The Forgotten Dead: A dark, twisted, unputdownable thriller. Tove Alsterdal
‘When was it?’ I said aloud to the bartender. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Only two weeks ago. Yes. On Friday.’ He went through the doors into the kitchen.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but the next second I felt ashamed. Seventeen people had been burned alive. From my seat at the bar I could see part of the rickety black silhouette across the street. It was now 12.15.
‘Toilettes?’ I said to the old woman next to me. She raised her head slightly and pointed with a trembling finger. A corner of red fabric stuck up from the sleeve of her sweater. She was wearing at least three layers of clothing. Maybe she’s no more than fifty, I thought. But she had no teeth, and a person without teeth looks lost.
In the ladies’ room I washed a streak of soot off my forehead. Then I took out my make-up bag.
By the time the third course was served, I hadn’t yet succeeded in getting the waiter to say anything more than ‘does it taste good?’ and ‘is this your first time here?’
An entire swarm of staff flitted among the tables, following a strict hierarchy denoted by the colour of their jackets and whether they wore a tie or not. Lowest in the pecking order were several young guys wearing beige-coloured shirts. One of their jobs entailed discreetly approaching with a silver brush and small dust-pan to brush away the breadcrumbs that I’d spilled on the tablecloth.
‘It must be nice working here,’ I said to one of them, his face covered with pimples. He blushed.
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