Vanished Read Online Free PDF Page B

promised you’d come.’
    Thomas closed the evening paper and lowered his feet to the heated clinker floor.
    ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
    ‘I’ll be waiting outside,’ she said, then turned on her heels and disappeared.
    He sighed quietly. It was lucky he’d showered and shaved, at least.
    He went up to their bedroom and took off his jeans and T-shirt. Pulled on a white shirt and suit and hung a tie round his neck. He could hear the BMW start up outside, revving impatiently.
    ‘All right, all right,’ he said.
    All the lights in the house were on, but he had no intention of running round turning them off. He went out with his coat over his arm and his shoes unlaced, slid and almost fell on a patch of ice.
    ‘There is such a thing as grit, you know,’ Eleonor said.
    He didn’t respond, just shut the passenger door and put his hand on the dashboard as she pulled out onto Östra Ekuddsgatan. He knotted the tie on the way. His shoelaces would have to wait until they arrived.
    It was already dark. Where had the day gone? It was dying away before it had properly got going. Had it even got light today?
    He sighed.
    ‘How are you doing, then?’ she asked, friendly again.
    He stared out of the window towards the sea.
    ‘I feel a bit rough,’ he said.
    ‘Maybe it’s that bug Nisse had,’ she said.
    He nodded, uninterested.
    The business association. He knew exactly what the conversation would be about. Tourists. How many, how to get more, how to keep hold of them once they’d come. They’d discuss the problem of businesses that only opened during the short summer months, out-competing the locals who stayed open all year. The good food at The Waxholm Hotel. The preparations for the Christmas market, late-night opening and weekends. Everyone would be there. Everyone would be happy and engaged. It was always the same, no matter what sort of do they were going to. There’d been a lot of art recently. And a lot of parish stuff. A lot about preserving old buildings and gardens. And a lot about other people paying for it all.
    He sighed again.
    ‘Come on, cheer up!’ his wife said.
    ‘Annika Bengtzon? I’m Rebecka Björkstig.’
    The woman was young, much younger than Annika had expected. Petite and thin, she looked like porcelain. They shook hands.
    ‘I’m sorry for suggesting such an odd place to meet,’ Rebecka said. ‘We can’t be too careful.’
    They walked along a deserted corridor and reached a combined lobby and bar area. The lighting was low, the atmosphere was reminiscent of a state-run hotel in the old Soviet Union. Round brown tables with compact little chairs. A group of men were talking quietly in one corner, but there was no one else there.
    Annika had a surreal feeling of being in an old spy drama, and had a sudden urge to flee. What was she doing here?
    ‘I’m glad we could meet so quickly,’ Rebecka said, sitting down at one of the tables and glancing cautiously over her shoulder at the men on the far side of the room.
    Annika muttered something inaudible.
    ‘Will this be in tomorrow’s paper?’ the woman asked with a hopeful smile.
    Annika shook her head, feeling slightly giddy from the stale air.
    ‘No, definitely not. It isn’t certain it’ll get into the paper at all. It depends on what the editor-in-chief decides.’
    She sat down, conscious of lying, and avoided the woman’s eyes.
    Rebecka adjusted her thin skirt and pushed back her hair.
    ‘What sort of thing do you normally write about?’ she wondered, trying to catch Annika’s eye, her voice sounding light but tired.
    Annika cleared her throat. ‘Right now I copy-edit and check articles,’ she said truthfully.
    ‘What sort of articles?’
    She rubbed her forehead.
    ‘All sorts. Last night it was all about the hurricane,and earlier this week I went through a piece about a handicapped boy who was being let down by the local council …’
    ‘Ah!’ Rebecka said, crossing her legs. ‘Then what we do