‘Can you hold on a moment?’ she said, and stood up and walked over to Spike.
The news editor was on the phone, of course.
‘Do we want an orgy of grief out in Täby?’ she asked, without waiting for him to get off the phone.
‘What?’ Spike said, putting the receiver to his stomach.
‘The headmaster has opened a crisis centre in the youth club. Do we want to cover it?’
‘Off you go,’ Spike said, and returned to his call.
Annika walked back to her desk.
‘So how do I find you, then?’
She drove out with one of the other summer temps, a photographer called Pettersson. He had a clapped-out old Golf that stalled at every other junction.
I’ll never complain about Bertil Strand again, she thought.
The youth club was based in a bright red seventies building, and consisted of a kitchen and a billiard room with big sofas. Most of the space was taken up by boys, of course.
The girls were huddled in a corner. Several of them were in tears. Annika and the photographer did a quick circuit before Martin Larsson-Berg came up to them.
‘It’s vital that we take these young people’s feelings seriously,’ he said with a concerned look. ‘We’re going to be here twenty-four hours a day for the rest of the week.’
Annika took some notes, as an uncomfortable feeling grew in her stomach.
There was a lot of noise. The youngsters were upset and shouting at each other, all of them very emotional. Two boys were trying to pull a girl’s T-shirt off in the billiard room, and only stopped when the headmaster told them to.
‘Lotta’s a bit of a slapper,’ Martin Larsson-Berg said apologetically.
Annika stared at him in disbelief.
‘You’re defending the boys’ behaviour,’ she said.
‘They’re having a tough time at the moment. They didn’t get much sleep last night. This is Lisbeth, our counsellor.’
Annika and Pettersson said hello.
‘It feels very important to be able to work through all this properly,’ the counsellor said. ‘To really listen to them.’
‘Is that actually possible under these conditions?’ Annika wondered cautiously.
‘The kids have to share their pain,’ the counsellor said. ‘They’re helping each other to deal with their grief. We’re here for all of Josefin’s friends.’
‘Even the ones from other school districts?’ Annika asked.
‘Everyone’s welcome,’ Martin Larsson-Berg said emphatically. ‘We’ve got the capacity to help anyone who needs support.’
Three boys started fighting over a billiard cue in the next room, and Martin Larsson-Berg disappeared to sort them out.
‘Do you go out to find people who might need help?’ Annika asked.
The counsellor smiled uncertainly. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Josefin’s best friend is a girl called Patricia. Have you been in touch with her?’
‘Has she been here?’ the counsellor asked curiously.
Annika looked around. Four girls were sitting next to a crackly stereo, sniffling and playing Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears In Heaven’ very loud. Three others were writing poems for Josefin with lit candles and the graduation picture from the Evening Post in front of them. Six boys were playing cards. She couldn’t imagine that Patricia would set foot in here voluntarily.
‘I doubt it,’ Annika said.
‘But she’s very welcome, everyone’s welcome,’ the counsellor said.
‘And you’re open all night?’
‘We can’t let our support flag. I’ve interrupted my holiday so that I can be here.’
The counsellor smiled. There was a sort of glow, something almost unearthly in her eyes. Annika put down her notepad. This didn’t feel right. This woman wasn’t here for Josefin or her friends. She was here for her own sake.
‘Perhaps I could talk to some of her friends?’ Annika said.
‘Whose?’ the counsellor said.
‘Josefin’s,’ Annika said.
‘Oh yes, of course. Anyone in particular?’
Annika thought for a moment.
‘Charlotta? They were in the same class.’
‘Of course, Charlotta. I think she’s organizing a procession to the scene of the murder. There’s so much to sort out, hiring coaches and so on. This way …’
They went into an office behind the billiard room. A young woman with a short page-boy cut and a serious suntan was discussing something on the phone. She looked up with a glare at the interruption, but lit up as soon as Annika mouthed, Evening Post. She quickly ended the call.
‘Charlotta, Josefin’s best friend,’ she said, with a sufficiently distressed smile.
Annika looked down and muttered her own name.
‘We’ve already spoken,’ she said, and Charlotta nodded in agreement.
‘I’m still in shock,’ Charlotta said, with a dry sniff. ‘It’s been so hard.’
The counsellor gave her a sympathetic hug.
‘But together we’re strong,’ Charlotta went on. ‘We have to do something about meaningless violence like this. Josefin won’t have died in vain; we’re going to see to that.’
Her voice was firm and determined. She’d be perfect for television, Annika thought.
‘How do you mean?’ Annika wondered gently.
Charlotta glanced uncertainly at the counsellor.
‘Well, we’ve got to come together. Protest. Show that we’re not backing down. That feels so important right now. Supporting each other in our grief. Sharing our feelings and helping each other through this difficult time.’
She smiled weakly.
‘And you’re organizing a procession?’ Annika said.
‘Yes, more than a hundred young people have already signed up. We’re going to need at least two coaches.’
Charlotta walked round the table to pick up a list of names.
‘Of course, we’re meeting the costs involved,’ the counsellor interjected.
