The Blood Spilt Read Free

past and the tastefully decorated shop windows and the pubs down on Stureplan, she was suddenly overcome by a strong feeling that she’d never be able to go back to Meijer & Ditzinger. She’d felt as though she wanted to get as far away from them as possible. But it didn’t turn out like that.
    She was signed off on sick leave. For a week at a time, first of all. Then for a month at a time. The doctor had told her to do whatever she enjoyed. If there was anything she liked about her job, she should carry on doing that.
    The firm’s criminal caseload had begun to increase significantly after Kiruna. Her name and picture had been kept out of the papers, but the name of the firm had appeared frequently in the media. And it had produced results. People got in touch and wanted to be represented by “that girl who was up in Kiruna.” They got the standard response that the firm could provide a more experienced criminal lawyer, but that girl could sit in and assist. In this way the firm got a foothold in the big trials that were reported in the press. During that time there were two gang rapes, a murder with robbery and a complicated bribery and corruption case.
    The partners suggested she should carry on sitting in on the cases while she was on sick leave. It didn’t happen very often. And it was a good way of keeping in touch with the job. And she didn’t need to do any preparation. Just sit in. But only if she wanted to, of course.
    She’d agreed because she didn’t think she had any choice. She’d embarrassed the firm, got them involved in a compensation claim and lost a client. It was impossible to say no. She owed them, and she nodded and smiled.
    At least she managed to get herself out of bed on the days she was sitting in court. Usually it was the accused who drew the first glances from the jury and the judge, but now she was the main attraction in the circus. She kept her eyes fixed on the desk in front of her and let them look. Criminals, magistrates, prosecutors, jurors. She could almost hear them thinking: “so that’s her…”
    She’d arrived at the gardens in front of the hotel. Here the grass was suddenly fresh and green. They must have had the sprinklers going like mad during the dry summer. The scent of the last dog-roses of summer drifted inland on the evening breeze. The air was pleasantly warm. The younger women were wearing sleeveless linen dresses. The slightly older ones covered their upper arms with light cotton cardigans from I Blues and Max Mara. The men had left their ties at home. They trotted back and forth in their Gant trousers with drinks for the ladies. Checked out the charcoal in the barbecue and chatted knowledgeably with the kitchen staff.
    She scanned the crowd. No Maria Taube. No Måns Wenngren.
    And one of the partners was heading toward her—Erik Rydén. On with the smile. “Is that her?”
    Petra Wilhelmsson watched Rebecka Martinsson coming up the track toward the hotel. Petra had only just started with the firm. She was leaning against the railing outside the entrance. On one side of her stood Johan Grill, also new to the firm, and on the other side stood Krister Ahlberg, a criminal lawyer in his thirties.
    “Yes, that’s her,” confirmed Krister Ahlberg. “The firm’s very own little Modesty Blaise.”
    He emptied his glass and placed it on the railing with a little bang. Petra shook her head slowly.
    “To think she killed somebody,” she said.
    “Three people, actually,” said Krister.
    “God, it makes my hair stand on end! Look!” said Petra, holding her arm up to show the two gentlemen in her company.
    Krister Ahlberg and Johan Grill looked carefully at her arm. It was brown and slender. A few very fine hairs had been bleached almost white by the summer sun.
    “I don’t mean because she’s a girl,” Petra went on, “but she just doesn’t look the type to…”
    “And she wasn’t. She had a nervous breakdown in the end. And she can’t cope with the