Buzz: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  Yeah, he got it, even if not quite . . .

  “Fronts? I mean . . . what?”

  “Real people fronting the blogs.”

  It took him a couple of seconds to catch on.

  “What, so you look after the blog for someone else? Like a sort of ghostwriter?”

  “Bingo! Basically I take care of all the serious writing. The fronts are usually busy talking crap about each other or discussing their shopping habits, which is fine. Their computers and smartphones have an app that links through to me, so I always have the last word before anything gets posted. Most of the time I let them get on with it, but if it’s something important I take over.”

  She opened a minifridge standing on the corner of her desk, took out a couple of cans of Coke, and offered one to HP, who shook his head.

  Halil opened her can and took a couple of deep gulps.

  “But . . . I mean . . .” HP said after a few seconds of confused thought, “ . . . what do they get out of it, the fronts?”

  “More like what don’t they get out of it! Apart from a monthly salary from us: attention, free samples, previews, VIP events, you name it . . . A few of them are now so well known that they get to appear on television and go to gala premieres.”

  “What, like her . . . What’s her name? . . . The one who keeps arguing with that other one . . . ?”

  HP searched his memory for her name but failed to find it.

  Halil drew a tick in the air—and then another one.

  “Yes to her, and to her opponent as well! They’re both ours, and the squabbling only gets them even more readers. Over a million hits per week per blog, and neither of the girls has any idea that they actually work for the same company . . .

  “You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty damn good!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Forty-five minutes of interval training on the elliptical and the sweat was running down her back. She could almost taste the lactic acid on her tongue, but she had no intention of stopping until she’d done an hour. She knew that if she was going to get any sleep at all that night, the only thing that really worked was getting completely exhausted.

  MayBey hadn’t mentioned her before, not until after Darfur. And now she was suddenly the number-one topic of conversation.

  There had been twenty-three comments the last time she checked. Twenty-three “colleagues” all declaring themselves to know with either total or reasonable certainty that she had slept her way through the force. That she was in the habit of jumping into bed with anyone as long as it benefited her career. Twenty-three people, and no doubt considerably more who had read it with a grin at home in front of their computers.

  How could people, presumably thinking and perfectly logical individuals, take the time to slander and write shit about her and her personal life?

  Were they driven by hate, jealousy, envy, or bitterness? That would at least have a hint of logic to it. But she suspected that the truth was actually much worse than that.

  That what was driving most of the haters out there wasn’t any sort of grand, strong feeling, but just mundane, low-level stuff.

  Something they did just because they could. As a way of passing the time.

  So why was MayBey suddenly interested in her?

  The people he or she heckled usually only popped up once or twice, mostly as passing incidental characters to make a good story even better. MayBey was the storyteller, and although readers were allowed to comment, they were never asked to contribute any information. But it was different with Regina Righteous.

  MayBey had first brought up the whole issue of her suspension, then asked others to add what they knew. And now this post, constructed in the same way. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that MayBey knew that she was reading every single word that was being written. And that it was precisely this that had made him or her change behavior and get more personal. Something else that was deeply damned unsettling was the talk of a “bonking pad” on Södermalm. Of course, MayBey could have just been making it all up and happened to get it right. But if that wasn’t the case, that meant that someone had been talking. And if that was right, then there was only one candidate. Unless someone had been following her, of course . . .

  A bleep from the elliptical interrupted her thoughts. The interval session was over and she had a couple of minutes to wind down.

  She lowered her chin to her chest, took a few deep breaths, and so didn’t notice when the man came into the room.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Listen, Mange, it’s all about setting trends! There are thousands of bloggers out there, and most of them spent the whole time sneaking anxious glances at each other, especially the big names. I usually think of the Internet as a huge school playground. Almost everyone wants to hang out with the cool kids, be seen in the right company. So we don’t need to control all of them, just a suitable number of the hip ones with enough cred to be able to steer the buzz in a direction that suits our clients.”

  She took another gulp of her Coke.

  “We start with a fronted blog, add a couple of anonymous bloggers in support, and hope someone takes the bait. Obviously not all the bloggers join in, but we don’t need them to either. It’s like there’s a critical mass, a point where so many people are all saying the same thing that their opinion suddenly becomes the accepted truth. And somewhere out there, there are thousands upon thousands of people who are so desperate to live a different life to the one they’ve got that they’re only too happy to soak up what the right people serve up to them. Fragments of someone else’s life, which they unconsciously fit into their own. Products, food trends, trademarks, opinions—you name it! You see how it works, Mange?”

  Oh yes, he saw all right, but for once HP was totally speechless. Philip Argos really hadn’t been joking when he talked about control. The trolls were one thing, poking about in a few forums and supporting their clients’ version of a story. Throw in a few made-up blogs that did more or less the same thing, just on a slightly firmer foundation. But this was way bigger than that, and at the same time a hell of a lot cooler! Only now was he starting to appreciate the full extent of what Philip had been talking about.

