going to do? Fire me?’
She glanced at the camera to make sure it was working. It was. ‘Would you say that those five convictions constitute a miscarriage of justice?’
‘Of course.’
This was great. It was the first time that a person in any position of authority, who had been actively involved in at least one of the cases, had spoken out directly.
‘Have you been in contact with the prosecutor-general?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You appear to know more than I do now,’ he said.
Annika looked across the lawn. ‘Josefin’s murderer,’ she said. ‘Do you think Joachim fits the criteria you outlined earlier? Is he pathetic, cowardly, arrogant, obsessed with power, and unwilling to accept responsibility?’
‘In all likelihood, yes.’
She reached for her cup. She felt his eyes on her and looked up.
‘If you’re done, perhaps you could switch the camera off?’ he said.
She stood up and did as he asked.
‘You know,’ Kjell Lindström said, as she unscrewed the camera from its tripod. ‘My wife comes from Flen. We’ve lived in this house for thirty-nine years. I used to commute from here to Stockholm, all those years.’
She felt the weight of the camera on her arm, unsure of where this was going.
‘So I’ve paid particular attention to local stories and criminal investigations, and I remember another fatality that occurred during the summer when Josefin was killed in Hälleforsnäs. Not too far from here. Sven Matsson, the hockey player. That was you, wasn’t it?’
She dropped the tripod, which fell on to the grass with a thud. She bent to pick it up.
‘I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ the prosecutor said. ‘But I know you have personal experience and knowledge of issues like this.’
She stood up, her heart pounding.
‘Every experience teaches you something,’ he said.
She didn’t feel like driving back to work straight away, didn’t want to get back to the disaster that was about to hit the newsroom.
Outside the car, the countryside flew past, hills crowned with oak trees, meadows full of cows, rolling fields of ripening wheat, stretches of marshland full of nesting birds, houses that had stood there for centuries:rust-red timber cottages with their double chimneys, crooked barns and haylofts. This was her patch, her land, the view from the back of the Volvo when they had gone to get the week’s groceries on a Saturday from the ICA supermarket in Flen, Dad singing along to the radio, Annika arguing with Birgitta about hairgrips and sweets. The wind was making mirrors of the lakes, sending dazzling reflections into her eyes. She wished she’d brought a pair of sunglasses.
The prosecutor remembered what she had done. There weren’t many people who did, these days. At the paper there had been a degree of gossip for the first few years, she was aware of that, but people gave up, things were forgotten, other things happened. Every so often a new temp would come to find her and ask breathlessly if it was true: had she really killed her boyfriend? She always replied by telling them that they shouldn’t believe gossip and should go straight to the source, and they would slink off, even though they had done exactly what she was encouraging them to do. It was such a long time ago now, so many years had passed.
The bridge in Mellösa was being repaired and she turned left by the kiosk and headed slowly towards the Harpsund estate. Her grandmother had been the housekeeper at the prime minister’s summer residence for several decades, and had met all the senior Swedish politicians, as well as international figures like Nikita Khrushchev and Georges Pompidou. Annika’s mother and other adults would often ask about the politicians,what sort of food they liked and who drank most, but Grandma never said a word about her guests (which was how she thought of them: they were there to visit her).
The model farm appeared on the left of the car and Annika slowed. She changed into a
She glanced at the camera to make sure it was working. It was. ‘Would you say that those five convictions constitute a miscarriage of justice?’
‘Of course.’
This was great. It was the first time that a person in any position of authority, who had been actively involved in at least one of the cases, had spoken out directly.
‘Have you been in contact with the prosecutor-general?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You appear to know more than I do now,’ he said.
Annika looked across the lawn. ‘Josefin’s murderer,’ she said. ‘Do you think Joachim fits the criteria you outlined earlier? Is he pathetic, cowardly, arrogant, obsessed with power, and unwilling to accept responsibility?’
‘In all likelihood, yes.’
She reached for her cup. She felt his eyes on her and looked up.
‘If you’re done, perhaps you could switch the camera off?’ he said.
She stood up and did as he asked.
‘You know,’ Kjell Lindström said, as she unscrewed the camera from its tripod. ‘My wife comes from Flen. We’ve lived in this house for thirty-nine years. I used to commute from here to Stockholm, all those years.’
She felt the weight of the camera on her arm, unsure of where this was going.
‘So I’ve paid particular attention to local stories and criminal investigations, and I remember another fatality that occurred during the summer when Josefin was killed in Hälleforsnäs. Not too far from here. Sven Matsson, the hockey player. That was you, wasn’t it?’
She dropped the tripod, which fell on to the grass with a thud. She bent to pick it up.
‘I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ the prosecutor said. ‘But I know you have personal experience and knowledge of issues like this.’
She stood up, her heart pounding.
‘Every experience teaches you something,’ he said.
She didn’t feel like driving back to work straight away, didn’t want to get back to the disaster that was about to hit the newsroom.
Outside the car, the countryside flew past, hills crowned with oak trees, meadows full of cows, rolling fields of ripening wheat, stretches of marshland full of nesting birds, houses that had stood there for centuries:rust-red timber cottages with their double chimneys, crooked barns and haylofts. This was her patch, her land, the view from the back of the Volvo when they had gone to get the week’s groceries on a Saturday from the ICA supermarket in Flen, Dad singing along to the radio, Annika arguing with Birgitta about hairgrips and sweets. The wind was making mirrors of the lakes, sending dazzling reflections into her eyes. She wished she’d brought a pair of sunglasses.
The prosecutor remembered what she had done. There weren’t many people who did, these days. At the paper there had been a degree of gossip for the first few years, she was aware of that, but people gave up, things were forgotten, other things happened. Every so often a new temp would come to find her and ask breathlessly if it was true: had she really killed her boyfriend? She always replied by telling them that they shouldn’t believe gossip and should go straight to the source, and they would slink off, even though they had done exactly what she was encouraging them to do. It was such a long time ago now, so many years had passed.
The bridge in Mellösa was being repaired and she turned left by the kiosk and headed slowly towards the Harpsund estate. Her grandmother had been the housekeeper at the prime minister’s summer residence for several decades, and had met all the senior Swedish politicians, as well as international figures like Nikita Khrushchev and Georges Pompidou. Annika’s mother and other adults would often ask about the politicians,what sort of food they liked and who drank most, but Grandma never said a word about her guests (which was how she thought of them: they were there to visit her).
The model farm appeared on the left of the car and Annika slowed. She changed into a
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