1 1. The World Is My Oyster

Stockholm - Wednesday, 21st of February 2018

The phone rings.

It's a dilemma.

It's not my phone.

I'm not in my own house.

The phone rings again.

It's urgent.

What do I do?

Anybody else wouldn't even think to answer that phone. A visitor would expect the hostess to pick up her phone. I'm not a visitor. The owner of this house, Miss Agneta Larsson, isn't around. I've broken in here to steal confidential information. A thief wouldn't pick up the phone either. A thief wants to remain unnoticed, steal what she needs and get the hell out of here without leaving a trace. I'm not a thief. I'm a spy. I work for the LSD, the Lëtzebuergesch Sécherheet Departement (in English: Luxembourg Spy Department). My job is to gather information. #1 (read: number one), The Boss, pays me to find out. If I don't pick up that phone, I'll never find out who's ringing. It might be an exclusive chance to give my opinion about a free sample of chocolates. It might be a spectacular 50% discount on my life insurance. It might be #1, The Boss, himself, checking if I'm at work. If I don't pick up that phone, I'll never find out…

I pick up the phone.

"Agneta?"

The hardly-a-question is followed by hardly-a-sound, hardly, but enough to notice, enough to slice my soul with a silver dagger, enough to hurt me on my weak spot: it's a sob. I can't stand hearing a woman cry.

Of course, Agneta isn't at home. I wouldn't be here if she were. My colleague #2, The Nerd, hacked the security company that monitors the burglar alarm; Agneta hasn't been at home for almost a week.

"I've been calling you every hour for almost a week. Where have you been?", the woman cries.

I don't know what to say. First, because she says that in Swedish and the MultiTranslate app on my spiPhone doesn't work when a phone whispers Swedish words in my ear. The app only works when my spiPhone picks up spoken language that it grabs with the phone's built-in microphone. The Permanent Voice Recorder does record everything, also what comes in via my earplug, but it saves the words into a text file that I have to open and feed to the MultiTranslate app manually. That takes time. In the spy business, time is a valuable thing. The new spiPhone8 (with the MultiTranslate app integrated with the Permanent Voice Recorder) has already been available for quite some time, but saving money is higher on the LSD priority list than saving time and saving the world, so I hope Santa Claus puts it in my sock next Christmas. Today, it's the 21st of February. I have to do the translations by hand for at least another ten months.

The second problem, answering in Swedish with Agneta's voice, is impossible to solve, even with the spiPhone8. I have to send The Nerd a message about it. Field agents should have every tool they'll need to complete their missions.

I'm not a field agent. I'm #5, The Runner, the Pizza Delivery Boy who runs the errands, so Intelligence can do the real work. #1, The Boss, gave me the order to break in and steal information, only because #4, The Agent, has higher priorities, in Moscow, doing something classified that has to do with the upcoming Football World Championship in Russia.

The crying woman on the other end of the line can't read my thoughts, but she's a woman and her female intuition tells her I'm not Agneta, I'm not even able to understand Swedish.

"Who are you?", she asks, in English.

It must be wonderful to be a woman, having this female intuition you can always rely on. I make a mental note to ask #2, The Nerd, if he can write a Femail Intuition App for the new spiPhone8. Like a SPAM filter, the App should filter the stupid ideas out and let the smart ones pass. I wonder what the Femail Intuition App would say about the idea of installing a Femail Intuition App on my spiPhone…

Having intuition is one thing, but having education is something completely different. When you call someone on the phone, it's polite to say your name. This woman doesn't say her name. Were I Sherlock Holmes, I would conclude that this crying woman doesn't have this basic politeness. However, the infallible female intuition on my spiPhone would say: «This is Sweden, an educated country with politeness in its DNA.» The Femail Intuition App would filter Sherlock out, which would lead to the only acceptable conclusion: the hardly-a-question «Agneta?» would be sufficient for Miss Agneta Larsson to recognise the voice of the caller.

