dimples and shock of short blond hair. She vaguely wondered whether Berger was a dyke too, since all the women in this investigation, according to Faste, seemed to have that inclination. But then she remembered that she had read somewhere that Berger was married to the artist Greger Beckman.
"There's a problem here," Berger said, after listening to her request.
"What's that?"
"It's not that we don't want to solve the murders or help the police. Besides, you already have all the material in the computer you took from here. The dilemma is an ethical one. The media and the police don't work very well together."
"Believe me, I found that out this morning," Modig said with a smile.
"How so?"
"Nothing. Just a personal reflection."
"OK. To maintain their credibility, the media have to keep a clear distance from the authorities. Journalists who run to the police station and cooperate with police investigations will end up being errand boys for the police."
"I've met some of those," Modig said. "But the opposite can also be true. And the police end up running errands for certain newspapers."
Berger laughed. "That's right. I'm afraid to say that at Millennium we simply can't afford to be associated with that sort of mercenary journalism. This isn't about you wanting to question any of Millennium's staff - which we would allow without hesitation - but about a formal request for us to assist actively in a police investigation by placing our journalistic material at your disposal."
Modig nodded.
"There are two points of view on that," Berger said. "First, one of our journalists has been murdered. So we will help out all we can. But the second point is that there are some things we cannot and will not give to the police. And that has to do with our sources."
"I can be flexible. I can pledge to protect your sources."
"It's not a matter of your intent or our trust in you. It is that we never reveal a source, no matter what the circumstances."
"Understood."
"Then there's the fact that at Millennium we're conducting our own investigation into the murders, which should be viewed as a journalistic assignment. In this case I'm prepared to hand over information to the police when we have something finished that we are ready to publish - but not before." Berger frowned as she paused to think. "I also have to be able to live with myself. Let's do this... You can work with Malin Eriksson. She's familiar with the material and competent to decide where the boundaries lie. She'll guide you through Dag's book - with the objective of compiling a list of all those who might be suspects."
As she caught the shuttle train from Sodra station to Sodertalje, Irene Nesser was unaware of the drama that had occurred the night before. She was wearing a midlength black leather jacket, dark pants, and a neat red sweater. She wore glasses that she had pushed up on her forehead.
In Sodertalje she walked to the Strangnas bus and bought a ticket to Stallarholmen. She got off the bus a little south of Stallarholmen just after 11:00 a.m. There were no buildings in sight. She visualized the map in her head. Lake Malaren was a few miles to the northeast. It was summer-cabin country, with a scattering of year-round residences. Bjurman's property was about two miles from the bus stop. She took a swallow of water from her bottle and started walking. She got there about forty-five minutes later.
She began by making a tour of the area and studying the neighbouring houses. About a hundred and fifty yards to the right, she saw the next cabin. Nobody was at home. To the left was a ravine. She passed two summer houses before she reached a group of cabins where she noticed signs of life: an open window and the sound of a radio. But that was three hundred yards from Bjurman's cabin. She could work undisturbed.
She had taken the keys from his apartment. Once inside, she first unscrewed a window shutter at the back of the house, giving her an escape route in case any unpleasantness should occur at the front. The unpleasantness she was prepared for was that some cop might get the idea to show up at the cabin.
Bjurman's was one of the older buildings, with one main room, one bedroom, and a small kitchen with running water. The toilet was a compost outhouse in the backyard. She spent twenty minutes looking through the closets, wardrobes, and dressers. She did