The man started crying. Annika waited a few seconds in silence. She didn't know what to say next. The tip-off phone's official name was The Hot Line, but in-house it was never called anything other than Creepy Calls. The majority of the callers were either jokers or nutcases. This one was definitely a candidate for the latter.
"Hello…?" Annika said warily.
The man blew his nose. He took a couple of deep breaths and told Annika his story. Anne Snapphane was watching from the other side of the desk.
"Where do you find the energy to keep answering that phone?" Anne asked as Annika hung up. Annika didn't respond, but just continued scribbling her notes.
"I've got to get another ice cream or I'll die. Do you want anything from the café?" Anne Snapphane asked as she got to her feet.
"I've got to check something first," Annika said, lifting the receiver and dialing the direct number to the emergency switchboard. It was true. Four minutes earlier, they had received a call about a body being found next to Kronobergsgatan.
Annika got up and walked over to the news desk with the wire in her hand. Spike was still on the phone, his feet on his desk. Annika stationed herself right in front of him, demanding his attention. The news editor gave her an annoyed look.
"Suspected murder, young woman," Annika said, and waved the printout in front of him.
Spike hung up abruptly and put his feet on the floor.
"Did you get it from TT?" he asked, and clicked on his computer.
"No, Creepy Calls."
"Confirmed?"
"It was reported to the emergency services center."
Spike turned to look round the newsroom. "Okay. Who's here?"
Annika braced herself. "It's my tip-off."
"Berit!" Spike said, standing up. "This summer's murder!"
Berit Hamrin, one of the older reporters at the paper, picked up her handbag and came over to the desk.
"Where's Carl Wennergren? Is he in today?"
"No, he's off. He's sailing the Round Gotland Race," Annika said. "It's my tip-off, it came in to me."
"Pelle, photo!" Spike yelled in the direction of the picture desk.
The picture editor gave him the thumbs-up, then called out, "Bertil Strand."
"Okay," the news editor said, and turned to Annika. "What have we got?"
Annika looked at her messy notes, suddenly noticing how nervous she was. "A dead girl behind a gravestone at the Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen."
"Doesn't mean it's a goddamn murder, does it?"
"She's naked and she's been strangled."
Spike gave Annika a scrutinizing look. "And you want to do it?"
Annika swallowed and nodded.
The news editor sat down again and pulled out a notepad. "Okay. You can go with Berit and Bertil. Make sure you get some good pictures, the rest of the information we can get later, but you've got to get the pics straightaway."
The photographer put the backpack with his equipment over his shoulder as he walked past the news desk. "Where is it?" he said, directing the question at Spike.
"Kronoberg Jail," Spike said, and picked up the phone.
"The park," Annika said, and looked for her bag. "Kronoberg Park. The Jewish Cemetery."
"Just make sure it isn't a domestic incident," Spike said, and dialed a London number.
Berit and Bertil Strand were already on their way to the elevator to go down to the garage, but Annika stopped in her tracks.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Exactly what I said: we don't meddle in family matters." The news editor turned his back on her.
Annika felt anger surge through her body and reach her brain like an electric shock. "It doesn't make the girl any less dead."
Spike began talking on the phone and Annika saw it meant the end of their discussion. She looked up, and Berit and Bertil Strand had already disappeared into the elevator. She hurried over to her desk, pulled out her bag, which had disappeared under the desk, and ran after her colleagues. The elevator was gone, so she took the stairs. Damn, damn- why the hell did she always have to take up arms? She might have lost her first big assignment just so she could take the news editor to task.
"Moron," she said out loud to herself.
She caught up with the reporter and the photographer at the entrance to the garage.
"We'll work side by side and keep an open mind until we have to split up and work different parts of the story," Berit said, writing on a pad while walking. "I'm Berit Hamrin, by the way. I don't think we've said hello."
The older woman smiled at Annika. They shook hands while getting into Bertil Strand's Saab, Annika in the back, Berit in front.
"Don't slam the door so hard," Bertil Strand said with disapproval, glancing over his shoulder at Annika. "It can damage the paint-work."
Jesus Christ, Annika thought to herself. "Oops, sorry," she said to Strand.
The photographers had the use of the newspaper's vehicles more or less as company cars. Most of the photographers took their car-care responsibilities extremely seriously. Maybe this was because all photographers, to a man, were men. She had been at Kvällspressen only seven weeks but was already acutely aware of the sanctity of the photographers' cars. On several occasions, she had had to postpone scheduled interviews because the photographers had been busy getting their cars washed. At the same time it showed what importance was attached to her pieces at the newspaper.
"We're better off approaching the park from the other side and avoiding Fridhemsplan," Berit said as the car picked up speed at the junction of Rålambsvägen and Gjörwellsgatan. Bertil Strand put his foot down and drove through right as the light turned red, down Gjörwellsgatan and on toward Norr Mälarstrand.
"Could you run through the information you got from the tipster again?" Berit said, leaning her back on the car door so that she could look at Annika in the backseat.
Annika fished out the crumpled piece of paper. "Right- there's a dead woman behind a gravestone in Kronoberg Park. She's naked and has probably been strangled."
"Who called?"
"A speed freak. His pal was taking a leak by the fence and spotted her between the bars."
"Why did they think she had been strangled?"
Annika turned the paper round and read something she had scribbled in a corner of the paper. "There was no blood, her eyes were wide open, and she had injuries to her neck."
"That doesn't have to mean that she was strangled, or even murdered," Berit said, and turned to face the front again.
Annika didn't reply. She turned to look out through the tinted windows of the Saab, seeing the sun worshipers of Rålambshov Park slide past. The glittering waters of Riddarfjärd Bay lay before her. She had to squint, despite the UV coating on the windshield. Two windsurfers were heading for Långholmen Island, but slowly. The air barely moved in the heat.
"What a great summer we're having," Bertil Strand said as he turned into Polhemsgatan. "You wouldn't have thought it, after the amount of rain we had in the spring."
"Yeah, I've been lucky," Berit said. "I've just had my four weeks' holiday. Sun every single day. You can park just behind the fire station."
The Saab sped down the last few blocks along Bergsgatan. Before Bertil Strand slowed down, Berit had undone her seat belt; she jumped out of the car before he had even started parking. Annika hurried after her, gasping in the heat that hit her outside the car.
Strand parked the car while Berit and Annika set off alongside a redbrick, fifties building. The narrow asphalt path skirting the park was bordered by high paving stones.
"There's a flight of steps farther on," Berit said, already out of breath.
Six steps later they were in the park proper. They ran along a path leading up to a well-equipped kids' playground.
On the right were several barrackslike buildings. Annika read the sign Playground as she ran past. There was a sandbox, benches, picnic tables, a jungle gym, several slides, swings, and other things that children could play with and climb on. Three or four mothers with children were in the playground; it looked as if they were packing up to leave. At the far end two police officers in uniform were talking to a fifth mother.