When I prepared for this mission, I studied the social report that #2, The Nerd, sent me. Agneta Larsson (30 years old, top model, former Miss Sweden and, according to insiders, the next President of this country) has a limited inner circle. There is her father, Stieg, 61 years old, but he doesn't speak with a female voice. There is her mother, Åsa, 52 years old, but she doesn't speak English. That leaves Agneta's younger sister. I remember she's 22 years old, exactly as old as I am, but what was her name? Was it Freya? Or Frieda?

The female voice on the other side of the line thinks quicker than I do: "Please, Sir. If you're the man that has kidnapped my sister… Can you please bring her back? I'll give you all my savings: 55 krona and 8 öre."

I can be proud of myself. She confessed. Agneta is her sister. That was some superb thinking, and I didn't even have the Femail Intuition App. I did that all by myself. Perhaps, I should send a message to #1, The Boss, and ask him to give me a promotion.

Promotion?

Did I just hear some priceless information? Someone kidnapped the upcoming President of Sweden?

Imagine if I saved Agneta Larsson from the dirty hands of her kidnappers…

Apart from the reward of being kissed by the most beautiful woman I've seen in my life, what would it mean for my mission, for the international bond between Sweden and Luxembourg, and for my career?

I can finally become a real field agent.

I'm glad I picked up that phone. But I can't keep on chatting any longer with this woman. I have things to do, and I have little time to do them because my intuition says she might hang up any second now and call the police, the Swedish Secret Service, the army, the navy, the marines and that awful journalist of Tabloidtidningen, the most influential Swedish newspaper. It's time to get out of here. I have all the info I came for and, on top of that, I've encountered a highly important mission to save a woman. And WHAT a woman! Agneta Larsson is a tall blond Swedish sex bomb who can convince the male half of the voters with one naughty wink, and the other half of the country's electorate with the promise not to flirt with their husbands. Without knowing anything about her political ideas, I'm convinced a woman as sexy as Agneta has a flawless character and noble goals. I have to find her. I have to save her from her kidnappers. I have…

I don't have any information to work with.

I have to go.

Another weep is the last thing I hear before Freya or Frieda hangs up the phone.

Perhaps I made a mistake. Perhaps she doesn't have the assumed education; she didn't even wish me a pleasant day…

I look around. Did I forget anything? Miss Agneta has it made: she lives alone in this large bungalow full of expensive furniture, all modern design with black leather and chrome, modern art on the wall, five bedrooms for visitors, her kitchen has been designed by an artist instead of a cook, her master bedroom makes the private quarters of Louis XIV look like a pawnshop, but she has hardly any personal belongings, souvenirs or other gadgets that tell me something about her. The desk in her office is clean; papers are stuffed away in orderly folders, and she keeps her stationery in the upper right drawer. I've already connected Agneta's laptop computer to the LSD website, to give The Nerd full access to her data; the upload is at 97%. Photos of every document I could find are in the secret LSD webspace. I'm ready to leave. I should leave. The cops might be on their way.

Something is missing here. This woman has been the winner of a talent show on national TV, she's the most wanted model for cosmetics and fashion, she's a former Miss Sweden, but I see nothing of all that fame and glory here, not in the living room, not in the bedroom, and not in her office.

The only gadget is a photo on a corner of the desk, a selfie of two women with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Agneta is the woman on the left, taking the picture. The woman on the right has long hair with broad curls in the reddish-brown colour of chestnuts. Her smile is sober, almost forced, like she has to enjoy the trip to Paris, but she'd rather be somewhere else. She's pretty, but not as beautiful as Agneta. Nobody is as beautiful as Agneta.

I wonder who this dark-haired girl is. There is no information about Agneta having a boyfriend, not even rumours. That's remarkable. A woman like her would be the desired prey for every man. Is she a still-in-the-closet lesbian? Does she have a secret girlfriend? This photo is the only personal detail in the house. Am I looking at a dark and hidden privacy that she doesn't want to become public? Is she afraid her secret will ruin her career? Or is it just a picture of Agneta and her sister on a city trip to Paris? The dark-haired girl doesn't look much like a sister.

With my spiPhone, I take a copy of the photo.

