lot. ‘That’s cargo destined for the Baltic States awaiting shipment, or stuff that’s been cleared through Customs and will be shipped throughout Sweden.’
‘Can you rent space here?’
‘No, you just park your trailer. No one actually keeps track of what’s out here. Or why. Or for how long. It could be anything.’
‘Like the occasional smuggled carton of cigarettes?’
‘That’s highly probable.’
They smiled at each other.
‘Thank you for taking the time,’ Annika said.
They walked together over to the entrance of the free port. As soon as they reached the crime scene, the floodlights went on, relentlessly blazing light throughout the area.
‘It’s a goddamn tragedy,’ the Customs officer said. ‘Young guys, barely in their twenties.’
‘What did they look like?’ Annika asked.
‘They were clueless about winter clothing,’ the Customs officer replied. ‘Must have been damn cold: all they had on were fancy leather jackets and jeans. No hats or gloves. Sports shoes.’
‘How were they lying?’
‘Practically on top of each other – both of them had holes in their heads.’ The Customs officer tapped the crown of his head.
Annika stopped walking. ‘Didn’t anyone hear anything? Don’t guards patrol the area at night?’
‘Every warehouse has watchdogs, except for number eight – that’s empty. They bark like crazy if anyone tries to enter. There are far fewer break-ins and burglaries since they brought in the dogs, but they’re not much good as eyewitnesses. I really don’t know if anyone heard shots ring out. We were having hurricane-force gales, after all.’
They exchanged business cards and pleasantries. Annika walked quickly to the bus stop near the sign indicating Tallinn, Klaipeda, Riga and St Petersburg. She was so cold that her teeth were chattering. Loneliness engulfed her, heavy and wet. She stood there in the bus shelter, a grey shape fading into the grey background. It was too early to go to the office, too late to go home and the sense of emptiness was so vast it precluded thought.
When the 76 bus suddenly appeared behind the SVEX administration building, she acted on an impulse. Instead of taking the 41 bus back to Kungsholmen, she headed for the Old Town. Got off at Slottsbacken, near the palace, and weaved her way through the narrow streets towards Tyska Brinken. The rain had stopped, the wind had died down. Time stood still around these stone buildings: the sounds of traffic from Skeppsbron subsided and her footsteps were muffled on the icy cobblestones. Night fell quickly, colours shifting in the golden light of the cast-iron street lamps, reduced to spots in the limited pools of lamplight. Black cast iron. Red ochre. Gleaming hand-blown window-panes in tiny criss-crossed frames. Stockholm’s Old Town was another world, another time, an echo from the past. And naturally Anne Snapphane had managed to get herself an attic flat near the German Church. It was only a sub-let, but still.
Anne was at home and in the process of making pasta. ‘Get a bowl out, there’s enough for you too,’ she said after letting Annika in and locking the door behind her. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘I was out and about – I’ve been to see the free port.’ Annika sank down on a chair under the sloping ceiling of the tiny kitchen, inhaling the warmth and the steam from the potful of pasta. Her sense of futility faded as the void filled with the rise and fall of Anne Snapphane’s chatter. Annika answered in monosyllables. They sat across from one another at the table, tossing their tagliatelle with butter, cheese and soy sauce. The cheese melted into stringy tentacles between the strips of pasta. Annika twirled her fork in the mixture and looked out the dormer window. Rooftops, chimneys and terraces created dark contours on the deep blue winter sky. Suddenly she realized how hungry she was, ate until she was breathless and drank a large beer glass full of
‘Can you rent space here?’
‘No, you just park your trailer. No one actually keeps track of what’s out here. Or why. Or for how long. It could be anything.’
‘Like the occasional smuggled carton of cigarettes?’
‘That’s highly probable.’
They smiled at each other.
‘Thank you for taking the time,’ Annika said.
They walked together over to the entrance of the free port. As soon as they reached the crime scene, the floodlights went on, relentlessly blazing light throughout the area.
‘It’s a goddamn tragedy,’ the Customs officer said. ‘Young guys, barely in their twenties.’
‘What did they look like?’ Annika asked.
‘They were clueless about winter clothing,’ the Customs officer replied. ‘Must have been damn cold: all they had on were fancy leather jackets and jeans. No hats or gloves. Sports shoes.’
‘How were they lying?’
‘Practically on top of each other – both of them had holes in their heads.’ The Customs officer tapped the crown of his head.
Annika stopped walking. ‘Didn’t anyone hear anything? Don’t guards patrol the area at night?’
‘Every warehouse has watchdogs, except for number eight – that’s empty. They bark like crazy if anyone tries to enter. There are far fewer break-ins and burglaries since they brought in the dogs, but they’re not much good as eyewitnesses. I really don’t know if anyone heard shots ring out. We were having hurricane-force gales, after all.’
They exchanged business cards and pleasantries. Annika walked quickly to the bus stop near the sign indicating Tallinn, Klaipeda, Riga and St Petersburg. She was so cold that her teeth were chattering. Loneliness engulfed her, heavy and wet. She stood there in the bus shelter, a grey shape fading into the grey background. It was too early to go to the office, too late to go home and the sense of emptiness was so vast it precluded thought.
When the 76 bus suddenly appeared behind the SVEX administration building, she acted on an impulse. Instead of taking the 41 bus back to Kungsholmen, she headed for the Old Town. Got off at Slottsbacken, near the palace, and weaved her way through the narrow streets towards Tyska Brinken. The rain had stopped, the wind had died down. Time stood still around these stone buildings: the sounds of traffic from Skeppsbron subsided and her footsteps were muffled on the icy cobblestones. Night fell quickly, colours shifting in the golden light of the cast-iron street lamps, reduced to spots in the limited pools of lamplight. Black cast iron. Red ochre. Gleaming hand-blown window-panes in tiny criss-crossed frames. Stockholm’s Old Town was another world, another time, an echo from the past. And naturally Anne Snapphane had managed to get herself an attic flat near the German Church. It was only a sub-let, but still.
Anne was at home and in the process of making pasta. ‘Get a bowl out, there’s enough for you too,’ she said after letting Annika in and locking the door behind her. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘I was out and about – I’ve been to see the free port.’ Annika sank down on a chair under the sloping ceiling of the tiny kitchen, inhaling the warmth and the steam from the potful of pasta. Her sense of futility faded as the void filled with the rise and fall of Anne Snapphane’s chatter. Annika answered in monosyllables. They sat across from one another at the table, tossing their tagliatelle with butter, cheese and soy sauce. The cheese melted into stringy tentacles between the strips of pasta. Annika twirled her fork in the mixture and looked out the dormer window. Rooftops, chimneys and terraces created dark contours on the deep blue winter sky. Suddenly she realized how hungry she was, ate until she was breathless and drank a large beer glass full of
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