showed it would soon be time for the morning meeting in the Den. She reached for the papers Ellen had left on her desk. A copy of the follow-up report on the unidentified hit-and-run victim. She leafed through it quickly and saw there was nothing new in it. The pathologist performing the autopsy would send in a report later in the day.
Her thoughts went to the crumpled scraps of paper and the Arabic script she was having translated. They probably meant nothing, but still needed checking out.
The translator answered after the third ring.
‘It wasn’t the easiest handwriting to decipher,’ he said.
‘But you could make it out?’ Fredrika asked urgently.
‘Yes of course,’ said the translator, sounding almost offended.
Fredrika suppressed a sigh. It was always so easy to tread on people’s toes, to cross lines that were never evident from the outset.
‘We’ll take the straightforward part first,’ began the translator. ‘The pamphlet. It’s a prayer book. A collection of verses from the Koran, nothing strange about it at all. And there was nothing written in it, either. But then there are these bits of paper.’
Fredrika could hear rustling at the other end.
‘The first one has the names of two locations in Stockholm: the Globe and Enskede. Two Swedish words, but written down phonetically, in Arabic. That must be it, otherwise I’ve no idea what it means. And I’m an Arab myself, so I ought to know.’
He gave a laugh and Fredrika had to smile. The translator’s laugh died away.
‘The other one, the one you told me had a ring wrapped in it, says: ‘‘Farah Hajib, Sadr City, Baghdad, Iraq’’.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Fredrika.
‘No idea,’ said the translator. ‘And it may mean nothing beyond the most obvious thing, namely that in Sadr City in Baghdad there lives a woman called Farah Hajib. Perhaps the ring’s hers?’
‘What sort of place is Sadr City?’
‘It’s a lesser-known district of Baghdad which is, or at any rate used to be, controlled wholly or in part by the Shiite grouping known as the Mehdi Army,’ explained the translator in a matter-of-fact way. ‘A real trouble spot, you could say. Many people had to flee from there because of the conflict between the Shiite and Sunni Muslims after the fall of Saddam’s regime.’
Pictures from the news reports of the inferno of internal antagonisms and clashes that was post-2003 Iraq resurfaced in Fredrika’s mind. Millions of people moving into the interior of the country and into neighbouring states. And added to those the very few, all things considered, who had made it all the way to Europe and to Sweden.
‘Maybe she’s here?’ said Fredrika. ‘As an asylum seeker?’
‘I’ll send up my translation in the internal post,’ said the translator, ‘so you can check with the Migration Agency. Though I suspect it will be hard to locate her with just a name. You can’t even be sure she has given the authorities here the same name.’
‘I know,’ said Fredrika, ‘but I still want to check. And how did you get on with the map? Could you decipher anything?’
‘Ah yes, the map. I’d forgotten that.’
There was more rustling.
‘The writing says: ‘‘8, Fyristorg’’.’
‘An address in Uppsala, then?’
‘It seems to be, yes. That’s all there was. But as I said, I’ll send this up and you can get back to me if you’ve got any questions.’
Fredrika thanked him for his help and decided her immediate priority was to check out the address in Uppsala, the city where she and Spencer had first met.
It was nearly ten and she only had a few minutes before the meeting. Time to banish Spencer from her thoughts so she could concentrate. She raised her eyebrows when she discovered what was at 8, Fyristorg.
It was the address of a Forex foreign exchange bureau.
Fredrika frowned and tried hard to think what had made her react so strongly to seeing the name Forex. Nothing came to mind, so she logged on to
Her thoughts went to the crumpled scraps of paper and the Arabic script she was having translated. They probably meant nothing, but still needed checking out.
The translator answered after the third ring.
‘It wasn’t the easiest handwriting to decipher,’ he said.
‘But you could make it out?’ Fredrika asked urgently.
‘Yes of course,’ said the translator, sounding almost offended.
Fredrika suppressed a sigh. It was always so easy to tread on people’s toes, to cross lines that were never evident from the outset.
‘We’ll take the straightforward part first,’ began the translator. ‘The pamphlet. It’s a prayer book. A collection of verses from the Koran, nothing strange about it at all. And there was nothing written in it, either. But then there are these bits of paper.’
Fredrika could hear rustling at the other end.
‘The first one has the names of two locations in Stockholm: the Globe and Enskede. Two Swedish words, but written down phonetically, in Arabic. That must be it, otherwise I’ve no idea what it means. And I’m an Arab myself, so I ought to know.’
He gave a laugh and Fredrika had to smile. The translator’s laugh died away.
‘The other one, the one you told me had a ring wrapped in it, says: ‘‘Farah Hajib, Sadr City, Baghdad, Iraq’’.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Fredrika.
‘No idea,’ said the translator. ‘And it may mean nothing beyond the most obvious thing, namely that in Sadr City in Baghdad there lives a woman called Farah Hajib. Perhaps the ring’s hers?’
‘What sort of place is Sadr City?’
‘It’s a lesser-known district of Baghdad which is, or at any rate used to be, controlled wholly or in part by the Shiite grouping known as the Mehdi Army,’ explained the translator in a matter-of-fact way. ‘A real trouble spot, you could say. Many people had to flee from there because of the conflict between the Shiite and Sunni Muslims after the fall of Saddam’s regime.’
Pictures from the news reports of the inferno of internal antagonisms and clashes that was post-2003 Iraq resurfaced in Fredrika’s mind. Millions of people moving into the interior of the country and into neighbouring states. And added to those the very few, all things considered, who had made it all the way to Europe and to Sweden.
‘Maybe she’s here?’ said Fredrika. ‘As an asylum seeker?’
‘I’ll send up my translation in the internal post,’ said the translator, ‘so you can check with the Migration Agency. Though I suspect it will be hard to locate her with just a name. You can’t even be sure she has given the authorities here the same name.’
‘I know,’ said Fredrika, ‘but I still want to check. And how did you get on with the map? Could you decipher anything?’
‘Ah yes, the map. I’d forgotten that.’
There was more rustling.
‘The writing says: ‘‘8, Fyristorg’’.’
‘An address in Uppsala, then?’
‘It seems to be, yes. That’s all there was. But as I said, I’ll send this up and you can get back to me if you’ve got any questions.’
Fredrika thanked him for his help and decided her immediate priority was to check out the address in Uppsala, the city where she and Spencer had first met.
It was nearly ten and she only had a few minutes before the meeting. Time to banish Spencer from her thoughts so she could concentrate. She raised her eyebrows when she discovered what was at 8, Fyristorg.
It was the address of a Forex foreign exchange bureau.
Fredrika frowned and tried hard to think what had made her react so strongly to seeing the name Forex. Nothing came to mind, so she logged on to
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