The cry for help, a few minutes ago, comes back. There must be something I can do. The desk phone's menu helps me find the number of the last incoming call. The TraceMe app on my spiPhone links the phone number to the Kepler Clinic, Janguillouvägen 29, a twenty-minute walk from here. My curiosity has been awoken: if that sister works so close to Agneta's house, why doesn't she pass by instead of calling so many times for almost a week? Why was she crying? Does it have something to do with Agneta's disappearance? Or is the sister herself in trouble?

Too many questions. My spiPhone beeps; the upload is complete. I hit the OK button and switch off the laptop, leaving everything exactly as I found it when I came in.

The world is my oyster. I have access to all its secrets, to pearls of information, kept hidden from anybody else. The question is: what I can do with all this information?

I look at the photo of the two girls. My intuition tells me the dark-haired girl is Agneta's sister, who called and cried out for help. A woman as beautiful as Agneta is a lesbian? The adviser between my legs tries to convince me that's impossible. In the photo, Agneta has her left arm around her sister's shoulders, to protect her, and to let her feel how important she is to her. The look in Agneta's eyes says: «Don't worry. Nothing bad will happen to you. Your big sister is here and everything will be fine.» The eyes of the other woman tell a different story, one of sadness and worry. Her faint smile tries to push the sadness away. She wants to believe her sister Agneta. Everything will be fine. And now Agneta has disappeared. She's been gone for at least six days. The Nerd hacked the database of HOACS (House, Office And Children Surveillance, the security company that monitors the house): nobody has entered or left.

Agneta is important to my employer. Her sister is not. But Agneta is important to her sister, and her sister just told me Agneta has been kidnapped. If there's someone who can find the kidnapper and save Agneta, it's me. The world is my oyster. I have access to information nobody else even knows exists. I can do a great job and perhaps even get a promotion, or at least a recommendation in my file for when they need a follow-up for #4, The Agent. I might become a real spy.

All this thinking is bad for me. I'm not interested in finding kidnappers or getting promotions. I'm just worried about that sob I heard over the phone. A woman crying. I try to think of logic and reason to convince myself to go to the Kepler Clinic, to have a look and a chat with this woman. There is no logic or reason. It would be stupid, unnecessary, unprofessional, and a waste of time. Without a second thought, the Femail Intuition App would filter it out. Forget about it.

There's the message from #2, The Nerd: "Download completed. You have permission to leave. Enjoy the rest of your free day whilst others just received 100 Gigabit of info to work with…"

I go back to the front door, reset the alarm with the code The Nerd sent me, and leave the building. Outside, I take my backpack from its hiding place behind the hedge and lock the garden gate behind me. I have to go left to the bus stop, to take the bus to the centre of Stockholm, to my hotel, where I can have breakfast and wait for further instructions whilst reading a book in the sauna.

I don't go left.

I go right, in the direction of the Janguillouvägen. Not for any special reason. It's a nice morning. It's still early, but I've already finished today's work, and now, in my free time, I like to take a walk, just to see the neighbourhood, visit one or two tourist attractions, like the Kepler Clinic, just curious to see what kind of place it is.

Usually, acting on intuition gives me a certain feeling of security. This time, I feel insecure, like I'm doing something against the rules, something I will regret sooner or later. I try to reason my doubts away: I'm not going inside, just having a look at the building. You never know how or when knowledge can save your life. I can do what I like. The world is my oyster. I can do whatever I want in this world. There's no danger in sight. I'm just having a look…

* * *

"Good morning, ma'am. My name is Henning Mankell. I work for WIFE, the Worldwide International Federation of Employees. We've had a message from a Miss… (I look at the papers in my hand) Miss Larsson, who works here. She filed a complaint, mentioning certain working conditions that are not in accordance with the guidelines 117b and 538 of our regulation. We won't file charges against your organization, of course. I just want to have a word with Miss Larsson and confirm the justification of the complaints. Can you be so kind as to call her and tell her I've arrived?"

The stout female receptionist raises her eyebrow like Sherlock Holmes, who's just heard how Doctor Watson has solved the crime: "Miss Larsson, you say? And you suggest she works here?"

