Last Will Read Free Page A

dark and congealing.
    No angels, she managed to think, thank god the angels are keeping quiet.
    She shivered and realized that she had dropped her shawl, her grandmother’s best shawl that she had worn back when she was a housekeeper at Harpsund, the prime minister’s country estate. It was in a heap on the floor next to the vivid pool of blood.
    Dry cleaners, Annika thought. Hope it’s okay.
    “My name’s Annika Bengtzon,” she said to the police officer. “I’m covering the Nobel banquet for the Evening Post . What happened?”
    “Did you hear the shots?”
    Shots?
    Annika shook her head.
    “Did you notice anyone suspicious in connection with the shots?”
    “I was dancing,” she said, “it was crowded. Someone pushed into me, but nothing suspicious, no …”
    “Pushed? Who was doing the pushing?”
    “A woman, she was trying to get through, and she stood on my foot.”
    “Okay,” the policeman said, writing something in his pad. “Wait here and someone will come and get you for questioning.”
    “I can’t,” Annika said. “I’ve got an article to write. What’s your name? Can I quote you?”
    The man in jeans stepped closer to her and pressed her up against the wall.
    “You’re going to wait right here,” he said, “until I get back.”
    “Not on your life,” Annika said in a voice that threatened to turn into falsetto.
    The police officer groaned and dragged her into the Three Crowns Chamber.
    My deadline, Annika thought. How the hell am I going to get out of this?
    Editor in chief Anders Schyman had just settled into the sofa in his living room with his wife and an Almodóvar film when the night editor rang.
    “There’s been shooting at the Nobel banquet,” Jansson said. “At least five people have been shot, we don’t know if they’re alive or dead.”
    Anders Schyman looked at his wife, as she pressed in vain on the remote to get the right subtitles.
    “It’s the round button,” he said, showing her at the same time as the night editor’s words landed in his head.
    “Annika Bengtzon and Ulf Olsson from pictures are there,” Jansson said. “I haven’t been able to contact them, the mobile network’s jammed. Too much traffic.”
    “Tell me again,” Schyman said, signaling to his wife to pause the film.
    “Too much traffic on the mobile network; one thousand three hundred people trying to make calls from the City Hall at the same time, and it’s gone down.”
    “Who’s been shot? At the Nobel banquet?!”
    His wife opened her eyes wide and dropped the remote on the floor.
    “Some were security guards, but we don’t know about the others. The ambulances headed off, sirens blaring, toward Sankt Göran Hospital a few minutes ago.”
    “Damn!” Schyman said, sitting up straight. “When did this happen?”
    He glanced at his watch, 10:57 PM .
    “Ten minutes ago, fifteen at most.”
    “Is anyone dead?” his wife asked, but he hushed her.
    “This is mad,” he said. “What are the police doing? Have they arrested anyone? Where were the shots fired? Inside the Blue Hall? Where were the king and queen? Haven’t they got any fucking security in that building?”
    His wife laid a calming hand on his back.
    “The police have sealed off the City Hall,” Jansson said, “no one can get in or out. They’re questioning everyone and will start to let people out in half an hour or so. We’ve got people on their way to get eyewitness accounts. We don’t know if they’ve arrested anyone, but they’re certainly still looking for more people.”
    “What do things look like in the rest of the city?”
    “They’ve stopped all the trains, and the main roads out are blocked off, but planes are still taking off from Arlanda. There aren’t many flights left this evening. We’ve got people heading for the Central Station, the motorways, pretty much everywhere.”
    His wife gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then got up and left the room. Pedro Almodóvar’s women disappeared