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towards them inside the cemetery.
    ‘Okay, it’s time for you to leave,’ he said.
    Annika looked round, unsure of what to do. Bertil Strand was already heading towards the path that led to Sankt Göransgatan. The policemen in front of her and behind her both looked extremely annoyed. She realized she would have to move, otherwise the police would move her themselves. Instinctively, she shifted sideways to where Bertil Strand had taken his first pictures.
    She peered through the black railings, and there was the young woman. Her eyes were staring right into Annika’s from a distance of just two metres away. They were clouded and grey. Her head was tilted back, her upper arms were pointing away from her body, and her lower arms sticking up above her head. One hand seemed to have been injured. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream, the lips black-brown. Her hair was moving slightly in the imperceptible breeze. She had a large bruise on her left breast, and the lower portion of her stomach looked eerily green.
    Annika absorbed the whole image, crystal clear, just for a moment. The harsh greyness of the stone in the background, the subtle green of the plants, the shadows of the leaves, the dampness and heat, the repulsive smell.
    Then the sheet appeared, turning the whole scene grey. They were covering up the railings, not the body.
    ‘Time to go,’ the policeman with the tape said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
    Such a bloody stereotype, Annika found herself thinking as she turned round.
    Her mouth was completely dry, and she noticed that everything she heard seemed to come from a long way away. She moved, slightly unsteadily, towards where Berit and Bertil Strand were standing waiting behind the cordon. The photographer looked bored and unhappy, but Berit was almost smiling.
    The policeman followed her, with his shoulder rubbing against her back. It had to be very hot having to wear a uniform like that on a day like this, Annika thought.
    ‘Did you see anything?’ Berit asked.
    Annika nodded, and Berit jotted something down.
    ‘Did you manage to ask the detective in the Hawaiian shirt anything?’
    Annika shook her head and crept under the length of tape with the obliging help of the policeman.
    ‘That’s a shame. Did he say anything that you happened to overhear?’
    ‘ “Okay, it’s time for you to leave”,’ Annika quoted, and Berit smiled.
    ‘How about you, are you okay?’ she asked, and Annika nodded.
    ‘Oh, I’m fine. She might well have been strangled, her eyes were popping out. She must have been trying to scream when she died, her mouth was wide open.’
    ‘Maybe someone heard her. We’ll talk to the neighbours later. Was she Swedish?’
    Annika suddenly felt that she had to sit down.
    ‘I forgot to ask …’
    Berit smiled again.
    ‘Blonde, dark, young, old?’
    ‘Twenty, tops. Long fair hair. Big breasts. Silicone, probably, or saline implants.’
    Berit looked at her quizzically. She sank down into the grass with her legs crossed.
    ‘Her tits were standing straight up, even though she was on her back. And she had a scar in her armpit.’
    Annika could feel her blood pressure plummeting. She lowered her head to her knees, taking several deep breaths.
    ‘Not a pretty sight, then?’ Berit said.
    ‘I’m okay,’ Annika said.
    After a minute or so she felt better. The noises around her were overwhelming: the traffic thundering along the Drottningholm road, two sirens wailing out of sync, voices shouting, the clatter of cameras, a child crying.
    Bertil Strand had joined the group of reporters gathering at the entrance to the cemetery, and was chatting to the photographer from the other evening paper.
    ‘Who’s doing what?’ Annika said.
    Berit sat down next to Annika, looked down at her notes and started doodling.
    ‘We can probably assume this is a murder, can’t we? So to start with, we need an article about the event itself. This has happened, a young woman has been found