"That's what my papers tell me, ma'am."

"There's only one Miss Larsson here. I'm pretty sure she has no desire at all to see you."

"I'm sorry?"

"Miss Larsson doesn't work here, Mister Mankell. She's a patient. She is staying here in this clinic to recover from a traumatic experience, caused by a man. Without referring to the details of the latter, I hope you can take my word of assurance that Miss Larsson has no interest at all to see any other men except her doctor, who's responsible for her therapy. If you tell me she contacted you or the organization you work for, I'm sure there has been some kind of mistake. Or perhaps somebody played a sick joke on you. I'm sorry, but I can't help you any further."

I'm puzzled. She doesn't work here? She's a patient? I check my papers again and think up a little trick to escape without problems: "I'm sorry. I guess you're right. Someone must have made a mistake. It says Miss Agneta Larsson works here. The address is Janguillouvägen 29?"

"That's indeed our address, but you refer to the wrong person. The patient is Miss Frieda. Agneta Larsson is her sister. She lives nearby. I have her address in my files, but I'm not at liberty to give you that kind of information."

"So Miss Frieda is your patient and Miss Agneta is her sister?"

"Miss Agneta pays for Miss Frieda's treatment. Perhaps she made a mistake with the address."

"Or she had a complaint about her sister's treatment, or perhaps about the people who work here. But that's something I'll have to discuss with Miss Agneta Larsson, of course. I'm not at liberty to give you that kind of information. Thank you for your time, ma'am. You were very helpful. I wish you a pleasant day."

That was interesting… The woman who called me was Frieda, and she has suffered a traumatic experience. On my way out, I check the website of this clinic on my spiPhone. It contains a lot of information about their specialities. Their very best speciality is charging high fees for treatment.

During my walk here, I've made up my mind. If someone kidnapped the former Miss Sweden and future President of the country, I can't just sit around and do nothing. I have to act and solve this crime. But my intuition tells me I can't do this alone. I'll need help here. The best help I can think of is Agneta's sister, Frieda. This is, of course, a logical conclusion. This has nothing to do with the simple fact that I can't stand hearing a woman cry. All I want is for Agneta to be safe. And, of course, my promotion.

* * *

I have prepared everything I could. Now, all I can do is wait. I sit with my legs crossed like a Buddhist monk on the grass, on the other side of the fence. The fence is meant to keep people out, not to keep the patients in; the barbed wire hangs over my head like tropical flesh-eating plants in the jungle of a modern Western city.

My intuition already made two mistakes today: first, my foolish idea of Agneta, having a lesbian relationship with the girl in the photo, and second, assuming Frieda worked at the clinic instead of being a patient. My major goal today is not scoring a hat trick in my own goal.

I left a message for Frieda at the desk of the Iron Maiden who protects her. The message was short and clear: "We spoke earlier today on the phone. If you want to help your sister, please talk to me. I'm a friend of Agneta. I'm waiting for you on the other side of the backyard fence."

My next step was to contact #1, The Boss. I needed permission to start a search for Agneta Larsson. For secret information, the LSD is the best source on the planet. Convincing The Boss was easy. I knew his weak spot. I sent him this message:

«While investigating, I received an interesting phone call. Too bad the new spiPhone8 isn't available. Now I can't send you the recording. It was a one-billion-Swedish-krona question. That's close to 100 million euros. For the lucky finder. I feel lucky today. My intuition tells me where I can find that money. It might cure the current budget cuts the LSD is suffering. It might help The Boss get a promotion. All I need is permission to investigate, plus full support from #2, The Nerd. Or does anything more urgent need my attention?»

The answer was immediate and short: «Permission granted.»

The Nerd sent me the social report of Frieda Larsson, Agneta's sister. It contained a photo of a chestnut-haired woman, the girl next to Agneta in front of the Eiffel Tower, her date and place of birth, and the balance of her bank account: 55 krona and 8 öre, about 5 euros.

