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protected her working persona had locked into place and made her impervious. Slowly, she turned around, hugged her son, whispered something into his ear and left.
    Bertil Strand had been assigned a new company car, another Saab, while she had been on maternity leave. Annika presumed that he was even fussier, if such a thing could be possible, about this car.
    ‘You sure took your sweet time,’ he said as she tossed her bag and her laptop in the backseat.
    The expression on the photographer’s face told her that she had shut the car door too hard.
    ‘What lousy weather,’ she murmured.
    ‘It’s Midsummer,’ Bertil Strand remarked. ‘What do you expect?’
    He shifted into first gear and left the bus stop right before the No. 62 bus pulled up. Annika’s mouth was dry as she wriggled out of her raincoat and clumsily fastened her seat belt.
    ‘Got those telegrams?’
    The photographer pointed at a thin stack of papers at her feet.
    ‘Seeing as our reporters are scattered halfway across the globe, this won’t be easy. We’re damn lucky that Wennergren was at the scene.’
    Annika bent over to pick up the papers and the seat belt she had just fastened kept her from reaching them. Irritated, she unbuckled it again.
    ‘Right,’ she said. ‘And just what do you mean by that? Am I invisible even though I’m right here in the front seat beside you?’
    The photographer gave her a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.
    ‘It’s a crying shame we aren’t prepared to accommodate situations like this – poor planning and no forethought. Schyman ought to take charge instead of bickering with Torstensson. Put your seat belt on.’
    Annika didn’t have the energy to care about the power struggle between the managing editor and the editor-in-chief. She buckled up again, then closed her eyes and felt how the lack of power teamed with the longing for her children made her stomach churn. Her mother-in-law would certainly have a field day. Poor Thomas – why did her son’s life have to fall apart? Annika forced herself to exhale, then she opened her eyes wide and focused on the news-agency printouts. The telegrams, all five of them, had been set at one-minute intervals. Flash 09:41 a.m.: TV journalist Michelle Carlsson dead. 09:42: Michelle Carlsson killed by a shot to the head. 09:43: Michelle Carlsson found in a mobile control room near Yxtaholm castle. A weapon was found next to the victim. 09:44: The police suspect that Michelle Carlsson was murdered. 09:45: Several individuals are being interviewed by the police with regard to the murder of Michelle Carlsson.
    ‘They were taping a series that was going to be aired next week,’ Bertil Strand said.
    ‘ Summer Frolic at the Castle ,’ Annika said. ‘My friend Anne Snapphane has been working on the production team since March …’
    She stopped talking and stared at the tracks of the raindrops on the side window, small streams that converged and diverged, relentlessly pressed back towards the rear until they smashed into the chrome strip of the car door. She remembered her friend’s rage and despair when Anne, after working for this production company for six years, was demoted from producer to researcher and studio hostess. This new position meant that Anne Snapphane would clean up the site after the shoot, take care of the taped material and file it, and do all the tiresome dirty work. This meant that she was probably still at the castle. Annika turned around and fished out her pen and her pad from her bag in the back seat.
    ‘Who are the suspects?’
    ‘I haven’t the vaguest,’ Bertil Strand replied and groaned.
    The Saab had reached the Essinge highway, Stockholm’s ridiculously undersized beltway which, naturally, was clogged with cars at a standstill.
    ‘This is going to take for ever,’ he sighed as he put the car in neutral.
    Annika couldn’t contain herself.
    ‘What did you expect?’ she said. ‘It’s Midsummer Eve.’
    The photographer