Without a Trace Read Free

needed to develop … that I had more to give.’
    He nodded again, and regarded her calmly. ‘We don’t do police jargon here,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for unusual people. Abnormalities are an asset. We want women, gays, ethnic minorities, lesbians, academics …’
    Was he trying to shock her? If he was, he’d have to try harder. Or was he fishing?
    She didn’t answer.
    He smiled. ‘Because you’re a trained police officer, you’re still authorized to carry out police business, so you can conduct interrogations, and so on, in so far as you deem it necessary, but your post here will be as an operational analyst. How important is it for you to go on that induction course?’
    She didn’t respond.
    ‘I mean, you know about timesheets, Lamia can sort out a pass-card, computer and a login ID, and you can go round saying hello to people later, can’t you?’
    Presumably Lamia was the blonde. She would have been happy to do the course – she wasn’t sure she remembered how to fill in a timesheet. The system had probably been updated during the four years that had passed since she’d left the force.
    The head of CIS took her silence as agreement. ‘Do you know who Ingemar Lerberg is?’ he asked.
    Nina searched her memory: a politician, forced to resign. ‘Of course.’
    Superintendent Q opened the second file and pulled his glasses onto his nose. ‘Lerberg has been found assaulted in his home in Solsidan, out in Saltsjöbaden, it’s not yet clear if he’s going to make it. We’ve received a request for assistance from Nacka Police. Do you have any contacts out there?’
    Solsidan? Wasn’t that a comedy series on television?
    ‘Not that I can think of.’
    He held the folder across the desk. ‘We’re putting together an investigative team today, two or three people to start with. I’d like you to go out and take a look. Don’t be afraid to ask if there’s anything you’re not sure about … See it as an introduction to working here.’
    The superintendent leaned back in his chair. ‘We’ll get together in the meeting room at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Bring whatever you’ve been able to find. Lamia will sort out a car for you.’
     
    *
     
    The house was on its own at the end of the road, not too far from the little station.
    Annika Bengtzon switched off the wipers, then leaned forward and tried to peer through the windscreen. The heater was spewing hot, stuffy air into her face, and she turned it down, then glanced up the road.
    Nacka Police had cordoned off the turning circle and the far end of the road, the whole of the property and parts of the neighbours’ lawn. Several other journalists had already parked their cars at the side of the road and were either sitting in the warm, behind misted-up windows, or standing about by the cordon. The first news-agency report had claimed that Ingemar Lerberg was dead. Then it had been changed to ‘very seriously injured’. The initial mistake was probably the reason for the remarkably large media interest. A murdered politician was always a murdered politician even if he’d only been a member of Nacka’s social-services committee. But in the past Lerberg had also been a controversial Member of Parliament, someone of whom there were plenty of pictures in the archives.
    Annika took a deep breath. Violence still made her feel uneasy, as did hordes of journalists. She decided to stay in the car as long as she could.
    The house was situated towards the back of the plot, partially concealed by a thin lilac hedge and a few apple trees, all dripping with water. A rocky outcrop rose up behind it, greyish-yellow from the remnants of last year’s grass. There was nothing remarkable about the building: painted red, white gables, hipped roof, probably built in the 1920s and renovated in the 1970s, when a new façade and large picture windows had been put in. The result was a mishmash, a strained attempt at modernity. It would be difficult to make it