The info from the Kepler Clinic took longer; #2, The Nerd, had to hack the clinic's database and unscramble the protected information. The Kepler Clinic specialises in the treatment of victims of sexual harassment. Frieda was raped. That's why Frieda doesn't want to see any man. Eight months ago, whilst walking home one night, she crossed a park where a non-identified male grabbed her and violated her. For not being a woman, I can't possibly imagine the trauma it caused, but if you're hiding from the world in a clinic with intensive therapy, it must be something serious. I don't expect too much from talking with Frieda. I don't even expect her to show up. Nevertheless, I sit here and wait.

I picked this approach, with the fence between us and my face painted like a clown: a friendly face with a little sunshine on my left cheek, an orange wig, and a little red ball on the tip of my nose. I look ridiculous. A smile is the best weapon against fear. I hope my Picasso art class builds a bridge of trust over the grand canyon of terror that has isolated Frieda for the last eight months. I'm not certain. Once, I saw a horror film in which a serial killer dressed up as a clown, so his victims wouldn't recognise him. I hope Frieda's not a fan of horror films.

I sit here already for over an hour, listening to the birds and the fighter planes in the sky, noticing how the smell of burnt toast chases away the scent of the white roses in the garden, watching how the day breaks. My eyes concentrate on that little white bench in front of me, on the other side of the fence. It's a simple bench, just two huge bricks with a stone plate on top. Patients can sit with their backs to the world outside, to enjoy the garden and the ancient white building that houses the clinic. Only for being allowed to sit on that bench, I would be happy to pay the huge fee the Kepler Clinic charges its patients; I'm close to when the not-feeling-my-legs-anymore becomes feeling-how-my-legs-hurt-tremendously.

Now and then, one or two patients pass by, but not the one patient I hope for. I have to be patient. There is no other way. I kill the time, thinking about what I will say if Frieda sits down on that bench. What do I want? I want to help her. If I scare her, or if I ask her to do something she doesn't want, I don't help her at all. She might give me some information, perhaps one or two leads where to start. But first, I need her to trust me, and she doesn't trust any other man except her father and her doctor.

Chestnut hair. Chocolate cherry auburn burgundy violet chestnut dark hair. It's her. I don't move. Just a faint smile, encouraging eyes, body language telling her I won't bite. Slowly, she comes closer, hesitating whether to sit down or keep standing behind the white bench.

I look at her. The world is my oyster. That oyster now stands right in front of me. If I follow Shakespeare's advice to open it with my sword, I'll never see the pearl inside. I should act with gentleness, just as I'd expected and prepared for.

I don't move, just trust my smile and say with a friendly, feminine voice: "Hi. My name is Benny. I'm glad you came." And then I wait. She sits down, her arms folded under her breasts, but she keeps staring at me without saying a word. I'm happy I chose the name Benny. It comes from Benjamin, the little baby of the family, giving a strong connection to everything that's sweet and innocent. Now, I have to tell the second part of the story. I can't do this alone. I need Ramón.

I talk slowly, with long breaks between each sentence, to add a scent of sincerity and openness to my silk voice: "I have a boyfriend. His name is Ramón. I love him very much. He's funny. He always makes me laugh. When I'm sad or troubled, Ramón puts his arm around me and says: «Don't worry. It will all work out fine». Ramón protects me. He makes me feel safe. I love him as much as he loves me. If something was to happen to him… I would do everything I could to get him back, to help him like he always helps me. If I'd sit and wait, it would not bring him back. I would act. I would do everything I could…"

The idea of telling about my boyfriend seemed smart: a gay man would never be a potential rapist, but it feels too much like acting, like bad acting. I even drop a brief pause to add emphasis to my words before I continue.

"I know what happened to you that night, although I can't even imagine how much he hurt you. But… he hurt you once. That night passed and will never come back. Don't let it come back. Don't let him hurt you anymore. Don't allow him that pleasure. Don't allow him to hurt you every day. Fight the pain with hate. Hate him when it hurts. Your hate will cure your pain."

Frieda's face is a marble statue. Her eyes, one blue and the other one green, look at me without blinking. I have no idea what she is thinking. I have to trust my intuition and go with my gut.

