dissolving into the grey scenery. It was too early to go in to the office, too late to go home. Too much emptiness to think about.
9
When the number 76 suddenly appeared from behind the SVEX administration building, Annika acted on impulse. Instead of getting the number 41 back to Kungsholmen she went in to Gamla stan. She got off by the Royal Palace and weaved through the narrow alleys towards Tyska brinken, at the other end of the island. The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. Time stood still between the old buildings, the sound of the traffic on Skeppsbron died away, and her footsteps echoed dully on the frozen cobbles. Darkness was falling fast, colours transformed in the yellow light from the old streetlamps, reduced to small highlights in the circles of light. Black iron. Red ochre. Sparkling hand-blown glass in leaded windows. Gamla stan was another world, another time, an echo of the past. Naturally, her friend Anne Snapphane had managed to get an attic flat next to the old German Church. A sublet, but it was still pretty impressive.
She was home, busy cooking some pasta.
‘Get another dish, there’s enough for you too,’ she said when she had let Annika in and locked the door behind her. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I’ve been out and about, I’ve just come from Frihamnen.’
Annika sank onto a chair under the sloping ceiling of the little kitchen, breathing in the heat and steam from the pan of pasta. The sense of pointlessness retreated, its place taken by Anne Snapphane’s rolling stream of chatter. Annika gave mostly monosyllabic responses.
They sat opposite one another, adding butter, cheese and soy sauce to the tagliatelle. The cheese melted, forming sticky tentacles in the pasta. Annika twisted her fork through the food and stared out of the window. Roofs, chimneys and terraces formed dark shapes against the deep blue winter sky. Suddenly she became aware of how hungry she was, and ate until she was breathless, then drank a large glass of coke.
‘Wasn’t there a murder out in Frihamnen this morning?’ Anne said, eating the last of her pasta and filling the kettle.
‘Two, yesterday morning,’ Annika said, putting her plate in the dishwasher.
‘Great,’ Anne said. ‘So when did you get to be a reporter again?’
She poured boiling water in the cafetière.
‘Don’t jump to any conclusions. I’m further out in the cold than anyone thinks,’ Annika said, walking into the open-beamed living room.
Anne Snapphane followed her with a tray holding two mugs, the cafetière and a bag of sweets.
‘But you’ve started writing again? Properly, I mean?’
They settled into the sofa. Annika swallowed.
‘No, I haven’t. I just didn’t want to be at home. And a double murder is always a double murder.’
Anne pulled a face, blew on the hot drink and took a sip.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said. ‘Thank God for relationships and fashion and eating disorders.’
Annika smiled. ‘So how’s it going?’
‘The head of programming thinks
Sofa Talk
is a great success. I’m not quite as enthusiastic. The whole team are working themselves into the ground, everyone hates the presenter, and the director is plotting with the floor manager.’
‘What are the viewing figures like? A million?’
Anne Snapphane looked at her mournfully.
‘My dear, we’re talking about the world of satellite broadcasting here. Viewing shares. Target groups. Only dreary old public service broadcasters still talk about viewing figures.’
‘So why are we always writing about them, then?’ Annika said, opening the bag of sweets.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Anne said. ‘You probably don’t know any better. And
Sofa Talk
will never be any good unless we get some decent journalists in the team.’
‘Is it really that bad? Weren’t you supposed to be getting someone new?’ Annika said, stuffing a handful of sweets in her mouth.
Anne Snapphane groaned loudly. ‘Michelle
9
When the number 76 suddenly appeared from behind the SVEX administration building, Annika acted on impulse. Instead of getting the number 41 back to Kungsholmen she went in to Gamla stan. She got off by the Royal Palace and weaved through the narrow alleys towards Tyska brinken, at the other end of the island. The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. Time stood still between the old buildings, the sound of the traffic on Skeppsbron died away, and her footsteps echoed dully on the frozen cobbles. Darkness was falling fast, colours transformed in the yellow light from the old streetlamps, reduced to small highlights in the circles of light. Black iron. Red ochre. Sparkling hand-blown glass in leaded windows. Gamla stan was another world, another time, an echo of the past. Naturally, her friend Anne Snapphane had managed to get an attic flat next to the old German Church. A sublet, but it was still pretty impressive.
She was home, busy cooking some pasta.
‘Get another dish, there’s enough for you too,’ she said when she had let Annika in and locked the door behind her. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I’ve been out and about, I’ve just come from Frihamnen.’
Annika sank onto a chair under the sloping ceiling of the little kitchen, breathing in the heat and steam from the pan of pasta. The sense of pointlessness retreated, its place taken by Anne Snapphane’s rolling stream of chatter. Annika gave mostly monosyllabic responses.
They sat opposite one another, adding butter, cheese and soy sauce to the tagliatelle. The cheese melted, forming sticky tentacles in the pasta. Annika twisted her fork through the food and stared out of the window. Roofs, chimneys and terraces formed dark shapes against the deep blue winter sky. Suddenly she became aware of how hungry she was, and ate until she was breathless, then drank a large glass of coke.
‘Wasn’t there a murder out in Frihamnen this morning?’ Anne said, eating the last of her pasta and filling the kettle.
‘Two, yesterday morning,’ Annika said, putting her plate in the dishwasher.
‘Great,’ Anne said. ‘So when did you get to be a reporter again?’
She poured boiling water in the cafetière.
‘Don’t jump to any conclusions. I’m further out in the cold than anyone thinks,’ Annika said, walking into the open-beamed living room.
Anne Snapphane followed her with a tray holding two mugs, the cafetière and a bag of sweets.
‘But you’ve started writing again? Properly, I mean?’
They settled into the sofa. Annika swallowed.
‘No, I haven’t. I just didn’t want to be at home. And a double murder is always a double murder.’
Anne pulled a face, blew on the hot drink and took a sip.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said. ‘Thank God for relationships and fashion and eating disorders.’
Annika smiled. ‘So how’s it going?’
‘The head of programming thinks
Sofa Talk
is a great success. I’m not quite as enthusiastic. The whole team are working themselves into the ground, everyone hates the presenter, and the director is plotting with the floor manager.’
‘What are the viewing figures like? A million?’
Anne Snapphane looked at her mournfully.
‘My dear, we’re talking about the world of satellite broadcasting here. Viewing shares. Target groups. Only dreary old public service broadcasters still talk about viewing figures.’
‘So why are we always writing about them, then?’ Annika said, opening the bag of sweets.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Anne said. ‘You probably don’t know any better. And
Sofa Talk
will never be any good unless we get some decent journalists in the team.’
‘Is it really that bad? Weren’t you supposed to be getting someone new?’ Annika said, stuffing a handful of sweets in her mouth.
Anne Snapphane groaned loudly. ‘Michelle
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