Pettersson, the photographer, appeared in the doorway.
‘Can I take a couple of pictures?’ he asked.
The two women stood up straight next to each other.
‘Do you think you could look a bit sad?’ the photographer asked.
Annika groaned to herself, shut her eyes and turned away. She was blushing with shame. To please the photographer, the women hugged each other and started to sniff a bit.
‘Well, we mustn’t disturb you any longer,’ Annika said, heading for the door.
‘There are lots more sitting crying out there,’ Pettersson said.
Annika paused.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll ask if they’d like to have their picture taken.’
They wanted to. The girls cried buckets, the candles flickered, Josefin’s picture hovered behind them, blown up almost beyond recognition on a photocopier. Pettersson photographed the girls’ poems and pictures, and as he worked the sound level increased even further. The youngsters had clearly been disturbed by the presence of the two journalists, and the level of hysteria was gradually growing.
‘Hey, we want to be photographed too,’ two boys brandishing billiard cues shouted.
‘I think it’s time to go,’ Annika whispered.
‘Why?’ Pettersson said in surprise.
‘We’re leaving,’ Annika snarled. ‘Now!’
She walked off to find Martin Larsson-Berg as the photographer reluctantly packed up his equipment. They thanked the headmaster and left the building.
‘Why were you in such a bloody hurry?’ Pettersson said angrily on the way to the car.
He was walking a couple of metres behind Annika, his camera bag bumping on his left hip. Annika replied without turning round.
‘That’s not healthy,’ she said. ‘It could spill over at any moment.’
She got in the car and turned on the radio.
They didn’t say another word all the way back into Stockholm.
23
Annika had just dropped her bag on the floor when she saw the man on the far side of the newsroom. He was big and blond, and the light from the windows on the other side of the sports desk was falling on him. She watched him out of curiosity. He stopped every couple of metres, shaking people’s hands and saying hello. Only when he reached the newsdesk did she realize the editor-in-chief was walking alongside him. The thin little man, upper-class and reserved, was almost invisible alongside him.
‘Well, perhaps if I could just have your attention,’ the editor-in-chief said in his nasal voice from the newsdesk.
Spike was on the phone, feet on his desk, and didn’t even look up. Picture-Pelle glanced over at the men, then went back to his screen. Some of the others had stopped what they were doing and were looking at the men suspiciously. No one had asked to have a television star as their editor.
‘If you could just listen,’ the editor-in-chief said.
Everyone’s faces were completely blank. Spike was still ignoring everything. Annika didn’t move. Suddenly the blond man took a great leap up onto the newsdesk. He stretched to his full height up on Spike’s desk, walking among the telephones and coffee cups and looking round. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked straight ahead of him. The light was still falling on him, and Annika realized that she had got up and was walking over to the little group. His feet ended up right in front of Spike, who looked up, said ‘I’ll call you back’, and hung up. Picture-Pelle left his computer and headed for the newsdesk. The noise level sank to a gentle buzz, as everyone drifted towards the newsdesk in the centre of the room.
‘My name is Anders Schyman,’ the man said. ‘At the moment I’m in charge of a team of investigative reporters at Swedish Television. But from Wednesday, August first, I shall be your new head editor.’
He stopped, and the silence in the room was deafening. His voice had the strength and depth of someone used to providing voiceovers for imported documentaries. Annika stared, fascinated.
The man took a step and looked across a different section of the newsroom.
‘I don’t know your jobs,’ he said. ‘You do. I’m not going to teach you what to do. You know that best yourselves.’
More silence. Annika could hear the sound of traffic outside, and the air-conditioning.
‘What I am going to do,’ the man said, and Annika thought he was looking right at her, ‘what I am going to do is make our path smoother. I’m not going to drive the engine. I’ll be planning and laying new tracks. I can’t do that alone, so we’ll have to work together. You’re the train drivers, the stokers, the conductors. You’re the ones who talk to the passengers; you’re the ones who wave us off on time so that the train keeps to its timetable. I’ll be planning our departures, making sure that we stop at the right stations, and that there are rails all the way there. I’m not a mechanic. But I’d like to be, eventually, once you’ve taught me everything I don’t know. For now I’m just one thing: a publicist.’
He turned to look out over the sports desk, and now Annika could only see his back. But she could still hear him, almost as well as before.
‘I’m deeply committed to journalism,’ he said. ‘The man in the street is my employer. I’ve fought against corruption and the abuse of power all of my professional life. That’s the very core of journalism. The truth is my guiding light, not influence, and not power.’
He turned ninety degrees, and Annika could see him in profile.
‘These are big words. I’m not trying to be pretentious, just ambitious. I haven’t taken this job because it will give me a good salary and a prestigious title, even though it will do both of those things. No, I’m here today for one single reason: to work with you.’
You could hear a pin drop. Spike’s phone rang, and he quickly took it off the hook.