"I can protect you from the hooded claw, I can keep the vampires from your door, but I can't kill the demons in your head. You'll have to do that yourself. I can't change your past; all I can change is your future. I know you love your sister Agneta and I know she loves you too. She's in trouble. How many times did she help you when you needed her? She'll need your help now. I can find your sister, but I can't do it without your help."

Another theatrical pause. If Frieda has any intelligence, she must think by now I'm the most lucid impostor that exists. This whole monologue is so full of obvious clichés and bombastic words that it sounds ridiculous, not at all like the message I had in mind when I made this up. It's hard to be sincere, but it's so much harder to make other people think you're sincere. Looking like a clown doesn't help either. There are so many lies around us. So many others want something important from us, and they would easily lie to get it. It's just words. Words are wind. Only our acts tell who we are. Enough said. One last line. This one comes from the bottom of my soul: "I don't want you to be afraid. I want to see you smile."

Frieda remains a wax figure of Madame Tussauds, unmoved by my Shakespearean words. I start to doubt if she understands English at all, until I remember how she spoke English on the phone earlier today. Still, I don't dare to move.

Frieda stands up, turns her back on me, takes one step in the clinic's direction, hesitates, turns towards me and says: "I have to think about this. Okay?"

The oyster has opened, a tiny crack. A drop of salt water from the inside leaks over her pale cheek. I can't stand a woman crying…

"Okay. I'll wait here. Take your time."

I curse myself. My back hurts, my legs hurt a lot more, and I feel like the clown I painted on my face. Instead of telling this girl to hurry and don't let me wait until dinner, or, worse, until breakfast tomorrow morning, I tell her to take her time. I close my eyes and take a long series of deep, deep breaths while Frieda walks back to the house. Patience. Take your time to think. You've done a great job so far. The girl has seen no man in months, but she's taken the risk of coming here, sit and listen. She even spoke a few words. She will think about it. What did Benny expect? Should she fall to her knees, cry tears of happiness, and shout with joy: "Oh, thank you, thank you, I don't know how to thank you."? Would she tear the fence apart with her bare hands and throw herself in my arms? This is no Rambo film. This girl has been violently abused. She suffered more damage than I can ever imagine. She's probably on drugs to calm her down and not in good shape after sitting here for so many months. What did I expect?

"What do you want to know?"

I open my eyes. Frieda stands before me. Not on the other side of the fence, no, just before my nose. If I reach out, I can touch her.

"You're quick with your thinking."

Not the right answer. There's that tear again.

"What guarantees do I have that you won't hurt me?", she asks.

"Trust, respect and commitment. I won't lie to you, I will protect you, I will respect you like you are, and I will keep my promise. Is that enough?"

She takes a deep breath and looks away, as to avoid me from seeing her sadness. I feel like I have to add something. Heavy words like Trust, Respect and Commitment are used so often that they lose their meaning. I can't stand seeing a woman cry. I'm a clown. I have to show what I'm capable of: "I know you feel miserable. No matter how hard I try, I can't take that feeling away from you, but… with me, you can feel miserable and have fun at the same time. Have you had a lot of fun lately? Or was it quite boring here? I'm fun to be with. I usually get into so much trouble that you won't have time to feel miserable. I'll make you laugh until your stomach hurts so much that you forget about your headache. And when we find your sister, you'll have so many stories to tell her, you'll forget to ask her how her day was."

I smile.

A smile is the best weapon against fear.

I wait.

The tension is interrupted by the spiPhone in my pocket; without any pressure on its touchscreen, the radio starts and U2's Bono sings: "Sometimes, you can't make it on your own." And then the radio stops.

Frieda looks at me and decides: "I guess it will do. What do you want from me?"

Quickly, I try to get on my feet. Too quickly. The stiffness in my unstable legs makes me look like a drunk sailor, not confident enough to grab her hand or put my arm around her, but feeling very uncomfortable that I don't. To give myself something to do, I take off the wig and the red nose. I take a little bottle with cleaner and a handkerchief from my backpack and remove the paint from my face: "The best start is knowing the real me."

