dead mother-in-law. ‘How long had you known Astrid?’ Annika asked.
The woman refilled her glass. ‘Almost forty years. She was my bridesmaid when I married Edgar, and she sat next to me when I buried him last year. Here’s to you, Astrid!’ The woman drained her glass and Annika felt her throat tighten. She had to cough to clear it. She stood up, went over to the woman and sat down beside her. The guests took this to mean that the group interview was over and started to talk among themselves at their tables.
Annika asked the woman’s name, how old she was, and whether she could take her picture. Her name was Maj-Lis, she was sixty-nine, and happy to have her picture taken, if it was really necessary. Annika took severalusing the flash, from the front, no artistic flourishes. Then she put a consoling hand on the woman’s arm before moving on to Lasse and repeating the process.
He had known Sebastian for five years. They had met when Lasse started playing tennis at Sebastian’s club, a fairly small set-up, just five courts but with a fantastic view, up in El Madroñal. Lasse’s own children were the same age as My and Leo, eight and five, but Lasse was divorced, these days, and his ex-wife had moved back to Sweden, so he only had the kids occasionally during the holidays.
The blonde woman, who was a
svea
, like Veronica, whatever it meant, didn’t seem to know the dead woman terribly well. Neither did any of the others.
Annika took pictures of some of the
sveas
, then gathered the guests together for a sad group picture. With that, she was almost done. ‘Will this tragedy affect your lives down here?’ she asked.
A large, blond man who hadn’t said anything before stepped forward. ‘I think it just emphasizes the importance of fitting a gas detector,’ he said. ‘As you all know, I sell top-class alarms in my ironmonger’s down in San Pedro, so I’d advise anyone who hasn’t already got one to fit one now. We’re open till two p.m. tomorrow.’
All of a sudden Annika felt she couldn’t take any more of this. She went to Carita, who was deep in conversation with two men in light knee-length shorts, and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘I’m done,’ she said, and the interpreter stood up at once.
They thanked everyone, waved and left the restaurant.
‘That seemed to go well,’ Carita said, when they were back in the car. ‘Where are we going next?’
‘I need to write this up,’ Annika said, starting the engine. ‘Shall I drive you home?’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but you’d never find your way back to the hotel. Straight ahead, the Hotel Pyr is just round the corner. Anyway, my car’s in the Corte Inglés car park. Here’s the school yearbook, by the way. Just drop me off outside. I’ll invoice for the cost of the car park, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure,’ Annika said. She took the neatly bound book printed on glossy paper.
‘Oh, Veronica was a
svea.
What does it mean?’
‘She was a member of the Swedish Women’s Educational Association, Swea. They’re all over the place. One of my mum’s friends started it in Los Angeles in the late 1970s.’
‘Are you a member?’
‘I don’t have time. Turn off here.’
A minute later Annika pulled up in front of the hotel. ‘Just one more thing,’ she said. ‘Do you think the death of the Söderström family will have any effect on the lives of Swedes on the Costa del Sol?’
‘Definitely,’ Carita said. ‘Everyone will be a lot more careful after this. See you tomorrow!’
She slammed the car door and tottered off along the pavement in her high-heeled boots.
Annika let out a deep breath. ‘Everyone will be a lot more careful after this.’
There was the last quote of the day.
Darkness fell quickly. There was a faint rumble from the motorway. The bright yellow lamps lining the roadworks cast harsh shadows across the room.
Annika put her bag, the camera and the plastic bag with all her books and maps on the bed and
The woman refilled her glass. ‘Almost forty years. She was my bridesmaid when I married Edgar, and she sat next to me when I buried him last year. Here’s to you, Astrid!’ The woman drained her glass and Annika felt her throat tighten. She had to cough to clear it. She stood up, went over to the woman and sat down beside her. The guests took this to mean that the group interview was over and started to talk among themselves at their tables.
Annika asked the woman’s name, how old she was, and whether she could take her picture. Her name was Maj-Lis, she was sixty-nine, and happy to have her picture taken, if it was really necessary. Annika took severalusing the flash, from the front, no artistic flourishes. Then she put a consoling hand on the woman’s arm before moving on to Lasse and repeating the process.
He had known Sebastian for five years. They had met when Lasse started playing tennis at Sebastian’s club, a fairly small set-up, just five courts but with a fantastic view, up in El Madroñal. Lasse’s own children were the same age as My and Leo, eight and five, but Lasse was divorced, these days, and his ex-wife had moved back to Sweden, so he only had the kids occasionally during the holidays.
The blonde woman, who was a
svea
, like Veronica, whatever it meant, didn’t seem to know the dead woman terribly well. Neither did any of the others.
Annika took pictures of some of the
sveas
, then gathered the guests together for a sad group picture. With that, she was almost done. ‘Will this tragedy affect your lives down here?’ she asked.
A large, blond man who hadn’t said anything before stepped forward. ‘I think it just emphasizes the importance of fitting a gas detector,’ he said. ‘As you all know, I sell top-class alarms in my ironmonger’s down in San Pedro, so I’d advise anyone who hasn’t already got one to fit one now. We’re open till two p.m. tomorrow.’
All of a sudden Annika felt she couldn’t take any more of this. She went to Carita, who was deep in conversation with two men in light knee-length shorts, and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘I’m done,’ she said, and the interpreter stood up at once.
They thanked everyone, waved and left the restaurant.
‘That seemed to go well,’ Carita said, when they were back in the car. ‘Where are we going next?’
‘I need to write this up,’ Annika said, starting the engine. ‘Shall I drive you home?’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but you’d never find your way back to the hotel. Straight ahead, the Hotel Pyr is just round the corner. Anyway, my car’s in the Corte Inglés car park. Here’s the school yearbook, by the way. Just drop me off outside. I’ll invoice for the cost of the car park, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure,’ Annika said. She took the neatly bound book printed on glossy paper.
‘Oh, Veronica was a
svea.
What does it mean?’
‘She was a member of the Swedish Women’s Educational Association, Swea. They’re all over the place. One of my mum’s friends started it in Los Angeles in the late 1970s.’
‘Are you a member?’
‘I don’t have time. Turn off here.’
A minute later Annika pulled up in front of the hotel. ‘Just one more thing,’ she said. ‘Do you think the death of the Söderström family will have any effect on the lives of Swedes on the Costa del Sol?’
‘Definitely,’ Carita said. ‘Everyone will be a lot more careful after this. See you tomorrow!’
She slammed the car door and tottered off along the pavement in her high-heeled boots.
Annika let out a deep breath. ‘Everyone will be a lot more careful after this.’
There was the last quote of the day.
Darkness fell quickly. There was a faint rumble from the motorway. The bright yellow lamps lining the roadworks cast harsh shadows across the room.
Annika put her bag, the camera and the plastic bag with all her books and maps on the bed and
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