‘Together we can make this newspaper the biggest in Scandinavia,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘We’ve already got all the qualities we need, principally in the form of each and every one of you. The employees. The journalists. You’re the brains, the heart of this paper. Eventually we may get all those hearts to beat in time, and the thunderous roar we create will be strong enough to tear down walls. You’ll see that I’m right about that.’
Without another word he stepped off the desk and landed neatly on the floor, and noise returned to the room.
‘Remarkable,’ Carl Wennergren said, suddenly standing next to her.
‘Yes, really,’ Annika said, still affected by the charisma of the man.
‘I haven’t heard such a load of pompous crap since my father’s speech at my graduation. Well, what have you come up with?’
Annika turned round and walked back to her desk.
‘The police have a suspect,’ she said.
‘How do you know that?’ Carl Wennergren wondered sceptically behind her.
Annika sat down and looked him in the eye.
‘It’s pretty straightforward. It’s her boyfriend. It almost always is.’
‘Has he been arrested?’
‘No, he’s not even been identified as an official suspect.’
‘So we can’t publish anything,’ Carl said.
‘That all depends on how you phrase it,’ Annika said. ‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve been writing up my sailing journal. Sport wanted it. Do you want to read it?’
Annika gave a wry smile. ‘Not right now.’
Carl Wennergren sat down on her desk again.
‘This murder’s given you a real break, hasn’t it?’ he said.
Annika was sorting through some old news agency printouts.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ she said.
‘You got the front page two days in a row, no other temp has managed that this summer,’ Carl Wennergren said.
‘Apart from you, of course,’ Annika said, smiling sweetly.
‘Well, yes, but I come from a different starting point. I did my training here.’
And your dad’s on the board, Annika thought, but said nothing. Carl stood up.
‘I’m heading down to the crime-scene to catch a few of the mourners,’ he said over his shoulder.
Annika nodded and turned to her computer. She opened a new document and began in a dramatic tone: The police have made a breakthrough in their hunt for Josefin Liljeberg’s killer—
She got no further before the tip-off hotline rang. She groaned out loud and grabbed the receiver.
‘That’s enough now,’ a woman’s voice said.
‘I quite agree,’ Annika said.
‘We can’t put up with the diktats of the patriarchy any longer.’
‘Fine by me,’ Annika said.
‘We’re going to get our revenge, and we’re going to do it with blood and fire.’
‘You must be a pretty cool bunch of girls,’ Annika said.
The voice grew annoyed.
‘Listen to what I say. We’re the Ninja Barbies, a group of amazons who have declared war on oppression and violence against women. We aren’t putting up with it any more. The woman in the park was the last straw. We women aren’t the only ones who should be scared to go out at night. Men must suffer violence too. You’ll see. We’re going to start with the police, the hypocrites of the power structure.’
Annika was paying attention now, this one sounded like a serious nutter.
‘Why have you called this number?’ she asked.
‘We want to spread our message through the media. We want maximum publicity. We’re offering the Evening Post the chance to join us on our first raid.’
Annika’s mouth went dry. What if the young woman was serious? She looked round the newsroom, trying to get eye contact with someone she could beckon over.
‘What … what do you mean?’ she asked, uncertain.
‘We’re starting tomorrow,’ the woman said. ‘Do you want to come?’
Annika looked around desperately. No one was paying her any attention.
‘Are you serious
?’ she wondered weakly.
‘These are our conditions,’ the young woman said. ‘We want full control over text and headlines. We want a guarantee of complete anonymity and control of all pictures. And we want fifty thousand kronor in advance. In cash.’
Annika took several deep breaths.
‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘Out of the question.’
‘Are you sure?’ the young woman said.
‘I’ve never been more sure,’ Annika said.
‘Then we’ll call your rivals,’ the woman said.
‘Okay, good luck. You’ll get the same answer there, I can guarantee that.’
There was a click and the line went dead. Annika put the receiver back, shut her eyes and buried her head in her hands. Bloody hell, what was she supposed to do now? Call the police? Tell Spike? Pretend nothing happened? She had a feeling she was going to get told off whatever she did.
24
‘And here are our evening reporters,’ she heard the editor-in-chief say. She looked up and saw the editorial board heading towards her from the picture desk. Apart from the editor-in-chief it consisted of the new head editor, Anders Schyman, and the heads of sport, entertainment, pictures and culture, as well as one of the leader-writers. They were all men, and apart from Schyman they were all wearing similar dark blue sports jackets, jeans and shiny shoes. She suddenly remembered what Anne Snapphane called them and burst out laughing. The blue cock parade.
The group stopped at her desk.
‘The evening reporters start at noon and work through to eleven p.m.,’ the editor-in-chief said with his back to Annika. ‘They work a shift system, and a lot of them are on temporary contracts. We regard the evening shift as something of a training ground …’
He started to move on when Anders Schyman broke away from the group and came over to her.
‘I’m Anders Schyman,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Annika looked cautiously up at him.
‘Yes, I realized that,’ she said with a smile, and shook his hand. ‘Annika Bengtzon.’
He smiled back.
‘You’re the one who’s been writing about the murder of Josefin Liljeberg,’ he said.
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