The morning traffic in Stall Street had come to a standstill. She squeezed between the cars without looking too obviously stressed and crossed Blasieholm Square. At the Arsenal Street corner, she turned right, walked past Bern’s Café and down Hamn Street. No one seemed to have followed her, but to make sure she continued across Normalm Square, along Bibliotek Street and began slowing down only when she was outside the Wiener Café.
The café seemed a good place to sit down and think. She chose a table as far away from the window as possible and tried to calm down.
This had been a far closer shave than at any other time since she’d started to spoil herself with nights in hotels. She had better forget about the Grand for quite a while. What she didn’t understand was how Grundberg could have got wise to her. Had any of the staff recognised her and phoned his room? Why in that case leave her in peace all night? Well, she’d never know. Perhaps just as well.
She looked around the café. Everywhere, people were having breakfast.
She wished she had some money. A drink would have been nice, her throat felt sore. She wondered if she was running a temperature as well and put her hand to her forehead. Hard to tell.
She looked at her watch to check the date. It had stopped again. She’d worn it on her arm ever since receiving it as a Confirmation gift seventeen years ago. A present from mummy and daddy. With best wishes for a happy, prosperous life.
Imagine that.
It was true that she was happier nowadays, relatively speaking. She had decided to make something of her miserable life and had come to believe she actually could do it. This was important, but anyway she was much happier in her present life than as the well-behaved daughter from a solid, middle-class home. ‘Good’ behaviour had been the first thing to go and, come to think of it, it was hard to say why they tolerated it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, many other character flaws were discovered and finally all family patience with her ran out. That was the end of her life in the executive villa.
The one reminder of her past came in the form of a white envelope without a return address that turned up in her box at the Drottning Street post office every month, year in and year out. It always contained exactly one thousand five hundred kronor.
Never a word in writing, never any questions about how she was getting on. Her mother paid to clear her conscience, just as she’d paid to stop herself worrying about the little children in Biafra. As likely as not, her father knew nothing about it.
Renting the post office box cost sixty-two kronor a month.
A young waitress with a ring in her nose came to her table and asked what she’d like to order. Quite a few things actually, if only she’d had the money. She shook her head, got up and started walking down Bibliotek Street towards the Central Station. She had to change her clothes.
Halfway across Normalm Square she saw it. A bright yellow poster on the newspaper kiosk screamed the big news in bold capitals. She had to read it three times before she finally realised the implications for her.
NEWSFLASH! BESTIAL MURDER LAST NIGHT AT GRAND HOTEL
TT News Agency, Stockholm
Late last night a man was murdered in his bedroom at Stockholm’s Grand Hotel. He was travelling on business, away from his home in central Sweden and had been staying at the Grand for the last two nights. According to statements by staff, the man had intended to leave on Friday.
Police sources are refusing to disclose any detailed information about the murder at this stage, but have revealed that the body was found by hotel staff around midnight, after a guest had alerted them to the presence of bloody marks in the corridor outside the murdered man’s room. The police also confirmed that the body had been subjected to some kind of mutilation. The police have no evidence pointing to the identity of the murderer at this stage, but expect that interviews with hotel staff and guests will help to clarify the events of the fatal evening. At the time of going to press, the police investigation at the site of the crime was not yet completed, and the Grand Hotel will stay closed to the public until further notice. This morning, the body will be subjected to a forensic examination at the Institute for Forensic Medicine in Solna. It is expected that interrogation of staff and guests should be completed at the end of today and access will then return to normal.
That was all, apart from a photo of the Grand covering a whole page.
The rest of the article listed other murders involving mutilation carried out in Sweden over the last ten years. It was lovingly illustrated with pictures of the victims, complete with their names and ages.
So that’s why they had knocked on her door. Thank God she’d got away. How could she have explained her presence in one of Stockholm’s most expensive hotels? She couldn’t afford to pay for a coffee in its Wiener Café. What hope had she of persuading them that she deserved a night in a proper bed now and then – even if always paid for by someone who could easily spare the cash? Nil, that’s what. She wouldn’t have stood a chance. No one would have understood, for none of them had ever led her kind of life.
‘This is no fucking library, love. Do you want a paper or not?’ The man in the kiosk was getting fed up. She didn’t answer, just meekly put the paper back in the rack.
It was cold and she really did have a sore throat. She started walking towards Central Station again. She needed money and there were three days left until the next giro was due to arrive in her post box. In other words, she couldn’t get at it until Monday.
There was a machine dispensing change in the Left Luggage facility at Central Station. She went there and stood in front of it pushing the note-feed button several times.
‘What’s wrong with this thing?’
She spoke loudly and distinctly so that no one in the vicinity would fail to realise how irritated she was. She pushed the button again a couple of times, then sighed heavily and looked about. A man behind the deposit counter had noticed her and she walked over to him.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘The machine doesn’t work. It swallowed my hundred-kronor note without producing any change at all and my train’s leaving in exactly eight minutes.’
The man opened his till. ‘It’s been playing up recently.’
That’s a lucky break.
He counted out ten ten-kronor coins and put them in her hand. ‘There, now. If you hurry you’ll still catch your train.’
She smiled and put the money away in her handbag. ‘Thanks ever so much.’
Luckily she had the key to the luggage locker in her jacket pocket, not in the briefcase she had forgotten at the Grand Hotel.
She collected her rucksack and, after a few minutes in the ladies’ toilet, emerged wearing jeans and a padded anorak. She had decided what to do next.
It had to be a night with the Johanssons.
On her way to the allotments in Eriksdal she bought one tin of baked beans, a loaf of bread, a bottle of Coke, two apples and one tomato. She felt the first drops of rain just as she was crossing Eriksdal Street. For days now the sky had been covered by low cloud as grey as pewter.
All the allotment sheds seemed abandoned and she was grateful for the dull March day that did not tempt gardeners outdoors to their plots. Maybe it was just too early in the season anyway. The snow seemed to have gone for good this year, but the ground might still be hard with frost.
This was the first time she had gone there during the day, which was taking a risk, but she was tired and weary. She was running a temperature and needed peace and quiet.
As