"My country is suffering," he said in Swedish, and stared straight into the camera. "Children are dying. This is wrong."
Christ, what a world, Annika thought, and went to get a mug of coffee. When she returned, the news program had moved on to the smaller domestic news items: a car crash in Enköping; a young woman found dead in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm; the strike among air-traffic controllers that had been averted after the union had accepted the final offer of the arbitrator. The bulletins were read in rapid succession, accompanied by nondescript archive footage. Some cameraman had apparently dragged himself over to Kungsholmen as a few seconds of blue-and-white police tape and park foliage appeared on the screen. That was all there was.
Annika gave a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy.
Patricia was cold. She hugged herself and pulled her feet up on the seat. A combination of exhaust fumes and pollen was being whisked around by the air-conditioning. She sneezed.
"Have you got a cold?" the guy in the front passenger seat asked. He was kind of cute but he was wearing a hideous shirt. No style. She liked older guys, though; they were less eager.
"No," she replied morosely. "I have allergies."
"We'll be there in a minute."
The woman driving the car was a real bitch. She was one of those women cops who had to be twice as tough as the guys to get respect. She'd said a stiff hello to Patricia and after that had ignored her.
She's looking down on me, Patricia thought. She thinks she's better than me.
The bitch had driven along Karlbergsvägen and was crossing Norra Stationsgatan. Only buses and taxis were allowed to do this, but she didn't seem to care. They drove under the West Circular and entered the Karolinska Institute grounds the back way. They rolled past redbrick buildings from different periods; it was a town within the town. There wasn't a soul around- it was Saturday night, after all. The rust-colored palace of the Tomteboda School towered on the hill above them to the left. She turned right and parked in a small parking lot. The guy in the loud shirt got out and opened the door for Patricia.
"You can't open it from the inside," he said.
She couldn't move. She sat with her feet drawn up on the seat, her knees under her chin. Her teeth were rattling.
This isn't happening, she thought. It's just a bunch of bad omens. Think positive thoughts. Think positive thoughts…
The air was so dense that it didn't penetrate her lungs. It stopped somewhere at the back of her throat, thickening, choking her.
"I can't do it. What if it's not her?"
"We'll soon know that," the guy said. "But I understand if it's hard for you. Come on, I'll help you out of the car. Do you want something to drink?"
She shook her head but accepted the hand he was holding out to her. She climbed out onto the asphalt on shaky legs. The bitch had started down a small path, the gravel crunching under her feet.
"I feel sick," Patricia said.
"Here, have some chewing gum," the guy said.
Without replying, she stretched out her hand and took a Stimorol.
"It's down here," he said.
They walked past a sign with a red arrow saying 95:7 Dep. Forensic Med. Morgue.
She chewed the gum hard. They were walking among the trees: limes and maples. A gentle wind whispered in the leaves; perhaps the heat would finally let up.
She first saw the wide canopy roof over the entrance. It protruded from the bunkerlike building like an oversize peaked cap. The building material was the universal red brick, and the front door was of gray-black iron, heavy and shut.
STOCKHOLM MORGUE she read in capital gold lettering underneath the roof, and at the bottom, Entrance for relatives. Identification. Removal to mortuary.
The entry phone was made of chipped plastic. The guy pushed a button and a low voice answered. Patricia turned her back to the entrance and looked back at the parking lot. She had a vague sensation of the ground rocking, like the slow swell on a vast ocean. The sun had disappeared behind the Tomteboda School, and barely any daylight was left under the roof. Straight ahead was the College of Health Sciences: dull red brick, sixties. The air got heavier and heavier; the chewing gum grew in her mouth. A bird was singing somewhere inside the bushes; the sound reached her as if through a filter. She could hear her own jaws grinding.
"Welcome."
The guy put his hand on her arm so she had to turn around. The door had been opened. Another guy stood in the doorway, smiling cautiously at her. "This way, please. Step right inside."
"I've got to get rid of my gum," she said.
"You can use the bathroom," he said.
The bitch and the shirt guy let her go first. It was a small room. It reminded her of a dentist's waiting room: gray couch to the left; a low birchwood table; four chrome chairs with blue-striped seats; abstract painting on the wall- three fields in gray, brown, and blue; a mirror to the right; cloakroom straight ahead; bathroom. She walked toward it with an unpleasant feeling that she did not reach all the way down to the floor.
Are you here, Josefin?
Can you feel my spirit?
Once inside the bathroom, she locked the door and threw the chewing gum in the bin. The wire basket was empty, and the gum stuck to the edge of the plastic bin liner. She tried to flick it farther down but it stuck to her finger. There were no paper cups, so she drank water straight from the tap. It's a morgue. The place is likely to be clean, she thought.
She breathed deeply through her nose a few times and went outside. They were waiting for her by another door, between the mirror and the exit.
"This isn't going to be easy," the guy said. "This girl hasn't been washed since she was found. She's also in the same position."
Patricia swallowed. "How did she die?"
"She was strangled. She was discovered in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen today at lunchtime."
Patricia held her hand over her mouth; her eyes grew wide and filled with tears. "We usually take a shortcut through the park on our way home from work," she whispered.
"We don't know for sure that it is your friend," the guy said. "I want you to take your time and have a good look at her. It's not that bad."
"Is she all… bloody?"
"Oh, no, not at all, she looks fine. The body has begun to dry out, that's why the face may look a bit sunken. Her skin and her lips are discolored, but it's not too bad. She's not horrible to look at." The guy spoke in a quiet, calm voice. He took her by the hand. "Are you ready?"
Patricia nodded. The bitch opened the door. A cool puff of wind blew from the room inside. She breathed in its moisture, expecting the stench of corpses and death. But, no, the air was fresh and clean. She took a wary step onto the shiny gray-brown stone floor. The concrete walls were white, plastered, uneven. Two electric radiators were mounted on the far wall. She raised her eyes- a cupola was suspended from the ceiling. Twelve burning lamps spread a dim light in the room. It reminded her of a chapel. Two tall, wooden candlesticks. They weren't lit but Patricia could still smell wax. Between the candlesticks was the gurney.
"I can't do it."
"You don't have to," the guy said. "We can ask her parents to do it, or her boyfriend. But that'll take longer and give the murderer an even bigger lead over us. Whoever did this shouldn't be walking around."
She swallowed. A big, blue textile screen hung behind the gurney, covering the entire back door. She stared at the blue, trying to discern a pattern.
"I'll do it."
The guy, who was still holding her hand, slowly pulled her closer to the gurney. The body was lying underneath a sheet, the hands above the head.
"Anja will remove the sheet from her face now. I'll be standing right next to you all the time."