So very unfortunate. So tremendously unfair. The words of the soap-opera actress rang in her ears:
I don’t know what Michelle ever did. To deserve. Such a rotten life.
She could have had a child, a man who loved her, a home and a family.
Then it hit Annika.
Like I have.
Opening her eyes wide, she forced back the tide of sentimental salt water.
The bus pulled up at another stop. A large older man wearing a cap and an oilskin coat pushed his way to the back of the bus and sat down next to Annika. She pulled her raincoat tighter around her and stared out the window. The wind caused the rain to pelt her side of the bus, sketching psychedelic patterns of dirt and grime on the window.
The man gasped, coughed, and cleared his throat. Annika wrapped her raincoat even tighter around herself. She closed her eyes and saw the negative image of the stripes of rain dance on her eyelids. The driver headed for Gullmarsplan. Squirming passengers rubbed damp fabrics against each other and Annika closed her nose off to the smell of unwashed humanity.
‘Excuse me,’ the man in the seat next to her said in a commanding voice. ‘Could I ask you something?’
The bus swayed as it ran a yellow light. Annika had to grab on to the seat in front of her to avoid being tossed against the man who’d spoken to her.
‘Sure,’ she said, looking at him quizzically once the vehicle was back on an even keel.
‘Aren’t you on TV?’ the man said and smiled, displaying a set of yellow teeth.
Annika tried to smile back and then had to hang on again when the bus braked sharply at the junction between the bridge at Johanneshov and Nynäsvägen.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, you’re mistaken.’
‘But I recognize you,’ the man insisted. ‘You sit on that sofa, with all the women.’
Annika took a deep breath and looked out over Gullmarsplan.
‘Sorry,’ she said, picking up her bag to indicate that she was getting off.
The man’s smile died. He muttered something inaudible and moved his legs a mere millimetre, indicating that Annika should climb over him. Rage exploded behind her eyes, intense and sudden.
‘What the hell? Now move it, let me out,’ she said in a loud and aggressive voice.
The old man’s eyes flew open in surprise and, befuddled by astonishment, he got up.
Annika got off by way of the rear exit, stepping out into the wind. A gust grabbed hold of her raincoat, finding its way under her sweater, wetting her stomach. She let the wind have its way with her for a few seconds, feeling the goose bumps rise on her skin. She looked up at the glass structure that housed the subway station, at the red steel girders around the glassed-in entrance, not wanting to go in. Not wanting to go to the newsroom.
She went over to the news-stand instead, got out of the wind and pulled out her cellphone. She called information and got the number for Global Future, breathing heavily while she waited for them to pick up.
‘I’d like to talk to the person in charge of investor relations,’ she said to the switchboard operator.
‘We don’t have anyone like that around here any more,’ the girl replied.
Annika moved to let an elderly lady with a walker get past.
‘What don’t you have? The investors or the people who coordinate their relations?’
The girl giggled.
‘We don’t have the one or the other.’
There was a flight of stairs on her right, in front of the health-food store.
‘What about the executive manager?’
‘He was fired last week.’
Annika hurried over to the staircase and raced downstairs, stopping on the landing in the middle to get out of the rain.
‘Are you the only person left?’
‘More or less,’ the girl said. ‘What would you like to know?’
The stairwell smelled of piss and damp concrete. Annika swallowed and decided to go for it.
‘I have a question about the analyses that the Securities Register Centre does for you …’
‘I take care of that at the moment,’ the girl said, ‘so you can see how far down on the list of priorities that particular job has fallen. You see, we don’t exactly get good news.’
Annika kicked away a few dented soft-drink cans and an empty bottle of drinkable yogurt, and looked out over the subway tracks below her. ‘How much is one of your shares worth today?’
‘The last time I checked, half an hour ago, the price was SEK 38.50.’
‘That’s pretty lousy, isn’t it?’ Annika asked.
The girl at the other end laughed again, this time sadly.
‘You’re not exactly a business wiz, are you?’
With a squeal of brakes, a train pulled up on a side track.
‘That’s right,’ Annika said. ‘I’m no good at playing the market, but other people like to see themselves as smart investors. People who have caused companies like yours to go belly-up. I’m investigating a story like that.’
‘So, what are you looking for?’ said the switchboard operator cum investor relations coordinator cum general manager of Global Future.
Residents of the southern suburbs of Stockholm filed past Annika, a damp grey crowd issuing from blue metal trains. She turned her back on them.
‘The date for a certain transfer of shares,’ she replied in a low voice.
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge information like that,’ the girl said.
‘I’m aware of that,’ Annika said. ‘And I’m not asking you to. I figured I’d tell you what I’ve dug up, and you can check it out if you like.’
There was no response at the other end. A subway train roared into the station somewhere on her right, causing the concrete to vibrate.
‘What’s it all about?’
‘An insider deal, but not one that involves any members of your board or your management.’
The train came to a stop, the stream of people dried up and Annika’s head was filled with a ringing silence.
‘When did this take place?’
