‘I’m sorry, but I’m not the one who decided to break our agreement.’
‘No, but—’ Schyman said.
‘And I’m going to have a few conversations with some of the officers whom I know usually supply you with the more informal details concerning our investigations. That’s all over now. We’ve got other papers we can talk to. Good afternoon, sir.’
God, what a pretentious bastard!
Schyman put down the receiver and leaned back in his chair, holding the paper up in front of him. It wasn’t that bad, was it? He looked through the article again, with a more critical eye. Patrik had written about the find in the marsh the previous evening. ‘HEROES’ was the headline across pages six and seven. The picture desk had bought the rights to a photograph from the Katrineholm Courier in which the missing boy’s grandfather and some other men were standing gloomily at the scene. The subtitle picked up the speculation of the front page: Have They Found Alexander’s Grave?
At least they had managed to squeeze in a question mark at the end.
The article said that the old men had braved the terrible weather and carried on the search when everyone else had given up. They had known Alexander’s clothes and favourite teddy bear immediately. Now the search was focusing on that particular area of marshland; the whole of the Södermanland police force was involved and the army was going to be called in.
The description of the marsh was rather Gothic and dramatic, all about stagnant water and swarms of mosquitoes.
Surely that wasn’t worth getting too excited about.
He lowered the paper to his lap where it crumpled untidily.
Why draw a connection between a series of future articles and a possible case of overstepping the mark? Did the press officer have a hidden agenda?
He glanced through the glass wall into the newsroom. A few latecomers were on their way to the union meeting.
Once upon a time he had been active in the union. Seriously militant, if he remembered rightly. Hadn’t he actually been union representative on one of the local radio stations up north? In those days, before the commercial stations, journalists would spend years out in the bush. In the eighties, employment regulation had been incredibly strict: eleven months probation, then you were out on your ear. People used to end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no chance of ever getting to Stockholm and the national television channels. No permanent positions had come up since TV2 launched in 1968, providing work for an entire generation of agitators.
Those were the days. All appointments lasted a lifetime, and everyone knew who the Chancellor of Justice was. And no reporter was ever in the lap of the police.
Well, that was dubious even then, he thought, as he watched Berit Hamrin making her way to the meeting. If Berit was going, maybe they were going to discuss something important. What could it be?
Of course. They were going to choose a new union representative. He’d almost forgotten.
He got up, grabbed the newspaper, and went to sit opposite Spike. ‘Not going to the union meeting?’ he asked, putting his feet on the desk.
‘I’ve been expelled,’ the head of news said. ‘I forgot to pay my sub.’
‘That’s a bit mean of them,’ Schyman said.
‘Sixteen years in a row,’ Spike said. ‘I have to say I don’t blame them.’
‘What have we got on the boy for tomorrow?’ Schyman asked, pointing at that day’s front cover.
‘We’re trying to find a new picture of the kid, ideally wearing the pyjamas and hugging the teddy.’
‘How’s the search going?’
‘No luck so far. His relatives just snap at us and put the phone down.’
Schyman opened the paper again, looking at the picture of the marsh. Voices from the union meeting bounced between the desks towards him. They had got as far as approving the agenda.
He slumped deeper into his chair and tried to close his ears. ‘How did we find out what they discovered in the marsh?’ he asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Who leaked?’
‘Hell, no one. The old boys talked to the Katrineholm Courier last night. That’s where we got it. KC were running it on their website just after midnight.’
‘So we can thank the local press, new technology and the uselessness of the competition in that order,’ Schyman said. ‘When things like this come up, I want to be involved in the discussion. I’ve just had a conversation with the police press officer, and he wasn’t particularly happy.’
Spike looked up at the ceiling. ‘He’s a verbose bastard.’
Schyman turned the page. The union meeting was accepting the accounts. ‘He’s tearing up our agreement on Patrik’s series about “Costa Cocaine”. Either he really was as angry as he sounded, or he needed a reason to get us off the story.’
‘I always thought that was weird,’ Spike said. ‘I mean, why should we send people all over Europe just to write about how fucking great the Swedish police are?’
Over at the day-shift’s table the committee was being granted the authority to act on behalf of the members. It had two proposals for a new chair. They couldn’t decide so both names were being put to the membership. The first nomination was the political reporter, Sjölander, and the second was the newsroom secretary, Eva-Britt Qvist.
Really? Schyman thought, pricking his ears. I wonder why Sjölander is suddenly taking an interest in the union. The political reporter, a former head of crime reporting and former American correspondent, had none of the characteristics usually associated with union representatives. Sjölander was smart, ambitious and highly regarded – unlike most union reps after a short while. The ones who made the union into a career were usually whiny, untalented and work-shy.
Eva-Britt Qvist, on the other hand, more than met the criteria usually associated with local union reps. Schyman had managed to get her out of his hair by making her responsible for the office budget and attendance. She was at the top of the list of people he wanted to get rid of. It was hardly surprising she’d put herself forward, he thought. As union representative, she’d finally have a bit of power and influence.
