Free Vanished by Liza Marklund

have to come here,’ the woman gasped. ‘Don’t tell anyone who I am.’
    Jansson was standing in front of Annika when she hung up.
    ‘The free-port killings,’ she explained.
    ‘Why didn’t Sjölander take the call?’ Jansson asked.
    ‘The call was made by a woman,’ Annika replied.
    ‘Oh,’ Jansson said and answered his phone.
    ‘I’m checking this out,’ she said. ‘It might take a while.’
    Jansson waved her away.
    Annika brought the Yellow Pages with her and, over at the front desk, Tore Brand’s son handed her the keys to one of the paper’s unmarked cars. She took the elevator down to the garage and located the car after a certain amount of confusion. Using the steering wheel to prop up the telephone book, she looked up the hotel. It was pretty far, and it was in another part of town she’d never been in before.
    There wasn’t much traffic and the road was slippery. She drove carefully, not wanting to die tonight.
    ‘It will work out,’ she figured. ‘Things will work out.’
    She looked up at the sky through the windshield.
    Someone is watching me , she thought. I can sense it.
    Thomas Samuelsson switched off the babbling newscast, got a heated debate instead, moved on and found a soap set in the southern states of the US, and ended up on MTV: ‘Give it to me, baby, uh-huh . . .’ He realized that he was staring at the girls’ breasts, their golden stomachs and flowing manes.
    ‘Honey . . .’ Eleonor pulled the front door shut behind her and stamped off the slush.
    ‘I’m downstairs,’ he shouted in reply, quickly changing channels – more news.
    ‘Christ, what a day,’ his wife exclaimed after coming downstairs, pulling her silk blouse free from the waistband of her skirt, unbuttoning the pearl buttons at the wrists and ending up on the sofa next to him.
    He pulled her close and kissed her on the ear. ‘You work too hard,’ he told her.
    She unfastened the clip in her hair and shook it free.
    ‘It’s that leadership course,’ she said. ‘You knew I was going there tonight. I’ve told you that several times.’
    He let got of her and reached for the remote control. ‘Right,’ he said.
    ‘Any mail?’
    She got up and headed back upstairs to the hall. He didn’t reply. Heard her nylon-clad feet rub against the varnished wooden steps: squish, squish, squish. Heard the rustling of envelopes being torn open, the drawer where the bills were kept being opened and shut, followed by the door to the cupboard under the kitchen sink where they kept the recycling bin.
    ‘Any calls?’ she said.
    He cleared his throat. ‘No.’
    ‘Not a single one?’
    He sighed silently. ‘Well, yes – my mother.’
    ‘What did she want?’
    ‘To talk about Christmas. I told her I’d talk to you and get back to her later.’
    Eleonor came downstairs again – squish, squish, squish – holding a crispbread low-cal-cheese sandwich.
    ‘We were at their house last year,’ she said. ‘It’s my parents’ turn.’
    Thomas picked up the TV guide from the coffee table and leafed through the movie reviews.
    ‘What about staying home this year?’ he said. ‘We could serve lunch here. Both sets of parents could come.’
    She frantically chewed her sandwich, so rich in fibre. ‘And who’s supposed to take care of everything?’
    ‘There’s always catering,’ he replied.
    She stood next to the couch, looking down on him with high-fibre crumbs in the corners of her mouth. ‘Catering?’ she said. ‘Your mother always makes her own pork brawn, my mother makes her special garlic sausage, and you talk about catering?’
    He got up, suddenly irritated. ‘So forget all about it,’ he said as he walked past her without a glance.
    ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she demanded, addressing his back. ‘Nothing’s ever good enough any more! What’s wrong with our lives?’
    Halfway up the stairs, Thomas stopped and looked at her. So beautiful. So tired. So distant.
    ‘Of course we’ll go to your