, huh?’

She got up, picked up her paper and collected her bag and her coat.

‘Extremely rough,’ she said. ‘Just me and these seven guys.’

Sjölander chuckled.

‘You really know how to party.’

She held the paper under the crime-desk editor’s nose.

‘I was working,’ she said. ‘What’s the deal with this free-port thing?’

He gazed at her for a few seconds, then pushed the hair off his forehead.

‘No ID found on the bodies,’ he said. ‘No keys, no money, no weapons, no gum, no condoms.’

‘They were picked clean,’ Annika said.

Sjölander nodded.

‘The police don’t have any leads, they don’t even know who the victims were. Their prints aren’t in any Swedish records.’

‘So they don’t have a clue, then? What about their clothes?’

The crime-desk editor went over to his desk and switched on his computer.

‘Their coats, jeans and shoes came from Italy, France and the US, but their underwear had Cyrillic letters on the labels.’

Annika looked up.

‘Imported designer clothing,’ she said, ‘but cheap local underwear. Sounds like the former Soviet Union, the former Yugoslav Republic or Bulgaria.’

‘Kind of interested in the crime beat, aren’t you?’ Sjölander said with a grin.

He knew, they all knew. She shrugged.

‘You know what it’s like, a leopard never changes its spots.’

Annika turned around and walked over to the night desk. Heard Sjölander snort behind her back.
Why do I go along with it?
she asked herself.

She started up the computer to the right of the night desk, drew up her legs as she sat down and settled into position with her chin resting on one knee.
Might as well check and see if anything’s happened.
She waited patiently for all the programs to start up. Opened one when the screen was ready. Read, checked, clicked.

‘Hey, Bengtzon, what’s your extension number?’

She turned and saw Sjölander waving a receiver, shouted out her number and got him on the line.

‘This broad wants to talk about the Social Services, something to do with troubled women,’ the crime-desk editor said. ‘I’m pretty busy. Besides, it’s, um, more your turf. What do you say?’

She closed her eyes, took a few breaths, swallowed.

‘I haven’t actually gone on duty yet,’ she said. ‘I was going to check out . . .’

‘Are you going to take it, or shall I blow her off?’

Sigh.

‘All right, put her on.’

A voice, cool and calm.

‘Hello, I’d like to speak to someone, it’s confidential.’

‘Newspapers have a confidentiality clause,’ Annika said while letting her eyes skim over the new agency reports on the screen. ‘Now, what would you like to tell me?’

Click, click. The big game between the local soccer favourites had ended in a tie.

‘I’m not sure I’ve reached the right department. This is about a new set-up, a new way to protect people whose lives are threatened.’

Annika stopped reading.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘How does it work?’

The woman hesitated.

‘I have information about a unique way of providing people under threat with a new lease on life. The method is not common knowledge, but I’ve been authorized to issue this information to the media. I would like to do so in a controlled and orderly fashion, which is why I’m wondering if I could contact any of your associates?’

She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to care. So she stared at the screen: Some households still had to make do without electricity and there had been new missile attacks on Grozny. She cradled her head in one hand.

‘Could you send me a letter or a fax?’ she asked.

The woman remained silent for quite some time.

‘Hello?’ Annika said, preparing to hang up with a sense of relief.

‘I prefer to talk face to face, in safe surroundings,’ the woman said.

She sagged over her desk.

‘That’s not possible,’ she said. ‘No one’s in yet.’

‘What about you?’

Swept back her hair and conjured up an excuse.

‘We have to know what’s it’s all about before we send anyone,’ she claimed.

The woman at the other end of the line grew silent again. Annika sighed and tried to wind up the call.

‘If that’s all . . .?’

‘Are you aware that there are people living underground? Here and now, in Sweden?’ the woman asked quietly. ‘Women and children who are being abused and mistreated?’

No
, Annika thought.
Not this.

‘Thank you for calling, but this isn’t really a story we can cover tonight.’

The woman on the other end raised her voice.

‘Are you going to hang up? Are you just going to ignore me and the work I do? Do you know how many people I’ve helped? Don’t you care at all about abused women? You reporters, all you do is sit around in your newsrooms. You have no idea what real life is all about.’

Annika felt dizzy, smothered.

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said.

‘You media people are all alike. I thought
Kvällspressen
would be better than the highbrow papers, but you don’t care about abused women and children, people at risk.’

The blood rushed to Annika’s head.

‘Don’t you tell me what I do, or do not, stand for,’ she said, way too loud. ‘Don’t make claims you know nothing about!’

