long …”
“Did he sit there drawing different noses?”
Annika took a sip of the now-cold coffee and shook her head.
“It’s all done by a computer program that has several hundred different noses that can be moved around, made bigger or smaller. Then eyes and lips and so on …”
“Wow,” Jansson said.
She crushed the plastic cup and knew that he was asking because he cared about her , not the photofit picture.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Suddenly the night editor stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and got up with a little jerk.
“Well,” he said, “this won’t do.”
And she was left alone in the smoking booth, looking out through the nicotine-stained glass as the news team gathered for their second wind, another edition, a new day.
All of a sudden Thomas was aware of the swaying motion of the pattern made by the streetlights on the bedroom ceiling, woken by a sound hecould no longer remember. He lay still for a few seconds, letting reality catch up with him.
Something was rattling outside, a bus or a car or something—all these city sounds, all these constant stress factors. Swaying streetlights turned his bedroom into a barge on the sea, never still, always in motion. Shrieking engines turned his home into an echo chamber, a concert hall of urban sounds. He was tired of this apartment to the point of nausea, so unutterably fed up that he wanted to scream. How wonderful it would be to get away from here!
With a jolt he let go of the shimmering pattern on the ceiling and turned to face Annika’s side of the bed.
It was empty.
She hadn’t come home.
Anxiety kicked in—what could have happened? Why did she have to put herself in harm’s way all the time? Covering the Nobel banquet shouldn’t take all night, should it? What was there to write about, apart from Silvia’s necklace?
He looked up at the ceiling again and gulped hard.
He recognized this feeling all too well. Irritation was creeping up on him more often these days, nagging at him like a stone in his shoe. She never seemed to consider the fact that she was married and had children!
At that moment he heard the front door open out in the hall. A faint breeze ran across the floor as the air from the stairwell tried to even out the difference between the centrally heated flat and the cold of winter.
“Annika?”
She turned the light on and looked into the bedroom, standing on tiptoe.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Did I wake you?”
He pushed himself into the mattress, pulled up the covers, and did his best to smile.
Not her fault.
“No,” he said. “Where have you been?”
She sat down on his side of the bed, still wearing her ugly jacket. She looked very odd.
“You didn’t hear the news last night?”
Thomas plumped up the pillows and pulled himself up a bit.
“I was watching sports on Three.”
“There was shooting at the Nobel banquet. I was standing alongside and saw it happen. I’ve been with the police all night.”
He looked at her as if she were far away, not sitting there with him. If he stretched out his hand he wouldn’t be able to touch her, he wouldn’t be able to reach.
“How could something like that happen?” he said lamely.
She pulled a newspaper out of her dreadful old bag; the smell of fresh newsprint hit him as he turned on the light.
NOBEL KILLINGS—All-Night Police Hunt
Full Coverage of the Attack on the Nobel Banquet
Speechless, he took the paper and stared at the picture of people drinking a toast: a dark-haired woman and an almost completely bald man, both smiling, both dressed up to the nines.
“They shot the winner of the prize for medicine?”
She leaned over him and pointed at the woman.
“She was killed, Caroline von Behring. She was chair of the Nobel Committee at the Karolinska Institute. I saw her die.”
She pulled off her coat and sighed quietly, then sat there with her head hanging and her back bent. It sounded like she was sniffing.
All of a
“Did he sit there drawing different noses?”
Annika took a sip of the now-cold coffee and shook her head.
“It’s all done by a computer program that has several hundred different noses that can be moved around, made bigger or smaller. Then eyes and lips and so on …”
“Wow,” Jansson said.
She crushed the plastic cup and knew that he was asking because he cared about her , not the photofit picture.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Suddenly the night editor stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and got up with a little jerk.
“Well,” he said, “this won’t do.”
And she was left alone in the smoking booth, looking out through the nicotine-stained glass as the news team gathered for their second wind, another edition, a new day.
All of a sudden Thomas was aware of the swaying motion of the pattern made by the streetlights on the bedroom ceiling, woken by a sound hecould no longer remember. He lay still for a few seconds, letting reality catch up with him.
Something was rattling outside, a bus or a car or something—all these city sounds, all these constant stress factors. Swaying streetlights turned his bedroom into a barge on the sea, never still, always in motion. Shrieking engines turned his home into an echo chamber, a concert hall of urban sounds. He was tired of this apartment to the point of nausea, so unutterably fed up that he wanted to scream. How wonderful it would be to get away from here!
With a jolt he let go of the shimmering pattern on the ceiling and turned to face Annika’s side of the bed.
It was empty.
She hadn’t come home.
Anxiety kicked in—what could have happened? Why did she have to put herself in harm’s way all the time? Covering the Nobel banquet shouldn’t take all night, should it? What was there to write about, apart from Silvia’s necklace?
He looked up at the ceiling again and gulped hard.
He recognized this feeling all too well. Irritation was creeping up on him more often these days, nagging at him like a stone in his shoe. She never seemed to consider the fact that she was married and had children!
At that moment he heard the front door open out in the hall. A faint breeze ran across the floor as the air from the stairwell tried to even out the difference between the centrally heated flat and the cold of winter.
“Annika?”
She turned the light on and looked into the bedroom, standing on tiptoe.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Did I wake you?”
He pushed himself into the mattress, pulled up the covers, and did his best to smile.
Not her fault.
“No,” he said. “Where have you been?”
She sat down on his side of the bed, still wearing her ugly jacket. She looked very odd.
“You didn’t hear the news last night?”
Thomas plumped up the pillows and pulled himself up a bit.
“I was watching sports on Three.”
“There was shooting at the Nobel banquet. I was standing alongside and saw it happen. I’ve been with the police all night.”
He looked at her as if she were far away, not sitting there with him. If he stretched out his hand he wouldn’t be able to touch her, he wouldn’t be able to reach.
“How could something like that happen?” he said lamely.
She pulled a newspaper out of her dreadful old bag; the smell of fresh newsprint hit him as he turned on the light.
NOBEL KILLINGS—All-Night Police Hunt
Full Coverage of the Attack on the Nobel Banquet
Speechless, he took the paper and stared at the picture of people drinking a toast: a dark-haired woman and an almost completely bald man, both smiling, both dressed up to the nines.
“They shot the winner of the prize for medicine?”
She leaned over him and pointed at the woman.
“She was killed, Caroline von Behring. She was chair of the Nobel Committee at the Karolinska Institute. I saw her die.”
She pulled off her coat and sighed quietly, then sat there with her head hanging and her back bent. It sounded like she was sniffing.
All of a
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