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looking? Is there anything particular you’re missing?”
    She could hear Jansson tearing his hair; she shared his frustration and wished she could do something to assuage it.
    “Everything. Everyone else has already got text and pictures up on their websites, and we’ve only got the stuff from the main news agency. When will you be back here?”
    “Don’t know, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. How much did Olsson manage to get?”
    Jansson groaned quietly.
    “Nothing. He thought the angle was wrong and the light too poor, so he didn’t take any pictures.”
    “You’re kidding.” Annika said.
    The policeman held a door open for Annika and she emerged onto the balcony overlooking the Blue Hall, right beside the first doorway to the Golden Hall.
    “Not really. Nothing of his material is useable. We’ve got no pictures, basically.”
    Annika felt her heart sink.
    It wouldn’t be the photographer who took the blame, it was alwaysthe reporter, especially if it was her, and especially right now. It was only three weeks since she had forced the editor in chief to publish an article revealing that the family that owned most of the paper were dictatorial extortionists.
    “What do you need?” she asked.
    “Anything with blood and policemen …”
    Annika ended the call and turned off sharply to the left. She was inside the Golden Hall before the stereotype had time to react and tell her to stop.
    The whole of the banqueting room was bathed in light from the powerful lamps of the forensics team. In the far distance, beneath a headless St. Erik, the result of confusion over the height of the ceiling when the hall was built, two men were crouching beside the spot where the woman had died.
    Annika raised her cell phone, activated the camera function on the edge of the phone, and pressed take picture . She took another two steps, take picture , five more, take picture .
    The police officer grabbed the top of her arm but she pulled free.
    She jogged ten paces, take picture , the forensics officers noticed her and looked up in surprise, take picture .
    “Okay, you’re leaving right now,” the police officer said, picking her up physically so that she lost contact with the floor, and he carried her out onto the balcony, not putting her down until they were over by the staircase. She could feel the stone floor under her feet, and she suddenly realized she was standing on the very spot where members of the royal family and the Nobel Prize winners always had their pictures taken before their long, gliding progress down one of the most famous staircases in the world.
    How different it was for them, she thought, looking out over the remains of the dinner for one thousand three hundred guests. Earlier that evening the prizewinners had gazed out over meticulously laid tables and immaculately dressed guests, sparkling crystal and porcelain with real gold rims, flowers and trumpets.
    The Blue Hall with its mute brick walls was desolate now, left more abandoned to its fate than ever before. The top table had been cleared, but the rest of the plates were still there, food congealing on soiledtablecloths. Napkins lay scattered across plates as well as on the floor; the chairs were all over the place, some of them tipped over. At 10:45 all activity in the Blue Hall had ceased, time had stopped, and the moment when the next tables were to have been cleared never arrived.
    “How long will the City Hall be closed off?” Annika asked.
    “As long as necessary. Where are your outdoor clothes?”
    There was a uniformed officer in the cloakroom. He handed over Annika’s padded jacket with an expression of deep disappointment at the role he had been allocated.
    “I had a bag with my shoes in it as well,” Annika said. “Black boots.”
    The policeman’s frustration seemed boundless as he went back to look for the bag. Annika turned around and pulled out her cell phone. While the officer was searching the racks, she brought up the