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her desk.
    ‘That’s not possible,’ she said. ‘No one’s in yet.’
    ‘What about you?’
    Swept back her hair and conjured up an excuse.
    ‘We have to know what’s it’s all about before we send anyone,’ she claimed.
    The woman at the other end of the line grew silent again. Annika sighed and tried to wind up the call.
    ‘If that’s all . . .?’
    ‘Are you aware that there are people living underground? Here and now, in Sweden?’ the woman asked quietly. ‘Women and children who are being abused and mistreated?’
    No , Annika thought. Not this.
    ‘Thank you for calling, but this isn’t really a story we can cover tonight.’
    The woman on the other end raised her voice.
    ‘Are you going to hang up? Are you just going to ignore me and the work I do? Do you know how many people I’ve helped? Don’t you care at all about abused women? You reporters, all you do is sit around in your newsrooms. You have no idea what real life is all about.’
    Annika felt dizzy, smothered.
    ‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said.
    ‘You media people are all alike. I thought Kvällspressen would be better than the highbrow papers, but you don’t care about abused women and children, people at risk.’
    The blood rushed to Annika’s head.
    ‘Don’t you tell me what I do, or do not, stand for,’ she said, way too loud. ‘Don’t make claims you know nothing about!’
    ‘Then why don’t you want to listen to me?’
    The woman sounded peeved.
    Annika covered her face with her hands and waited.
    ‘These people are isolated,’ the woman went on. ‘Their lives are threatened, they’re terrified. No matter how they try to hide, there’s always someone or something that could lead people to them – social workers, courts, bank accounts, day-care centres . . .’
    Annika didn’t respond, just listened silently.
    ‘As you are probably aware, most of these people are women and children,’ the woman went on. ‘They belong to the group most at risk in society. Other groups are witnesses, people who have left different types of sects, or who are being harassed by organized crime, and whistle-blowing journalists, but the bulk is obviously women and children whose lives are in danger.’
    Hesitantly, Annika picked up a pen and began to take notes.
    ‘This is a group effort,’ the woman said. ‘We have devised this special method. And I’m in charge. Are you still there?’
    Annika cleared her throat.
    ‘What makes your operation any different to a regular women’s shelter?’
    The caller sighed with an air of resignation.
    ‘Everything. Women’s shelters are run on insufficient public funds. They don’t have the resources to go as far as we can. This is a purely private endeavour with completely different means.’
    Her pen stopped working. Annika tossed it in the recycling bin and dug out a new one.
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘I’d prefer not to say anything more on the phone. Could we possibly meet?’
    Annika hunched over, not wanting to face any more, not having the strength.
    ‘Bengtzon!’
    Ingvar Johansson loomed over her.
    ‘Please hold,’ she said into the receiver and rested it on her chest. ‘What is it?’
    ‘If you’re not busy, you could enter these results.’
    The news editor held out a stack of scores from the lower sporting divisions.
    The question hit Annika like a punch in the gut. What the hell! They were going to have her do the kind of stuff she’d done back at the local paper, Katrineholms-Kuriren , as a fourteen-year-old, filling in tables with scores.
    She turned away from Ingvar Johansson, picked up the receiver and said: ‘I could meet you straight away.’
    The woman was pleased. ‘Tonight? That’s great.’
    Annika clenched her teeth, sensing the presence of the news-desk editor behind her.
    ‘What location would suit you?’ she asked.
    The woman mentioned a hotel in a suburb where Annika had never been before.
    ‘In an hour?’
    Ingvar Johansson was gone by the