‘Right before that disastrous second-quarter report last year …’
‘The one dated 20 July, I know. Who is it?’
Annika took a deep but silent breath while a bus headed for Tyresö started up with a loud rumble above her.
‘A man by the name of Torstensson,’ she said, hunched over her cellphone. ‘A pretty sizeable transaction: 9,200 shares.’
‘Hang on.’
This was said in a whisper.
Annika looked up the stairs. The graffiti and the power lines laced into a framework of steel reminded her of monsters from a nightmarish video by Pink Floyd. The wind whistled through the perforated metal, making the lines sing. Holding her breath, she listened.
‘9,200 shares,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve got it right here.’
Annika closed her eyes and felt her pulse rate go through the roof.
‘What date was it?’
‘24 July.’
She pulled her chin down to her chest, closed her eyes tight and felt her jaws clench until her molars squeaked.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘You won’t tell, will you?’
‘Tell anyone that the information came from you? No way.’
Annika hung up and gazed out at the traffic, the sanitation units and the trucks, a steady stream of metal on its way downtown. After taking three deep breaths she dialled Schyman’s number.
‘No luck,’ she said. ‘According to the analysis by the Securities Register Centre, Torstensson sold his shares on 24 July. Four days after the report went public’
Not a sound was heard from the other end. Annika looked at her phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘About as sure as I can be,’ Annika replied.
‘Okay … Thanks.’
Schyman’s disappointment seared the line.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, feeling strangely ashamed.
‘That’s all right.’
He hung up on her. Her cheeks burning, Annika switched off her phone. Why did she take Schyman’s failure to heart?
She pictured Anne Snapphane’s puzzled face when she’d wondered why Annika couldn’t seem to ask the men in her life for anything.
Was her boss one of those men? Did they have a relationship that could be defined as close?
Annika shook off the thought and made another call, easing into the concentrated state of mind that she needed to talk to Q.
‘Hannah Persson is listed as a resident of her mother’s household in Malmö,’ she informed the policeman when he answered the phone. ‘Only she doesn’t live there, she lives somewhere in Katrineholm. That’s where you picked her up, right?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’
She ignored his bantering tone.
‘It doesn’t seem like she has many childhood friends left, so she probably lives with some of her Nazi buddies. Am I right?’
She could hear him chuckle.
‘Go on.’
‘She shares an apartment with some of her Nazi buddies––’
‘Well, that’s not entirely correct,’ the lieutenant said, interrupting her.
Annika leaned back against the wall, noticing too late that someone had wiped off a glob of snuff there.
‘Fucking hell,’ she swore, flicking off the disgusting mess.
‘What?’
‘Not an apartment, but close. She lives with her Nazi buddies in a room somewhere … She lives in the offices of the Nazi Party!’
‘Bingo! But as far as we know, she’s the only one living there.’
Wanly, Annika smiled into the phone.
‘Okay. Now where would we find such a place …?’
She shut her eyes and concentrated.
‘There aren’t very many suitable places in Katrineholm where you could have an office for the Nazi Party without being noticed,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘My guess is that it would be out at Nävertorp, if it weren’t for all the immigrants there. I don’t think that Nazis would like it there, and the residents wouldn’t leave them alone. So, maybe the east side – yes, that’s it: the east side, right?’
‘I don’t know the local names for the different neighbourhoods.’
‘The east side is where the hospital is, lots of grimy basement-level rooms and weird video shops. I once did a story exposing a secret porno shop when I worked at the local paper. Am I right?’
The detective gave her the address.
Which is on the east side,’ she said, grinning. ‘Thanks.’ Annika hung up, once more aware of the smell of piss and concrete, and felt overwhelmed by Anders Schyman’s defeat.
It would have been nice to do something for her boss.
Dirty words built up to a roar inside the managing editor’s head. What a hellish mistake.
24 July, four days after the report had been made public. Torstensson had waited – the bastard hadn’t cheated. Curses sizzled through Schyman’s mind like grease dripping on hot coals, creating unmentionable uncharitable thoughts about the editor-in-chief:
The guy was too stupid to understand what the board had discussed.
Too dumb to use the information for an insider deal.
Too chicken to bail out.
Too loyal to let the others down.
Too honest, perhaps, to commit a crime.
The final conclusion forced Anders Schyman to get up, get away. His chest was starting to constrict and it was getting hard to breathe. What had he done? What can of worms had he opened? What forces had he set in motion, and how far had they gone? Would he be forced to resign?
Schyman looked out through the closed glass door. The newsroom pulsated on the other side, a living organism that required support, nourishment, and pruning. Torstensson was the wrong man – or was Schyman himself the wrong horse to back? Challenging the editor-in-chief had been a mistake. Oh dear God, he was struck full force by just how much he had counted on his anthrax file. He didn’t have anything else up his sleeve, no power over the newsroom, no backing from the board, just orneriness, the abuse of power and deceit – all he’d had was the one weapon: public exposure. Now his ammunition was gone, running out in the silence after Annika Bengtzon’s call. He was defenceless, out for the count, caught with his pants down.
