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sitting at her desk in the newsroom when Annika got back. She went over and gave her a hug.
    ‘The double murder?’ she wondered.
    Berit smiled. ‘There’s nothing like a little mafia turf-war.’
    Annika took off her jacket, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.
    ‘Have you eaten?’
    They went down to the staff canteen, nicknamed ‘The Seven Rats’, and both chose the dish of the day.
    ‘Have you got anything on the go?’ Berit asked, buttering a piece of crispbread.
    Annika sighed. ‘I suppose there’ll be more hurricane again tonight,’ she said. ‘And I went out to meet a woman who told me a really weird story.’
    Berit raised her eyebrows in interest as she tasted the potato gratin.
    ‘Weird stories can sometimes be great,’ she said. ‘Can you pass the salt?’
    Annika reached back and picked up the salt and pepper from the next table.
    ‘This woman reckoned that there’s something calledthe Paradise Foundation that helps threatened women and children to get a new life.’
    Berit nodded encouragingly. ‘Sounds exciting. Is it true?’
    Annika hesitated. ‘I don’t know; she wouldn’t tell me all the details. She seemed deadly serious. They’ve evidently come up with some way of erasing the pasts of vulnerable people.’
    She took the salt from Berit and sprinkled some over her own plate.
    ‘Do you think there’d be any problems if I check out a story of this sort?’ she asked cautiously.
    Berit carried on chewing for a few moments.
    ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘You’re thinking of Sven?’
    Annika nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
    Her older colleague sighed. ‘I can see why you might be worried about what others will think, but at the same time it doesn’t disqualify you from carrying out your job like any other journalist. It was an accident, and you’ve got the documents to prove it.’
    There was nothing more to say, and Annika stared down at her plate, cutting a lettuce leaf to ribbons.
    ‘Just make sure the bosses know,’ Berit said. ‘It’s easier to get stuff into the paper if the old sods at the top think it was their idea.’
    Annika smiled, and chewed her salad. They carried on eating in warm, companionable silence.
    ‘Have you been out to Frihamnen?’ Annika asked as she pushed her plate aside and reached for a toothpick.
    Berit stood up.
    ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Black.’
    She went and fetched two cups.
    ‘It’s a messy story,’ she said as she handed Annikaher coffee. ‘The men may have been Serbs, the police are guessing that it was something to do with the Yugoslavian mafia. They’re worried there’s going to be an all-out turf-war.’
    ‘Any leads? ’
    Berit sighed. ‘It’s a difficult one,’ she said. ‘The forensics people were out there until it got dark, examining every last bit of grit in an attempt to find evidence and bullets.’
    Annika blew on her coffee.
    ‘So do we get to use all those lovely clichés? Execution? Gangland bust-up? Police fear gang warfare?’
    They laughed.
    ‘Probably all of them,’ Berit said.
    She wrote up her notes about the Paradise Foundation, then Jansson put her to work tidying up various pieces about the aftermath of the hurricane. She was starting to feel the effects of working the nightshift, and she kept rubbing her eyes to bring the words back into focus. As luck would have it, the large item about the handicapped boy was edited and ready to go in the paper, four pages about how social services had failed to fulfil their legal obligations and weren’t giving the boy the care he was entitled to. It would be a quiet night, maybe even too quiet.
    Just before midnight the rest of the nightshift went down to eat. Annika stayed at her desk, to answer the phone and keep an eye on news agency alerts. She was relieved not to have to go. Once the others had gone she hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to slip into a coma or run a few checks. She settled into Jansson’s chair, his computer was faster for some