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fits in exactly with your area. We get most of our work through local councils. Can I have a cup of coffee?’
    A waiter in a grubby apron had appeared beside them. Annika nodded when he asked if she’d like coffee as well, feeling unwell, wanting to go home, wanting to get away. Rebecka leaned against the curved back of the chair. Her eyes were bright, round, gentle, expressionless.
    ‘We’re a non-profit charitable foundation, but of course we have to be paid for our work. A lot of the time local social services departments pay our costs. We don’t make a penny from any of this.’
    Her voice was still gentle, but the words were forceful.
    She’s a gold-digger
, Annika thought, looking up at the woman.
She’s doing this to make money from vulnerable women and children
.
    Rebecka smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking. And I can assure you that you’re wrong.’
    Annika looked down, fiddling with a toothpick.
    ‘What made you decide to call us, and why tonight?’
    Rebecka sighed quietly, wiping her fingers on a paper napkin she took from her bag.
    ‘To be honest, I was really only calling to see what the situation was. I was reading the articles about the hurricane, and I saw the phone number for the newsroom. We’ve been talking about trying to publicize what we do for a while, so I decided quite spontaneously to call.’
    Annika swallowed.
    ‘I’ve never heard of you,’ she said.
    The woman smiled again, a smile as fleeting as a draught blowing through a room.
    ‘Until now we’ve never had the resources to deal with the influx of cases we know would follow any publicity, but now we’ve got them. Right now we’ve got the means and the opportunity to expand, so this feels like the right time to go public. There are so many people who need our help.’
    Annika pulled her notepad and pen from her bag.
    ‘So tell me how it works.’
    The woman glanced round again, and wiped the corner of her mouth.
    ‘We come in where official organizations can’t quite cope,’ she said slightly breathlessly. ‘The only reason we exist is to help seriously vulnerable people to make a new life. For three years we’ve been working tirelessly to make the system successful. And we’re now confident that it is.’
    Annika waited in silence. Then, ‘How?’
    The waiter brought their coffee. It was dark and bitter. Rebecka put one of her napkins between cup and saucer, then stirred the drink.
    ‘Our society is so computerized these days that no one can get away from it,’ she said when the waiter had sailed off again. ‘Wherever these people turn, there’s someone who knows their new address, new phone number, new bank account, new tenancy agreement. Even if all this information is kept secret, they still have medical notes, social security records, a legal history, tax records, financial details. All sorts of things.’
    ‘But can’t that be sorted out somehow?’ Annika asked cautiously. ‘Isn’t there some way of removing addresses from the system, getting new ID numbers and so on?’
    The woman sighed again. ‘Yes, there are various options. The problem is that they don’t work. Our group has come up with a way of erasing people’s histories completely. Did you know that there are over sixty official databases that practically every Swede appears in?’
    Annika made a surprised noise. The coffee really was disgusting.
    ‘I spent the first six months just identifying all these databases and registers. I worked out ways of getting round them. There were a lot of questions, and the answers weren’t always easy to find. The methods that we’ve worked out are completely unique to us.’
    These last words were left hanging in the air. Annika took another sip of the liquid, spilling a bit as she put the cup down again.
    ‘Why did you get involved in all this?’ she asked.
    The silence was deafening.
    ‘I was threatened myself,’ the woman said finally.
    ‘How?’
    Rebecka cleared her throat, paused, dabbed at