‘Lindholm’s wife is being remanded this afternoon,’ Spike said. ‘If we’re lucky, we can get something from that.’
‘I doubt it,’ Schyman said. ‘The prosecutor will batten down the hatches, and refer to the confidentiality needed for the preliminary investigation.’
‘Yes, and the killer’s evidently completely mad,’ the head of news said.
Tore from Reception was talking: ‘There are plenty of us here who’d like to see a new sort of union rep. Someone who listens to us. This year it’s time for the whole orchestra, not just a soloist. It’s time we had a bit more influence.’
There was a murmur of agreement. A show of hands was asked for.
Why is Tore in the Journalists’ Association? Schyman wondered. Didn’t he used to work in graphics?
‘I make that twenty-seven votes for Sjölander,’ Tore said. ‘And twenty-eight for Eva-Britt Qvist. We have a new chair!’
Scattered applause.
Anders Schyman sighed. Now he would have to sit and discuss cutbacks with the person who used to open his post. ‘Did Patrik go down to Södermanland last night?’ he asked, nodding towards the article containing the evocative description of the marsh.
‘No,’ Spike said. ‘Why ever would you think that?’
‘Stagnant water and swarms of mosquitoes,’ Schyman said.
‘Everyone knows what a marsh is like. Have you seen this?’ Spike pointed at the screen. ‘The Foreign Ministry are hinting that Viktor Gabrielsson is about to be released.’
Viktor Gabrielsson? Who the hell was he, again?
‘Really?’ Schyman said. ‘How come?’
‘They’re getting close to a “diplomatic solution”. This is from the main news agency: “The Foreign Ministry in Stockholm has indicated that, after spending fifteen years in a New Jersey prison as an accessory to the murder of a po
lice officer in Long Island, Viktor Gabrielsson could soon be extradited to Sweden.”’
Ah, that one, the old police murder.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Schyman said.
Spike clicked on and read the next message. ‘The girl who won Big Brother is going to have an operation to remove her silicon tits,’ he announced. ‘She’s going to bury them symbolically in a Plexiglas coffin, then auction them on the Internet. The money’s going to kids in war-torn Rwanda.’
Anders Schyman stood up. ‘Check with the staff at Alexander’s nursery if we can go and look at the pictures on the walls,’ he said. ‘Nowadays they always have loads of photos of the kids that they pin up on notice-boards.’
The head of news looked up, eyebrows raised. ‘Where the fuck do you think we got the pictures of the kid in today’s paper?’ he said.
Anders Schyman went back to his office and closed the door behind him. He was about to sit down when there was a knock.
Annika Bengtzon was standing outside. She pulled the door open before he had time to wave her in. Her hair was all over the place and she had the terrier-like expression on her face that never boded well.
‘What?’ he said wearily.
‘I’ve found some really interesting stuff on David Lindholm. He was charged with beating people up twice because he was doing favours for the drugs Mafia. He beat up small-time gangsters who tried to con them out of money.’
Schyman made an effort to keep his expression neutral. ‘He was charged? When?’
‘Eighteen years ago. And twenty years ago.’
‘You say “charged”. Was he found guilty?’
‘No, and that’s really dodgy as well. He was let off both times.’
‘And you want to write about this?’
‘I think it paints a completely different picture of him.’
‘And the information comes from …?’
‘The preliminary investigations, and I’ve also met one of the men who was beaten up. He says he’s pleased David’s dead.’
He had to cover his eyes with his hands to summon some strength. ‘So you want me to publish a story saying that a murdered hero was actually a thug working for the drugs Mafia, and we’re basing this on the fact that he was found not guilty of charges of using excessive force? Twenty years ago?’
She bit her lip. ‘You’re twisting everything.’
‘Slandering the dead,’ he said. ‘That’s a serious offence. Editors-in-chief have gone to prison for that.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’ve already been hauled over the coals for our editorial decisions once today. I don’t want to hear any more about this. Go and find yourself somewhere to live.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Annika Bengtzon left the room.
He sat down in his chair and propped his head in his hands.
It can’t just be my imagination. This job has got a hell of a lot messier over the past few years.
The remand proceedings were announced in one of the high-security courtrooms and Nina stood up quickly, before everyone else. She still felt uncomfortable in her uniform, after all these years, and knew she should have got over it by now, but this situation was particularly exposed and unusual.
There were a lot of journalists in the hall outside the courtroom, reporters from press and radio, and at least two television crews. She could see them studying her, wondering what she was doing there.
Hyenas! Here to get their mouthful of flesh.
She shook away the thought and headed towards the courtroom.
Detective Inspector Q slid up alongside her and held the door open. ‘Go and sit right at the front,’ he said quietly.
She looked at him in bemusement.
‘We’re going to be on our own on the public benches,’ he said.
She did as she had been told. The judge’s seat was right in front of her, the prosecutor to the left and the defence to the right. Nina had been in this room many times before, a witness in a lot of remand proceedings.
But nothing like this one.
She glanced over at the door behind the defence bench. It led to a waiting room, which was linked directly to Kronoberg Prison via the Walk of Sighs. That way they could bring people held in custody straight into the high-security courtroom without having to steer them through the crowds outside.
