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usually cover the body at the crime scene unless there’s a risk of rain,’ Berit said. ‘It’s all about gathering evidence, and they want to cause as little disturbance as possible. They just put that cloth up to stop people looking in. Pretty smart, really …’
    The forensics officers and photographer stood up in unison.
    ‘Right, it’s time,’ Berit said.
    They got up, as did the journalists a short distance away from them. They all moved closer to the cordon,as if responding to an unspoken command. The photographers readied their cameras and made sure they had different lenses ready to hand. A couple more journalists had joined the group, Annika counted five photographers and six reporters. One of them, a young man, was carrying a laptop with the logo of the main Swedish news agency, and there was a woman with a notepad from
Sydsvenskan
, the regional paper in the far south of Sweden.
    The man and woman from the police van opened the back doors and pulled out a collapsible trolley. They opened it out with calm, practised movements, and secured the various fastenings. Annika felt the hairs on her arms stand up. A bubble of carbon dioxide rose from her stomach, making her feel queasy. They were about to bring the body out. She was ashamed at her morbid curiosity.
    ‘Can you move aside, please?’ the woman pushing the trolley said.
    Annika looked at the trolley as it rolled past. It shook as the wheels rattled over the rough pavement. On top was a neatly folded blue-stippled plastic sheet. The shroud, Annika thought, and a cold shiver went up her spine.
    The pair crept under the cordon. The orange ‘Keep Out’ sign hanging from it carried on swinging long after they had passed.
    They had reached the body. The little group stood there, discussing what to do. Annika could feel the sun on the back of her arms.
    ‘Why is it taking so long?’ she said in a stage whisper to Berit.
    Berit didn’t answer. Annika pulled the Coke from her bag and took a few sips.
    ‘Isn’t it awful?’ the woman from
Sydsvenskan
said.
    ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Annika said.
    As the plastic sheet was spread over the trolley, it fluttered behind the foliage. They lifted the young woman onto the trolley and covered her in plastic. Suddenly Annika felt tears pricking her eyes. She saw the woman’s soundless scream, her clouded eyes, bruised chest.
    I mustn’t start crying, she thought, staring at the worn headstones. She tried to read names and dates, but the inscriptions were in Hebrew. The ornate letters had been almost completely worn away by time and weather. Suddenly everything was very quiet. Even the traffic on the Drottningholm road seemed to have stopped for a moment. The sun filtering through the heavy treetops danced over the granite.
    This cemetery was here before the city, Annika thought. And these trees were already here when the dead were buried. They would have been smaller, less sturdy, but their leaves would have cast the same shadows when the graves were freshly dug.
    The gates opened, the photographers got to work. One of them forced his way past Annika, elbowing her in the stomach and making her gasp. She stumbled backwards in shock, and lost sight of the trolley. She took a few quick steps back towards the van.
    I wonder which end her head is, Annika thought. They’d hardly push her feet first, would they?
    The photographers followed the trolley along the length of the cordon. The cameras were clicking in an uneven rhythm, and one or two flashes went off. Bertil Strand was jumping about behind his colleagues, holding his camera either above them or between them. Annika was holding tight to the door of the van, the hot metal burning her fingers. Through the flashes she watched the bundle containing the woman’s body comecloser. The van driver stopped just a foot or so away from her. As he fiddled with the catches on the trolley, Annika could see how sweaty and stressed he was. She looked down at the plastic.
    I