Borderline Read Online Free PDF Page B

woman?
    She got up from the sofa, still clutching her old mobile, and went out into the kitchen. A new electric Advent candelabrum, from Åhléns at Fridhemsplan, was shining weakly in the kitchen window. Kalle had chosen it. Ellen was in the middle of an angels phase and had been allowed to get three fridge magnets of little cupids instead. The plates with the remnants of that evening’s Indian takeaway were on the draining board; she switched on the light and began to load the dishwasher mechanically.
    There was comfort in those methodical gestures, turning on the tap, holding the brush, rinsing off the food with a circular motion, putting the brush back into the drainer, stacking the plates in the right part of the dishwasher.
    Without any warning she started to cry. She dropped the cutlery into the sink and sat on the kitchen floor as the hot water ran.
    She stayed like that for a long time.
    She was pathetic. Her husband was missing, and there was no one she could call or talk to. What was wrong with her?
    She got up, turned off the tap, blew her nose on a sheet of kitchen roll, and went into the living room with her mobile.
    No missed calls or texts.
    Annika sat down on the sofa. Why had she never managed to build up the sort of network Thomas had? Old football friends and schoolmates, some people he knew in Uppsala, a bunch from work and the other guys in his hockey team. Who did she have, apart from Anne Snapphane?
    They had worked together during Annika’s first summer at the
Evening Post
, but then Anne had moved into broadcasting. Over the years, their friendship had had its ups and downs. Annika’s time as Washington correspondent meant they hadn’t had much contact over the three years she was there, but they’d seen each other a bit more in recent months. They would meet for coffee on Saturday afternoons, maybe go to a museum on a Sunday.
    Annika found it relaxing and undemanding to hear about her friend’s escapades and high-flown plans. Anne was always on the point of
a breakthrough
. She was meant for big things, all of which would eventually culminate in her becoming a celebrated television presenter. She came up with new television formats every week, quizzes and chat shows; she was constantly checking out new possibilities for documentaries, and accumulated masses of research in the hope of finding problems to uncover in some investigative programme. Usually her ideas got no further than a blog entry or a cheery Facebook update (Anne wrote a popular blog that she called ‘The Wonderful Adventures of a TV Mum’, and had 4,357 friends on Facebook). As far as Annika was aware, she had never written more than half a page on any of her television pitches, and she never had time to meet any commissioning editors. She earned her living as a researcher for a production company that made reality shows.
    ‘Annika! God, it’s so weird that you’ve phoned. I was just thinking about you.’
    Annika shut her eyes. Someone cared after all.
    ‘Those brown Tecnica boots, do you need them this weekend?’
    ‘Thomas has disappeared,’ Annika managed, then started to sob helplessly. Tears ran down her mobile and she tried to wipe them away so it wouldn’t get waterlogged.
    ‘Fucking bastard,’ Anne said. ‘Why can’t he ever manage to keep his trousers zipped up? Who’s he after this time?’
    Annika blinked, and stopped crying. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no, not like that …’
    ‘Annika,’ Anne said, ‘you don’t have to make excuses for him. You mustn’t take the blame for this. It isn’t your fault.’
    Annika took a deep breath. ‘You mustn’t say anything because the whole thing’s confidential for the time being. His delegation has gone missing, on the Somali border.’
    She had forgotten the name of the town.
    Stunned silence flowed down the line to her. Then Anne said, ‘A whole delegation? What the hell were they travelling in? A jumbo jet?’
    Annika blew her nose on the kitchen roll.