The Final Word Read Free Page B

passed, but after the murder of Olof Palme the law had been changed so that murders neverfell under the statute of limitations. There was still time for justice to be done if new evidence emerged, if a witness suddenly decided to talk.
    Her mobile rang, deep in her bag. She stopped and dug it out from among the ballpoint pens at the bottom. She glanced at the screen: Barbro, her mother. She took the call, a little warily.
    ‘Where are you?’ Barbro asked.
    Annika looked around. The corner of Bergsgatan and Agnegatan, right next to Police Headquarters. ‘I’m at work – or, rather, I’m about to interview a prosecutor about a murder case.’
    ‘Is it that Timberman?’
    ‘No, this is different.’
    ‘Do you know where Birgitta is?’
    Clouds were scudding across the sky. Darkness was curling in from the background. ‘I haven’t a clue. Why?’ Annika heard the anxiety in her own voice. What had she done wrong now?
    ‘When did you last hear from her?’
    God, when could it have been? Annika brushed the hair from her forehead. ‘About a year ago, I think. She needed a babysitter for the weekend. She and Steven were going to look for work in Norway.’
    ‘What about after that?’
    Annika felt a degree of stubbornness alongside her insecurity, and her jaw tightened. ‘Birgitta and I don’t talk often.’
    Why had she said that? Why not tell the truth?
Mysister and I have no contact at all. I don’t even know where she lives.
    She heard her mother sniff.
    ‘What’s happened?’ Annika asked, making an effort to sound friendly (not scared, not angry, not nonchalant).
    ‘She didn’t come home from work yesterday.’
    ‘Work?’
    ‘She was doing a day-shift in MatExtra, the supermarket. Steven and I are really worried.’
    Yes, they must be, if Barbro had taken the trouble to phone. Annika shifted position. ‘Have you called her work? Her friends? Have you tried Sara?’
    ‘Steven talked to her boss, and I’ve spoken to Sara.’
    Annika was anxious now. ‘What about her old art teacher, Margareta? They used to stay in touch.’
    ‘We’ve called everyone.’
    Of course Annika had been last on the list.
    ‘Have you any idea how worried we are?’ Barbro said, her voice rising.
    Annika closed her eyes. It made no difference what she said or did. She could see her mother before her, rubbing her hands, fumbling with her wine glass, trying to find someone to blame. She might as well say what was on her mind. ‘Mum,’ she said slowly, ‘are you sure Steven’s telling the truth?’
    A moment’s silence. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m not always sure that Steven is . . . well, very nice to Birgitta. I got the impression he was taking advantage of her, and she almost seemed a bit scared of him.’
    ‘Why would you say that? There’s nothing wrong with Steven.’
    ‘Are you sure he doesn’t hit her?’
    Another pause. Her mother’s voice was sharp when she eventually replied, ‘Don’t mix yourself up with Birgitta.’ Then she hung up.
    Annika brushed the hair from her face. She peered at the buildings. Up there was her old flat, where her former husband still lived. God, these streets were full of ghosts.
    A police car passed and turned into Kronoberg Prison a little way along the street. She glimpsed a young man with matted hair in the back seat. Perhaps he was going to be arrested and remanded in custody, or possibly just questioned. He must have done something: if he wasn’t a criminal, then he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless he knew something he probably shouldn’t know.
    She had found herself in the back of a police car once, on that summer’s day out at the old ironworks in Hälleforsnäs when Sven died. She had been clutching her dead cat in her arms, refusing to let go of him, little Whiskas, her lovely, sandy-coloured cat, and in the end they had let her take his body into the car with her, and she had spent the journey crying into his fur.
    Birgitta had never