Going by the look of the block, there are two flats on each floor, each with two windows facing the parking lot. The two windows on the left on the first floor are dark, and the blinds are pulled down. The windows on the right are lit. She can make out people inside: two adults and two or more children, all with Asian complexions.
John’s flat has to be the dark one. On foot, he has not had time to get here, and the snow looks undisturbed. She reaches for her radio.
“This is Franke,” she calls. “ Petersen and I are outside the home of John Andersson, wanted for questioning in regards to a shooting earlier tonight.” When her report is acknowledged, she stuffs her radio in her pocket, braces herself for the wind, and leaves the car.
Shielding her face, Agnes walks up to Lena. “I’ve called the locksmith,” she says. “He should be here any minute. His office is up in Vällingby.”
They wait with their shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in their pockets. The wind builds up strength on the flat meadows around Grimsta and is channelled by the buildings into frosty streams, rocking traffic lights and shaking trees.
At least the air is crisp, all dust and fumes wiped away by the storm. Lena inhales until the cold burns her lungs. Maybe it will help her to concentrate.
“I heard the forecast,” Agnes says. Her voice is muffled; only her eyes and nose are visible over her scarf. “There’s more snow on the way. Stronger winds, too.” She rubs her gloves together and looks at Lena. “Can I tell you something?”
Lena’s throat tightens. They have worked together too long for tentative questions like this. Besides, Agnes usually handles conversations like pointer dogs treat quarry. This hesitation is a bad sign.
Then again, it was a matter of time before Agnes heard the stories.
“I’m listening,” Lena says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “It’s a personal question, I suppose?”
“Not really a question.” A smile flashes on Agnes’s face. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to say for some time.”
“Uh-oh.” Lena manages a bravado smile while she prepares her usual explanation.
“I’m glad they teamed us up.”
“What?” Lena breathes out and looks at Agnes in surprise. That was not what she expected.
“I’ve learned so much from you during these months,” Agnes continues. “And I’m still learning. You’re a good mentor. I was nervous when I came to the force, because I know what some officers think of being burdened with a graduate. But you don’t look down on me. You’re professional, and kind.”
“I’m – of course I don’t.” Lena stares at the parked cars and wonders what to say; the compliments have shot straight through her guard. In truth, Agnes is the one who is professional, while Lena is a paranoid, absent-minded wreck.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Lena says at last, “you’re as good as anyone else.” She winces. “I meant that as a compliment. I’m no good at giving out praise. It’s one of the reasons people say I’m prickly.”
“They said that about me too,” Agnes says.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I had a nickname back at the police college.”
“Really?”
“‘Miss Tetchy.’”
Lena scoffs. “Not very original,” she says and blinks as a snowflake finds its way into her eye.
“I argued with a lecturer once. That’s all it took. He started using the name, and it stuck.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lena takes a deep breath. “You must’ve heard some of the monikers they have for me.”
Agnes hesitates and shakes her head, but she is too late. When she realises that Lena has seen her flinch, her lips tighten.
“A few,” Agnes admits. “But I don’t listen to what they say. People talk. In any case, what I’ve heard doesn’t matter.”
Lena finds that hard to believe. “Tell me what you’ve heard,” she says. “I don’t care much, but it’s good to stamp out lies.”
“They don’t
John’s flat has to be the dark one. On foot, he has not had time to get here, and the snow looks undisturbed. She reaches for her radio.
“This is Franke,” she calls. “ Petersen and I are outside the home of John Andersson, wanted for questioning in regards to a shooting earlier tonight.” When her report is acknowledged, she stuffs her radio in her pocket, braces herself for the wind, and leaves the car.
Shielding her face, Agnes walks up to Lena. “I’ve called the locksmith,” she says. “He should be here any minute. His office is up in Vällingby.”
They wait with their shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in their pockets. The wind builds up strength on the flat meadows around Grimsta and is channelled by the buildings into frosty streams, rocking traffic lights and shaking trees.
At least the air is crisp, all dust and fumes wiped away by the storm. Lena inhales until the cold burns her lungs. Maybe it will help her to concentrate.
“I heard the forecast,” Agnes says. Her voice is muffled; only her eyes and nose are visible over her scarf. “There’s more snow on the way. Stronger winds, too.” She rubs her gloves together and looks at Lena. “Can I tell you something?”
Lena’s throat tightens. They have worked together too long for tentative questions like this. Besides, Agnes usually handles conversations like pointer dogs treat quarry. This hesitation is a bad sign.
Then again, it was a matter of time before Agnes heard the stories.
“I’m listening,” Lena says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “It’s a personal question, I suppose?”
“Not really a question.” A smile flashes on Agnes’s face. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to say for some time.”
“Uh-oh.” Lena manages a bravado smile while she prepares her usual explanation.
“I’m glad they teamed us up.”
“What?” Lena breathes out and looks at Agnes in surprise. That was not what she expected.
“I’ve learned so much from you during these months,” Agnes continues. “And I’m still learning. You’re a good mentor. I was nervous when I came to the force, because I know what some officers think of being burdened with a graduate. But you don’t look down on me. You’re professional, and kind.”
“I’m – of course I don’t.” Lena stares at the parked cars and wonders what to say; the compliments have shot straight through her guard. In truth, Agnes is the one who is professional, while Lena is a paranoid, absent-minded wreck.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Lena says at last, “you’re as good as anyone else.” She winces. “I meant that as a compliment. I’m no good at giving out praise. It’s one of the reasons people say I’m prickly.”
“They said that about me too,” Agnes says.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I had a nickname back at the police college.”
“Really?”
“‘Miss Tetchy.’”
Lena scoffs. “Not very original,” she says and blinks as a snowflake finds its way into her eye.
“I argued with a lecturer once. That’s all it took. He started using the name, and it stuck.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lena takes a deep breath. “You must’ve heard some of the monikers they have for me.”
Agnes hesitates and shakes her head, but she is too late. When she realises that Lena has seen her flinch, her lips tighten.
“A few,” Agnes admits. “But I don’t listen to what they say. People talk. In any case, what I’ve heard doesn’t matter.”
Lena finds that hard to believe. “Tell me what you’ve heard,” she says. “I don’t care much, but it’s good to stamp out lies.”
“They don’t
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