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sweaty.
    ‘Have you finished your ice-cream?’ she asked pointedly.
    Bertil Strand’s suntan turned a shade darker. He didn’t like the idea of being shown up by someone who was just a summer temp. Instead of answering he bent over and picked up his rucksack.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    Annika turned round and went back to Daniella Hermansson. She glanced over towards the cemetery, where the plain-clothes officers were still standing, deep in conversation.
    The child was still crying, but his mother was ignoring him now. She was busy putting lipstick on, peering into the mirror on the back of a pale-green lipstick holder.
    ‘So, how did you feel when you heard there was a woman lying dead outside your bedroom window?’ Annika said, making notes.
    ‘Awful,’ Daniella Hermansson said. ‘I mean, the number of times my friends and I have come back this way late from the pub. It could have been any of us …’
    ‘Will this make you take more precautions in future?’
    ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Daniella Hermansson said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’m never walking through the park at night again. Oh, now come on, you’re all upset, aren’t you …?’
    Daniella bent down to pick up her son again. Annika was taking notes, and could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. This was really good stuff. It might even make a headline, with a bit of editing.
    ‘Thanks very much,’ she said quickly. ‘Could you look towards Bertil? What’s your son’s name? How old is he? And how old are you? And what title should we use? Maternity leave, okay. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t look quite so cheerful …?’
    Daniella Hermansson’s practised smile, the one thatshe probably used in every holiday and Christmas photograph, faded. Now she just looked confused and lost instead. Bertil Strand took a whole series of shots, moving round the woman and child with careful little dance steps.
    ‘Can I call you later if I need to? What’s your phone number? And the code for the door? Just in case …’
    Daniella Hermansson squeezed the shrieking toddler back in the buggy and headed off along the edge of the cordon. To her annoyance, Annika watched Arne Påhlson from the other evening paper stop her as she went past. As luck would have it, the child was screaming so hard that the young woman couldn’t stop for another interview.
    Annika breathed out.
    ‘Don’t try to tell me my job,’ Bertil Strand said.
    ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘So what would have happened if they’d brought the body out while you were off buying ice-cream for our rivals?’
    Bertil Strand looked at her disdainfully.
    ‘When we’re out in the field we’re not rivals, we’re colleagues,’ he said.
    ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Annika said. ‘We can’t get good journalism if we hunt as a pack. We ought to maintain a bit more distance, all of us.’
    ‘No one benefits from that.’
    ‘Yes they do – our readers. And our credibility.’
    Bertil Strand hoisted the bag of cameras onto his back.
    ‘Thanks for telling me. I’ve only been with the paper for the past fifteen years.’
    Fucking fuck, Annika thought as the photographer headed back to his ‘colleagues’. Why can’t I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?
    She suddenly felt dizzy and weak. I have to getsomething to drink, right now, she thought. To her relief she caught sight of Berit walking up from Hantverkargatan.
    ‘Where have you been?’ Annika called, walking towards her.
    Berit groaned. ‘I went back to the car to make some calls. I put in a request to have the cuttings of the previous murder sent up from the archive, and spoke to a few police contacts.’
    She was trying in vain to cool herself by fanning one hand.
    ‘Has anything happened?’
    ‘I’ve just been speaking to one of the neighbours.’
    ‘Have you had anything to drink? You’re looking a bit pale.’
    Annika wiped the sweat from her forehead and suddenly felt like she was about to cry.
    ‘I