  Knowledge—Security—Control.

  That was what it was all about, and the best way to . . .

  Wrong!

  Unquestionably the best way to control the buzz, or whatever name you chose to give the torrent of information out there, wasn’t to adapt to the rumors. It was to start them.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She was just wiping down the elliptical when he came over to her. Because she had her back to him she didn’t see him at first, and his voice made her jump.

  “Hi, you’re new here, aren’t you?”

  It was the man from the treadmill.

  “Yes,” she replied curtly, going back to what she was doing.

  He waited a few seconds until she had finished and was obliged to turn and face him.

  “I thought as much,” he said with a slight smile. “I’ve been coming here for a couple of years now and usually recognize everyone else. I’d definitely have remembered a beautiful woman like you.”

  The man’s smile revealed a row of sparkling white teeth that suited his deep suntan perfectly. She searched her mind for a suitable comment to get rid of him, but for some reason nothing popped up. Instead she suddenly found herself returning his smile.

  There was something about him that made her feel in a slightly better mood. Something he radiated. Something she had been missing for a long time.

  “My name’s Rebecca,” she said, and to her own surprise held out her hand.

  His handshake was dry and firm.

  “Good to meet you, Rebecca! I was wondering if I could be cheeky enough to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me? How about next Saturday?”

  20

  I NOW INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE TOO FAR FROM REALITY

  “HELLO?”

  “Hello, my friend.”
<
br />   “Oh, it’s you. Has the problem been solved?”

  “Not quite, but we’re working hard on it . . . Very hard . . .”

  “Hi, how’s it going for our golden boy? Is he behaving himself?”

  “It’s going brilliantly. Mange is a natural! Three days here and he already knows how to do everything.”

  Halil slapped him on the shoulder and reluctantly he stopped what he was doing, pushed his chair away from the desk, and turned toward Rilke.

  “It’s pretty good, actually,” he replied. “Brilliant fun, but I’ve got a way to go before I reach the blog-queen’s level.”

  He winked at his supervisor and Halil gestured as if to wave off the compliment.

  “Great!” Rilke replied. “I thought we could have lunch, if you’re hungry?”

  “Sure,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Hötorget,” Rilke replied, glancing briefly at the other woman.

  “I was thinking of getting a late lunch, but you go ahead,” Halil said quickly, then went back to her computer.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, then, Mange.” Rilke smiled.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  That same feeling again! For the umpteenth time in the past few days she stopped short and looked over her shoulder. But just as on every previous occasion there was no one there.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true . . .

  There were loads of people there, she was in the city center after all. People on their way to work, window-shopping, walking their dogs, talking on their cells.

  Woolly hats, thick coats, gloves—plumes of steam rising from people’s mouths as they trudged on through the December darkness. All with their own agenda and not a single one of them who looked more suspicious than anyone else.

  But she still felt like she was being watched. As if some stranger’s gaze was boring into her back, making her feel . . . exposed.

  Presumably that was because of the text:

  I’ve got my eye on you—just so you know!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When he and Rilke got back from their long lunch something seemed to have happened. There was a feeling of anxiety in the air and the usually quiet office was humming with voices. Philip, Eliza Poole, and a woman HP didn’t know were standing and talking in the open area by the reception desk, and people from the various departments were slowly gathering around them.

  For a few seconds HP wondered if this was something to do with him, if his cover really was blown this time, and he was about to be unmasked in front of the whole office. His pulse began to race and he was just glancing at the exit when Rilke gently touched his arm.

  “That’s Monika Gregerson, Anna’s sister,” she whispered so close to his ear that his paranoia vanished instantly.

  “She worked here for a while but left a year or so back.”

  “Everyone, if you wouldn’t mind coming over here, please. We’ve got something important to tell you . . .”

  Eliza Poole’s voice was so shrill it was almost cracking. The forty or so people in the office slowly formed a circle around the trio. Eliza Poole fished out a well-used handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blew her nose loudly. She looked upset, red-faced, and puffy, as if she’d been crying.

  Suddenly HP began to guess what was about to happen.

  Philip Argos raised one hand and there was immediate silence.

  “For those of you who haven’t met Monika, this is Anna’s sister, and she knows all about our activities here at ArgosEye . . .”

  He gestured toward the woman beside him.

  HP had no trouble seeing the family likeness. The fair hair, turned-up nose, and the alert look in her eyes were pretty much the same, but this woman was either the big sister or else her cosmetic surgeon wasn’t as good as Anna’s. The dark rings under her eyes added a few more years as well. And she was considerably more plainly dressed, in a black skirt and matching blouse, buttoned almost all the way up to the neck. Evidently she was the more restrained of the Argos sisters . . .

