As she was lugging the groceries upstairs she could hear the phone ringing, so she dropped her bags, breaking the eggs, and tried to unlock the door though her hands were shaking badly.
‘All right if I drop by?’
Annika sat down on the floor, resting her head in one hand, her cheeks burning and quivering with disappointment.
‘Of course it’s all right,’ she told Anne Snapphane.
‘You sound pretty blue – is something wrong?’
She tried to laugh.
‘I thought it was Thomas.’
‘Sorry,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll bring some chocolate pastries.’
Thomas hadn’t called once the whole weekend. She didn’t even know when he planned on coming home. A sense of failure reverberated throughout her system and her entire being howled out at the breakdown in communications between them. Her longing for her children was like a pain in her gut.
Annika got up and put the groceries in the fridge, her body as sore as if she’d been through a tough workout. Acting like a sleepwalker she made coffee. The image of Bosse, the reporter from the competition, suddenly flashed on her retina. She recalled his unselfish kindness.
The doorbell pierced a hole in the pleasant sensation.
Anne Snapphane handed Annika the bag from the bakery and sank down on her couch, limp and shaky.
‘I feel like I have a hangover even though I haven’t had a drop. This is truly shitty.’
Annika poured coffee into the mugs and set out a carton of milk.
‘We had this meeting at work,’ Anne said as she reached for the milk. ‘This business has really brought out the worst in us.’
The two young women sat next to each other on the couch, both holding a mug of coffee, and felt the liquid’s warmth.
‘So it was rough?’ Annika said and took a sip.
Anne made a loud swallowing sound.
‘Mariana has always been a bit of a Jesus freak, but before today I never realized what a fucking fundamentalist she is. It’s scary. Highlander has the sensitivity and intelligence of a tank, Follin is nuts, and Karin hides behind a fussy mothering attitude.’
‘Sebastian Follin came to the office today,’ Annika said. ‘Right before I left for the day. I can’t quite figure out what he wanted.’
Anne snorted.
‘Try jockeying for position,’ she said. ‘He wants the world to know that Michelle lives on through him.’
Annika stirred her coffee and looked out the window. The grey daylight leeched all the colour from the surroundings.
‘One of you guys might have done it,’ she said.
Anne Snapphane drew a deep breath, a sigh that verged on a sob.
‘Why do people kill? To be able to go on?’
Annika let her spoon sink down into the mug of coffee.
‘Power,’ she said. ‘People kill for the sake of power, in one way or another. Power over another person, over a family, to obtain the power that money or political influence will provide … Power is the all-time number one motive for murder.’
‘Envy,’ Anne said. ‘Begrudging someone something. Feelings of injustice. Cain and Abel.’
‘Those things are also a kind of power play,’ Annika said, her eyes fixed on the greyness. ‘If I can’t have it, you can’t. Taking a person’s life is the ultimate show of power. End of story.’
‘That’s all, folks,’ Anne said. ‘No more Michelle Carlsson on TV.’
‘As I was saying before, Sebastian Follin came to see me at work,’ Annika said as she tried to fish out her spoon again. ‘I asked him who shot Michelle, and he said it was someone who got fed up. Who could that be?’
Anne shrugged.
‘Everyone, I guess.’
‘Did you know that they arrested the neo-Nazi girl?’
‘When was that?’
‘This morning. But she didn’t do it.’
‘I don’t think so either,’ Anne said.
They sat in silence for a while. Annika felt the coffee spreading warmth and tranquillity to her wounded senses.
‘Are you going to the memorial service on Tuesday?’ she asked as she put up her feet on the coffee table and snuggled back against the pillows.
Anne Snapphane shook her head, took a long, slow sip of coffee and rested her mug in her hand.
‘We’ll be getting access to the impounded tapes tonight and I’ve got to start going through the damned things and add time codes. It’s extremely tedious work and it’ll take days.’
Annika closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.
‘Thomas hasn’t called since Friday.’
Anne bit into an almond-and-chocolate confection.
‘Would you have wanted him to?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘But you’ve been working around the clock. Would you have had the time to chat?’
‘I’d have made time. I don’t even know when he’ll be coming home.’
‘That, on the other hand, is pretty rotten,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Is he leaving you in limbo?’
Annika sighed and set her mug down on the floor.
‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I brought it upon myself. I’ve never seen him as angry as he was last Friday.’
Wide-eyed and sceptical, Anne stopped chewing.
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘About what?’
Annika tried to back away and pushed herself further into the cushions.
‘It’s not your fault that Thomas gets angry. How could it be? He has the right to get angry, but how does that make you the guilty party?’
Annika was thunderstruck, feeling as if she had her back to the wall.
‘I was the one who made him upset.’
‘Annika,’ Anne Snapphane said gravely and leaned towards her. ‘Stop doing this, you’re creeping me out. Thomas’s emotional life is not your responsibility. What is this, the S&M world cup? The World Guilt Championship?’
The air in the room ran out. Annika gasped for breath.
‘We’re responsible for each other,’ she countered.
‘I really don’t understand why you cater to Thomas so much, you’re certainly not a wimp in other situations. Have you always acted like this around men?’
Annika was breathing heavily as she pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.
‘And now you’re assuming the foetal position too,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Have a cookie so you don’t waste away.’