"I liked that little sun. But your lipstick was awful. Didn't you have a mirror?"

Her little joke breaks the ice.

"So you aren't afraid of me, then? I thought you didn't want to see any men except your father and the doctor?"

"I don't want to see any other men, but I don't want to lose my sister either. You're right. Doing nothing won't bring her back. I'm worried. I'm afraid something happened to her, something bad. She was there when something bad happened to me. It's time to pay back the debt… I guess I have to trust you…"

She stops, looks around, touches her hair with her right hand and says: "You were right when you said that, about feeling that pain every day. I can't forget what happened, but… I want to try it. I need to try it. He makes me suffer every day, but… I have to fight it, tell myself it's me who's allowing it to come back. You were right: I hate him so much. It's stronger than the fear."

I nod my approval: "He will not hurt you anymore. I will not allow it."

She clinches her fists and says, determinedly: "He will not hurt me anymore. I will not allow it!"

I'm surprised. This is not a patient who's treated in a mental hospital. This is a strong woman. I don't know what to say. Ramón takes over. He puts my arm around her shoulder and says: "It's okay. Don't worry. It will all work out fine."

She shrugs my arm away. It's enough to make me realise: don't touch. She's just made a big step forward. I shouldn't try to rush things.

I rub my sore muscles, making my clumsy gesture look like I needed her support to save me from falling, and try to change the subject to something lighter, to give ourselves a break: "Didn't the Iron Maiden at the reception try to stop you when you wanted to go out?"

"Mrs Holt? No. She's not as bad as she looks. It's a clinic, not a prison. We're encouraged to do what we think is best for us. I prefer to stay in my room without any contact with others, but the doctors do try to stimulate us to go out and seek company. What you told me, about fighting the demons in my head, those were almost the same words my doctor tells me at every session we have."

"Fear is a useless emotion. It helped us in the Stone Age to recognise danger, so we could produce adrenalin that would help us run away or fight back, but in our modern world, the dangers are more complicated than a lion with a temper."

Frieda fights back her tears. Even if it's a useless emotion, fear doesn't go away because we want it to. It needs training, repetition and feeling safe. I flash another comforting smile and say: "Don't worry. It needs time. You're doing great."

She takes a deep breath. I pick up my backpack and say: "I would like to invite you for a coffee; breakfast would even be better. Have you eaten yet?"

"There is a place where they sell sandwiches. We can go there. It's about ten minutes from here."

"Sandwiches are fine and a walk sounds nice too. We can talk on the way, I mean, whenever you're ready. We can start talking about your sister, about enemies she might have, about the last time you spoke with her, about things she might have said, plans she had or things she wanted to do."

"What do you already know?"

I hang my backpack over my shoulder and follow Frieda to the street in front of the clinic.

"I know her name is Agneta Larsson. She won the sixth edition of the Battle for Fame, she does a lot of modelling, and she's the face of several promotional campaigns, for make-up and fashion mainly. For being a former Miss Sweden, she has made a remarkable switch in her career lately, from entertainment to politics. I know she's 30 years old, she has no relationship and no children, and I can't imagine anyone wanting to harm someone as beautiful and charming as her."

"Agneta is successful in everything she does, which also means she has a lot of envy around her."

"When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"A week ago. We spoke on the phone, on Tuesday the… 13th of February. The next day, on Wednesday, the clinic reminded me their latest invoice was overdue. I called Agneta, but she didn't pick up her phone. The clinic isn't a charity institute. They are a commercial company. If they don't get paid, they will stop the treatment and won't allow me to stay here any longer."

"And how long did they give you, or your sister, to pay?"

"Until yesterday."

"And we're talking about how much money?"

"One hundred thousand krona."

Another tear tries to escape Frieda's eye. I stop it with a smile and a few cheap words: "Before we go for breakfast, my credit card and I will visit Mrs Holt and take care of that invoice. You help me, so I help you. Okay?"

The tear escapes nevertheless, but it's followed by an unexpected sensation that makes one hundred thousand krona look like a keep-the-change: a faint but unmistakable smile on Frieda's thin lips.