Inspector Q had used her to negotiate a prisoner exchange with the American authorities: the FBI got the Kitten, and the American justice system sent home a Swedish citizen from a prison in New Jersey.
‘You sold out my home,
my children’s home
, just to get a bit of credit with the CIA and bring home a cop-killer,’ she had said to Inspector Q.
That was when he had joked about organizing a new home for her, and now here she was, in number 28 Agnegatan, in the same block as the flat she had lived in when she’d first arrived as a summer temp on the
Evening Post
ten years before. She had no windows facing in that direction, or she could probably have looked into the little house in the courtyard where she had spent that hot summer when everything had begun, before the children, before Thomas, when Sven was still alive …
The phone rang somewhere in the flat, the landline. She flew up, unable to remember where she had plugged it in.
After the fourth ring she found it on the floor of Kalle’s room.
‘Annika Bengtzon? Jimmy Halenius.’
The under-secretary of state at the Ministry of Justice, the minister’s right-hand man.
Thomas’s boss.
She cleared her throat audibly. ‘Thomas has movedout,’ she said. ‘I told you.’
‘I want to talk to you, not him.’
She moved the receiver to her other ear. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Really?’
‘I heard from Britta that you wanted a comment about the extradition of an American citizen towards the end of last year. As you know, the minister isn’t in a position to comment on individual cases, but I could outline some of the issues involved in a more informal way.’
‘Britta?’ she said.
‘I’ll be at Järnet on Österlånggatan from seven p.m. Come if you’re interested.’
‘On the record?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘But I’ll pay for dinner.’
‘I don’t have dinner with politicians,’ she said.
‘As you like. Well, thanks, and goodbye,’ he said, and hung up.
She replaced the receiver and lowered the phone to the floor. There were no lights in Kalle’s room yet, so she was standing in the dark by the window, gazing down on the naked treetops.
Really she ought to unpack.
She looked at the time.
She didn’t have to do that this evening. She had never expected to hear back from anyone in the department. Shouldn’t she go and listen to what he had to say? Besides, she’d met Halenius before when Thomas had had some colleagues round for dinner.
Her eyes fell on the boxes.
It’s a tough decision, she thought. Dinner at a fancy restaurant with a highly placed source or an evening with Kalle’s Brio train-set?
Järnet turned out to be one of the restaurants in Gamla stan that Annika had walked past many times andpeered into, as if the people inside lived in a different, much more beautiful, world from her own. It always looked so cosy, with candles, gleaming cutlery and glasses filled with wine. Outside in the street there was always a bitterly cold wind blowing.
A simple sign with the name of the restaurant was swinging and creaking above the entrance. She pushed open one of the grey-green double-doors and found herself in a lobby. At once a waiter appeared out of nowhere. He took her padded jacket without giving her a numbered ticket or asking for fifteen kronor as a wardrobe fee.
It was ten past seven. She had chosen the time carefully, didn’t want to seem too keen but didn’t want to leave him waiting on his own for too long either.
The dining room was small, only ten or so tables. Jimmy Halenius was sitting in a far corner, immersed in one of the evening papers with a glass of beer in front of him. Not the
Evening Post
, she noted, but its main competitor. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re reading the wrong paper.’
His brown hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d got into the habit of rubbing it in frustration. He stood up and held out his right hand. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.
‘You sold out my home,
my children’s home
, just to get a bit of credit with the CIA and bring home a cop-killer,’ she had said to Inspector Q.
That was when he had joked about organizing a new home for her, and now here she was, in number 28 Agnegatan, in the same block as the flat she had lived in when she’d first arrived as a summer temp on the
Evening Post
ten years before. She had no windows facing in that direction, or she could probably have looked into the little house in the courtyard where she had spent that hot summer when everything had begun, before the children, before Thomas, when Sven was still alive …
The phone rang somewhere in the flat, the landline. She flew up, unable to remember where she had plugged it in.
After the fourth ring she found it on the floor of Kalle’s room.
‘Annika Bengtzon? Jimmy Halenius.’
The under-secretary of state at the Ministry of Justice, the minister’s right-hand man.
Thomas’s boss.
She cleared her throat audibly. ‘Thomas has movedout,’ she said. ‘I told you.’
‘I want to talk to you, not him.’
She moved the receiver to her other ear. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Really?’
‘I heard from Britta that you wanted a comment about the extradition of an American citizen towards the end of last year. As you know, the minister isn’t in a position to comment on individual cases, but I could outline some of the issues involved in a more informal way.’
‘Britta?’ she said.
‘I’ll be at Järnet on Österlånggatan from seven p.m. Come if you’re interested.’
‘On the record?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘But I’ll pay for dinner.’
‘I don’t have dinner with politicians,’ she said.
‘As you like. Well, thanks, and goodbye,’ he said, and hung up.
She replaced the receiver and lowered the phone to the floor. There were no lights in Kalle’s room yet, so she was standing in the dark by the window, gazing down on the naked treetops.
Really she ought to unpack.
She looked at the time.
She didn’t have to do that this evening. She had never expected to hear back from anyone in the department. Shouldn’t she go and listen to what he had to say? Besides, she’d met Halenius before when Thomas had had some colleagues round for dinner.
Her eyes fell on the boxes.
It’s a tough decision, she thought. Dinner at a fancy restaurant with a highly placed source or an evening with Kalle’s Brio train-set?
Järnet turned out to be one of the restaurants in Gamla stan that Annika had walked past many times andpeered into, as if the people inside lived in a different, much more beautiful, world from her own. It always looked so cosy, with candles, gleaming cutlery and glasses filled with wine. Outside in the street there was always a bitterly cold wind blowing.
A simple sign with the name of the restaurant was swinging and creaking above the entrance. She pushed open one of the grey-green double-doors and found herself in a lobby. At once a waiter appeared out of nowhere. He took her padded jacket without giving her a numbered ticket or asking for fifteen kronor as a wardrobe fee.
It was ten past seven. She had chosen the time carefully, didn’t want to seem too keen but didn’t want to leave him waiting on his own for too long either.
The dining room was small, only ten or so tables. Jimmy Halenius was sitting in a far corner, immersed in one of the evening papers with a glass of beer in front of him. Not the
Evening Post
, she noted, but its main competitor. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re reading the wrong paper.’
His brown hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d got into the habit of rubbing it in frustration. He stood up and held out his right hand. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.
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