  “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news . . .”

  Philip Argos paused, which was completely unnecessary seeing as he had everyone’s full attention.

  “As you know, Anna took a year off from work to travel around the world. Sadly it looks as though she’s been the victim of a tragic accident.”

  “Is she okay?”

  This from Rilke, and as far as HP could tell she was genuinely worried.

  Philip Argos waited a couple of seconds before answering, and when he did eventually open his mouth, everyone had already guessed what his answer would be.

  “I’m afraid Anna’s dead.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  By now she had been through all the posts on the Pillars of Society. The site had been up and running for about six months, so it took her a fair while, but the Word document that she had been using to record her observations actually included quite a lot of useful information.

  MayBey had been involved almost from the start. His or her first posts had been made just a week or so after the site had been set up, and the number of comments—and presumably readers—had steadily grown since then.

  But MayBey only started threads—that was all. Then he or she sat back and let other people take over and add their own comments. Then, when that post began to run out of steam, another one would appear and the whole process would start again.

  There was no discernible pattern in the timing and dates of the posts. All days of the week, and most times of day, were represented—something which seemed to fit someone who worked shifts. The events and people described suggested that MayBey had experienced quite a bit, and had probably been in the police force for some time.

  It seemed likely that MayBey worked on the front line, but even if Rebecca had been fairly sure of this to start with, it didn’t necessarily have to mean in uniform. The events and arrests that were described certainly seemed to fit the world of the beat officer, but they could equally well have been carried out by other units in the front line—the surveillance, narcotics, or licensing units, for instance. Typical police work, basically, although she still had an overwhelming sense that MayBey was anything but a typical police officer.

  But she also had something else to think about.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The letter had been lying on the hall mat when she got home.

  A long, white envelope, made of the slightly thicker sort of paper that she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  Her address was written in an elegant, old-fashioned handwriting so familiar that for a moment she felt her heart rate speed up. Even the slightly clipped turn of phrase was the same.

  But of course the letter wasn’t from her dad.

  Dear Rebecca,

  I hope you will forgive my impudence in writing, but it has come to my attention that you are in some difficulty as a result of an occurrence in the Darfur region of western Sudan.

  According to my sources you are currently suspended for the duration of the investigation, and this is why I am writing. The Swedish police are presumably obliged to work through official channels, which is not always the best way to reach the truth.

  Things are not always the way they seem, and sometimes it takes a different way of looking at them to bring clarity to matters which at first glance appear relatively straightforward.

  I have had an extensive network of contacts in Africa for many years, and it would be a great pleasure to me if you would permit me to investigate the matter on your behalf, naturally with the very greatest discretion. I shall write my email address at the bottom of this, and hope that you will give my proposal careful consideration.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tage Sammer

  So now it was official.

  He had actually been thinking how odd it was that no one seemed to know about Anna’s death.

  Unless they had all been pretending, of course.

  A few of the women, among them E
liza Poole and Rilke, appeared to have genuine tears in their eyes. Others were more composed. As for himself, he adopted a somber expression while trying to observe everyone else’s reactions.

  An accident, then—not murder. He wondered where that revised version of the story came from. Had the Dubai police set up yet another smoke screen, or had Philip simply decided that it was better for both morale and business if he stuck to a more easily digested version of Anna’s demise?

  For a few moments HP had the image of those black scavengers circling over their little feast back in his head. He looked down at the floor and swallowed a couple of times.

  When he looked up again he saw Monika Gregerson looking at him. The expression on her face seemed almost one of disgust, as though she too could see the images flickering through his mind.

  HP had to fight to suppress a shudder. He looked away and walked off quickly toward the staff room. A cup of top-quality instant coffee was bound to get his paranoid brain to change track.

  In the corridor he bumped into Dejan and Philip, who seemed to be in the middle of a discussion.

  “ . . . Anna’s shares?” HP managed to catch.

  “Monika will inherit them,” Philip replied tersely, then stopped and nodded quickly at HP as he passed them and reluctantly walked on.

  “I don’t see that that should be a problem,” he went on in a low voice just before HP was out of earshot.

  Okay, so news of the death and Monika Gregerson’s presence had both been fairly uncomfortable, but at least he had been able to provide Rilke with a shoulder to cry on. He had given her a hug and generously offered her his shoulder, which she had gratefully accepted, before everyone was sent home for the rest of the day.

  He found himself sniffing his jacket for any residual scent from her hair. Rilke was without doubt something special. Attractive, smart, and funny—fun to work with, and to hang out with. Shit, he’d have to watch it, and make sure he didn’t end up suffering from some sort of inverted Stockholm syndrome.