Places, photos, facts.
... the car pulled off Jana Sobieskiego and parked between a newspaper stand and a pedestrian crossing on al. Wincentego Witosa.
'Mio is buried in a sandpit near Ålstäket in Värmdö, two holes in the back of his head.'
He was sitting between Mum and Dad again. travelling from Stockholm and Sweden to a town called Bortoszyce, only a few miles from the Soviet border, in an area that is now called Kaliningrad.
They drove past the Enskede flower shop and Piet Hofimann stopped, reversed and got out.
The arrivals hall at Frédéric Chopin airport in Warsaw was always overcrowded.
He knew that she was called Irina and she came from Gdansk, that she was twenty-two and a student and was prepared to take a risk that was far greater than she imagined and that was enough.
... and twenty minutes later got out of the car in the visitors' car park at Hagtomsgården, in the midst of all the flats in Enskededalen.
He had never been bothered by all the night sounds that played outside his window before, and already he loathed the cars on Bergsgatan which accelerated as they approached the steep incline on Hantverkargatan.
Hotel Okecie was just eight hundred metres from the airport and the wind often swept over the open ground, creating spots of light that were prettiest when the branches on the trees refused to stay still.
He had leant forward and was talking straight into the driver's eair, his unshaven cheek looking shiny any and soft as the car pulled off Jana Sobieskiego and parked between a newspaper stand and a pedestrian crossing ...
... in an area that is now called Kaliningrad. They had never called it that. They refused. For Mum and Dad it was always Königsberg, Kaliningrad was the invention of madmen.
The monotone electronic voice said twelve thirty-eight thirty and a distressed old man reported a robbery in a newsagent on Karlavägen,
The three red roses would go on the middle of the kitchen table in the vase that he liked so much, the one they'd bought at the Kosta Boda glassworks one summer.
... the photograph of Siwan that he had taken one evening in Kristianstads Folkets Park; everything that belonged to a time when all was good.
He had been uncomfortable during the short journey from Kronoberg to Vasastan.
He left the dressed-up, excited people and the window with a view of both Vasagatan and Kungsbron, and crossed the largest room in the flat, his room, his office with its antique desk and two locked gun cabinets and an open fire dut was very effective.
Ewert Grens opened the window. He normally did so around midnight to listen to the clock on Kungsholms Church and then another one that he had never manged to locate ...
Hermansson drove round the tired police headquarters three times before parking on Kungsholmsgatan, by the entrance to Normalm Police and the County Criminal Police, despite protests from Ewert Grens. |
An automatic voice, the same one that was used in the rest of the police worid, followed by the voice of a real woman who was crying as she reported a domestic at an address in Mariatorget.
... and twenty-seven months in Mariefred for two counts of assault.
The taxi sped through the light evening traffic, past the big parks, and as they approached the part of town called Mokotow, elegant embassies appeared behind the dirty window.
'Daddy's just going to make a quick phone call. Will you be quiet for a while? I promise to be finished before we drive under Nynäsvägen.'
Twelve bloody awful months in Österåker prison.
... they had gone ashore somewhere near a place called Simrishamn in Sweden. (Piet Hoffman's family emigrating.)
He left Vasagatan and then got caught in a traffic jam by Slussen.
... he could even sleep on the sofa if he wanted and avoid the long nights on a balcony with a view of Sveavägen and a capital that never stopped.
He had stopped the car halfway across the bridge to Lidingö.
The latest delivery from the faaory in Siedlce.
Just before midnight, and a lorry had through the secured area, passing close to the window the Solna Institute of Forensic Medicine.
He was looking at someone who was tall, blond, in shape, and about the same age as himself, around thirty-five. /.../ Someone who'd served four years at Tidaholm for attempted murder ...
Right onto ul. Ludwika Idzikowskiego, quarter of an hour to go.
He left the dressed-up, excited people and the window with a view of both Vasagatan and Kungsbron ...
Three police officers going from Kronoberg to Vasastan, Västannagatan.
It was a beautiful flat on the fourth floor of Västmannagatan 79. Three spacious rooms in an old building, high-ceilinged, polished wooden floors, and full of light, with windows that faced out over Vanadisvägen as well.