You’re sitting behind there now. Do you understand what’s happening?
The room filled quickly – reporters with recording equipment, court artists with large pads. They rustled and jostled and chatted, their muttering sounding like a waterfall.
Nina leaned towards Detective Inspector Q. ‘Which public defence counsel has been assigned to her?’ she whispered.
‘Mats Lennström.’
Who?
‘Who’s he? What’s his track record?’
Before Q had time to answer, the door behind the judge’s platform opened and the chief judge and chief clerk took their places. A second later a dark-haired man in a suit came in from the waiting room, followed by a prison guard, who led Julia to her seat.
Nina leaned forward instinctively. God, what did she look like? Her hair was messy and unwashed, her prison uniform creased, as if she’d slept in it. Nina’s throat constricted. ‘Why didn’t she get a different lawyer?’ she said. ‘Can he really handle a case like this?’
Q gestured to her to keep quiet.
Prosecutor Angela Nilsson came in, sat down and adjusted her skirt beneath her thighs. She had changed her clothes: this outfit was blue-grey.
The presiding judge banged his gavel on the desk and complete silence fell.
Nina stared at Julia. She was seeing her face from an angle, and her eyes seemed shiny and empty. There was something innocent about her messy hair and the outsize collar of the prison shirt.
How thin you look. You’re probably not eating. I bet you think the food’s disgusting.
The judge cleared his throat and started to explain the formalities, remand proceedings and the parties summoned. Nina watched Julia.
‘This isn’t working,’ she whispered to Q.
‘If you can’t be quiet you’ll have to leave,’ he hissed back, and she closed her mouth.
Angela Nilsson began: ‘Mr Chairman, I propose that the court remand Julia Lindholm in custody on suspicion of having committed murder in Bondegatan in Stockholm on the third of June,’ she said, in a monotone. ‘In justification of this action, I note that the tariff for this crime is longer than two years’ imprisonment. I also refer to the two motivations for holding the suspect on remand, as documented in my proposal: the danger of collusion, and the danger of the suspect reoffending. I also propose that the court impose certain restrictions upon Julia Lindholm.’
Nina held her breath and waited for Julia’s reaction.
Nothing.
The presiding judge turned to the lawyer, Mats Lennström. ‘Mr Lennström, please go ahead and present the position of the accused.’
‘Thank you. We object to the prosecutor’s proposal of remand. There are no identifiable reasons to suspect …’ He lost his train of thought and leafed through his papers.
Nina groaned inwardly.
‘What is the position of the accused towards the matter of guilt?’ the judge asked.
The lawyer hesitated. ‘Mr Chairman, I would prefer that this matter be dealt with in a closed session,’ he said, glancing towards the public benches.
The presiding judge turned towards the prosecutor. Angela Nilsson shuffled slightly in her seat and glared at Lennström. ‘Considering the confidential nature of the preliminary investigation, the prosecution would also prefer a closed session.’
The judge turned to the public benches. ‘Then I must ask members of the public and representatives of the media to leave the courtroom,’ he said, and banged his gavel on the desk.
The next moment the room was filled with hubbub, and Nina kept her eyes firmly on Julia.
She didn’t seem to notice that people wer
e moving about.
When the doors closed, the silence was almost tangible.
‘So, about the question of guilt,’ the judge said.
The lawyer put his expensive ballpoint pen down on his documents and looked right at him. ‘The fact is that my client is too ill to offer any opinion on the question of guilt. It is simply not possible to conduct a conversation with her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was appointed to this case on Saturday. Since then I have tried to communicate with my client, but I don’t think she understands who I am. I have reason to believe that my client is in need of acute psychiatric care.’
The judge leafed through his papers. ‘I thought she had already received treatment,’ he said. ‘At Södermalm Hospital, just after she was apprehended?’
‘My client has a long history of psychiatric problems,’ the lawyer said. ‘She has been on sick leave from her position with the police for almost two years on grounds of stress. She spent some time in a psychiatric ward for depression. I have serious reason to believe that this treatment must be recommenced immediately.’
‘What has led you to that conclusion?’
Lennström clicked his pen. ‘My client refers repeatedly to another woman who was present in the apartment on the night in question,’ he said. ‘She calls this other woman “the evil one” or “the wicked one”, but she can’t name her.’
The presiding judge stared at Julia. ‘So you believe that she … might have more than one …?’
‘It is incompatible with the criminal justice system’s responsibility to provide care to allow an unwell individual to be remanded in custody, even in a medical facility.’
The judge turned to Angela Nilsson. ‘Does the prosecution share the opinion of the defence?’
The woman sighed theatrically. ‘This notion of hearing voices is starting to become far too popular.’
‘What do you mean?’ the judge said, raising his eyebrows.
‘Julia Lindholm has chosen not to co-operate with the investigation. I wouldn’t like to speculate upon her reasons.’
‘I see,’ the judge said. ‘On what grounds does the prosecution base its request that the accused be remanded in custody?’
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