‘Then why don’t you want to listen to me?’

The woman sounded peeved.

Annika covered her face with her hands and waited.

‘These people are isolated,’ the woman went on. ‘Their lives are threatened, they’re terrified. No matter how they try to hide, there’s always someone or something that could lead people to them – social workers, courts, bank accounts, day-care centres . . .’

Annika didn’t respond, just listened silently.

‘As you are probably aware, most of these people are women and children,’ the woman went on. ‘They belong to the group most at risk in society. Other groups are witnesses, people who have left different types of sects, or who are being harassed by organized crime, and whistle-blowing journalists, but the bulk is obviously women and children whose lives are in danger.’

Hesitantly, Annika picked up a pen and began to take notes.

‘This is a group effort,’ the woman said. ‘We have devised this special method. And I’m in charge. Are you still there?’

Annika cleared her throat.

‘What makes your operation any different to a regular women’s shelter?’

The caller sighed with an air of resignation.

‘Everything. Women’s shelters are run on insufficient public funds. They don’t have the resources to go as far as we can. This is a purely private endeavour with completely different means.’

Her pen stopped working. Annika tossed it in the recycling bin and dug out a new one.

‘In what way?’

‘I’d prefer not to say anything more on the phone. Could we possibly meet?’

Annika hunched over, not wanting to face any more, not having the strength.

‘Bengtzon!’

Ingvar Johansson loomed over her.

‘Please hold,’ she said into the receiver and rested it on her chest. ‘What is it?’

‘If you’re not busy, you could enter these results.’

The news editor held out a stack of scores from the lower sporting divisions.

The question hit Annika like a punch in the gut.
What the hell!
They were going to have her do the kind of stuff she’d done back at the local paper,
Katrineholms-Kuriren
, as a fourteen-year-old, filling in tables with scores.

She turned away from Ingvar Johansson, picked up the receiver and said: ‘I could meet you straight away.’

The woman was pleased. ‘Tonight? That’s great.’

Annika clenched her teeth, sensing the presence of the news-desk editor behind her.

‘What location would suit you?’ she asked.

The woman mentioned a hotel in a suburb where Annika had never been before.

‘In an hour?’

Ingvar Johansson was gone by the time Annika had hung up. She quickly pulled on her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder and checked with the attendants at the desk, but no cars were in, so she dialled a taxi service. She wasn’t on the clock, so could do whatever she liked.

Fill out your own tables, dickhead!

‘Are you ready, dear?’

Thomas Samuelsson’s wife stood in the doorway leading to their recreation room, with her coat on, pulling on her fine leather gloves.

He heard the surprised tone in his voice as he wondered: ‘Ready for what?’

In irritation, she yanked at the thin material.

‘The trade association,’ she replied. ‘You promised you’d go with me.’

Thomas folded the evening paper and put his feet down on the heated tile floor.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.’

‘I’ll go wait outside,’ she said, turning away and leaving.

He sighed quietly. Good thing he’d already showered and shaved.

He went up to their bedroom, removing his jeans and T-shirt on the way. Jumped into a white shirt and a suit and draped a tie around his neck. He heard the BMW start outside, revving up imperiously.

‘All right, already!’ he said.

Every single lamp in the house was on, but he certainly wasn’t going to run around and switch them all off. Leaving the house with his coat over one arm, and without tying his shoelaces, he slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell.

‘You
could
sand the walk and the driveway, you know,’ Eleonor said.

Thomas didn’t reply, simply slammed the car door and held on to the dashboard as she turned out on Östra Ekuddsgatan. He tied his tie on the way – the shoelaces would have to wait until he got there.

It was dark out. Where had the day gone? It had died before it was born. Had there even been any daylight?

He sighed.

‘What’s wrong, honey?’ she asked, friendly again.

He stared out the window, out towards the sea. ‘I feel out of it,’ he said.

‘Maybe you caught that bug Nisse had,’ she said.

He nodded without interest.

The trade association. He knew exactly what they would talk about. Tourists. How many there had been, how to attract more of them, and how to keep the ones that had already discovered their community. They would discuss the problem with businesses that only operated during the brief summer months, taking revenue that rightfully belonged to the resident shopkeepers. The good food at the Waxholm Hotel. Preparations for the Christmas fair, longer opening hours on evenings and weekends. Everyone would be there. Everyone would be happy and committed. That’s the way it always was, no matter which event they went to. Lately, they’d been heavily involved in art. Church affairs had figured prominently too. Lots of talk about the preservation of old houses and gardens, preferably at someone else’s expense.