He clenched his fists tightly, saw Spike on the phone over at the news desk, feet up and clutching a pack of cigarettes.
Why do I even care? he thought. All I have to do is let go, let the place go to the devil. It’s not my problem – I can go back to broadcasting, sit in on different boards, get into information technology.
Schyman slumped, feeling his spine strain against the fabric of his shirt.
It was all over. That was it. He might as well accept that he couldn’t stay on. There was no way he could stand another day with Torstensson as his boss, another day full of frustration and antipathy. To be honest, there was no reason he should prolong his agony.
Anders Schyman returned to his seat. The air was hard to breathe. His forehead broke out in a sweat and his hands were shaking. He got his contract out and read items six and seven. According to its terms, he could leave today, walk out and never come back, just by claiming a conflict of interest, that he was going to compete in the same sphere. They would throw him out and lock the door behind him. His time at Kvällspressen would be a mere interlude, a brief footnote. He caught himself wondering what they would say about him, what adjectives they’d use to describe him and his work.
Hot-tempered. Surly. Possibly pretentious, ignorant. Definitely ignorant – they used to love to bombard him with printer’s terminology. No good at delegating work, played favourites, that Bengtzon gal …
Schyman had almost reached his own obituaries when the phone rang, making him jump.
‘Listen,’ Annika Bengtzon said. ‘I just figured something out. According to the Securities Register Centre, the shares changed hands on 24 July.’
The room was utterly silent. Schyman unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his collar with a jerk.
‘You told me that already,’ he said, his hand going to his brow.
‘So I called this guy I met at the centre this morning, and he confirmed my hunch.’
The line crackled and a vehicle roared in the background.
‘What?’ he said, barely capable of making a sound.
‘It takes three days to register a change of ownership.’
Schyman sagged and had to conjure up the strength not to just collapse on his desk.
‘It’s still not good enough,’ he said. ‘That would make it the twenty-first.’
‘Three business days,’ Bengtzon said. ‘24 July was a Monday. The transaction took place the previous Wednesday.’
Time came to a halt. Silence enveloped the earth, the sudden void creating a piercing echo in the managing editor’s head. Anders Schyman lifted his gaze and looked out over the newsroom.
‘That means …’
‘That Torstensson sold his shares on 19 July, the day before the report was made public,’ Annika Bengtzon said. ‘There’s something else: I’ve dug up an address for the little Nazi, and I figured I’d try to talk to her. Is that okay?’
Schyman’s powers of deduction were gone. They had been switched off.
‘The nineteenth? 19 July? Is that true?’
‘Absolutely. It was summer vacation time, which might have even delayed registration a day or so. But the transaction took place no later than the nineteenth.’
Relief gushed through Schyman’s system like a thundering waterfall, making him gasp.
‘And you’re positively sure?’
‘As sure as can be. What about the little Nazi?’
‘What?’
‘Is it okay if I go to see Hannah Persson in Katrineholm? She was released this morning. The X2000 train only takes fifty-six minutes to get there. I fi
gured a little talk about life and death might be in order.’
He would cheerfully have sent her to Hawaii.
‘Go,’ he said.
In the silence of his room Schyman was filled with a sense of elation so great that it threatened to make him explode. That bastard! He thought he was so smart – or maybe he was just a coward who had dithered to the last minute.
The odds were that Schyman would never know for sure. He reached for the phone, dialled the direct line to the host and producer of the public service TV channel’s news magazine, a show devoted to investigative reporting, the scrutiny of elected officials and giving abusers of power the third degree.
‘Mehmed? Hello there. Well, I’m doing just fine, thanks. Damn nasty business with Michelle Carlsson … No, that’s not why I’m calling – I’ve got something for you. Can we meet? Say, thirty minutes from now?’
His vigour restored, Anders Schyman made a quick gesture with his left arm and looked at his watch.
‘Excellent.’
Yet another deep sigh escaped from Anne Snapphane’s lips. How the hell was she going to get through this crap before the weekend? Even if she had the machines on fast-forward there weren’t enough hours left in the week to go through all the material.
A beta tape came to a halt. She finished filling out the slip and switched tapes.
And now that Miranda was staying with her, she couldn’t spend the nights working.
Time for the next tape, a master for the second, somewhat inferior, show of the series. Anne pressed the play button. Michelle was fine, but the guests weren’t up to par. Once she was certain which show it was, Anne put the machine in fast-forward mode, revving up the tape. Like a sleepwalker, she saw the characters cavort their way through the show, their voices, barely audible, coming out in treble squeaks.
There was no point in complaining, Anne knew that. She was so far down on the food chain that she was absolutely and utterly replaceable. If she so much as breathed her task was impossible, she knew that she wouldn’t be a part of the next production.
Things had been different for Michelle. She could make the strangest demands and everyone would accommodate her. In fact, they’d bow down and suck up to her.
Michelle couldn’t deal with the green set decor. It was too oppressive, it deprived her of oxygen. She had something more easygoing in mind – blue, maybe, or yellow.
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