She handed her friend a cookie, and Annika took it mechanically, popping it in her mouth and chewing without tasting it.
‘What do you mean by “catering”?’ she said, crumbs of baked almond paste escaping from her mouth.
‘Thomas can stand living with you, so you have to forfeit your life. You turn into a shadow, running around and slaving away, taking care of everything. You’ve been on maternity leave for a few years now, but now that you’re back on the job it just won’t work.’
‘Come on.’ Annika could barely conjure up the strength to protest. ‘That’s not how it is, is it?’
Anne flung her arms out and said:
‘You’re a prize, don’t you realize that? He should be so damn grateful that he was lucky enough to catch you. You deserve flowers every single day, and kisses and shouts of joy, and lots of good sex for dessert …’
Annika felt laughter bubble up inside. The warmth made her body relax and her feet drop to the floor once more.
‘Well, if you say so …’
‘By the way, do you know what Schyman’s up to?’
Anne Snapphane leaned back and munched on her second cookie. Annika felt her muscles tense again.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘He called Mehmed and asked how long they’ll be doing the news show this summer.’
The pieces of information clicked into place like a jackpot on a slot machine. Annika could hear the ka-ching. She smiled. The wily old bastard …
So that’s w
hat he had up his sleeve.
Anders Schyman could sense the tenseness of the newsroom, the electricity in the air. It was much too quiet; too many men were gathered around Spike. He studied them out of the corner of his eye as he headed for his fish tank, noticing that Carl Wennergren had ignored his request to take his vacation earlier. Schyman took off his jacket and shook it out a bit before hanging it up. It had started to rain again. He had taken a walk along the shore of Lake Mälaren. It wasn’t possible to take the time to travel to his home by the sea; come summer the roads leading to the seashore were jammed every single weekend, and traffic moved as slowly as a rolling protest action by French farmers.
He took off his soaking wet shoes and realized that he didn’t have another pair here at the office. In one of the filing cabinets he located a pair of dry socks, which was better than nothing.
Then Schyman studied the group at the desk more closely, noticing the excited and fascinated expressions on the men’s faces. Only Torstensson stayed aloof, sitting at the foreign correspondent’s desk, wearily leafing through a foreign paper.
Schyman sighed, opened the door and walked over to the group. The men looked at him, the identical expression of uncertainty flashing briefly on all their faces.
‘Wennergren has a new job,’ Spike said, grinning. ‘He’s a porno photographer now. All he has to do is learn to focus the camera.’
The men snickered, their eyes slightly glazed.
‘Turn that screen in my direction,’ Schyman said.
The image on the computer was underexposed and grainy, but you could clearly see what was taking place: a man and a woman having sex on a dining-room table.
‘Michelle Carlsson and John Essex,’ Spike said. ‘Wennergren shot these the night she was murdered.’
The excitement tingeing his voice had a duality: fascination with this outpost of the journalism of the macabre mixed with a dose of prurient sexuality.
The silence was palpable. All eyes were on Anders Schyman. Even Torstensson stopped leafing through his paper, even though he didn’t look up. The managing editor tried to sort out his impressions and emotions and quickly assessed just how angry he would be.
‘What is this picture doing in the paper’s computer?’ he asked, keeping his voice under control.
‘It’s not on the computer,’ Spike said. ‘Wennergren has the pictures on a disk.’
‘Eject the disk,’ Schyman said. ‘And give it to me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Wennergren said. ‘It’s my property.’
The managing editor looked at the reporter: a carefree smile, thick blond hair and broad shoulders – one of the boys, a role model. He could sense how the other editors sided with Spike and Wennergren. Without being able to explain it, he knew Torstensson did too.
‘Eject that disk,’ Anders Schyman said emphatically. ‘Before anyone decides to transfer those pictures to a server. We don’t want garbage like that in our system.’
The silence intensified.
‘Why not?’ Wennergren asked, seemingly playful but with an undercurrent of aggression. ‘We could post them on some hidden page of our lousy website, and then we could leak the address to a few choice hackers. For the first time in history, our site would have more visitors than our competitor’s gets and it would only take a few hours.’
Mouths twitched and shoulders shook. This was what they had found so amusing.
‘Would you like me to do it?’ Schyman asked coolly.
Spike sighed dramatically, removed the disk from the drive, and handed it to Carl Wennergren.
‘Then again, an issue like this should really be decided by the executive editor,’ Spike challenged.
Schyman stopped thinking and lunged.
‘That’s a load of bullshit,’ he roared and banged both hands on the news editor’s desk. ‘This isn’t some damn porno rag, and if you don’t know that you can leave at once.’
The agitated fluttering of Torstensson’s paper scratched the surface of the razor-sharp silence. Spike gaped and blinked a few times.
‘Hold your goddam horses,’ he said, removing his feet from his desk and turning away.
‘Wennergren,’ Schyman said. ‘My office.’
He waited until the reporter stood up. Then he forced himself to stride smoothly towards his office.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked as he closed the door behind Carl Wennergren.
‘I’m writing an article about Michelle Carlsson’s murder,’ Wennergren said in a somewhat less confident voice, one that held no trace of cockiness.
Anders Schyman stood in front of the young man and held Carl’s pale-eyed and evasive gaze with his own. The silence grew, and Carl Wennergren shifted his shoulders slightly.
‘What of it?’ he finally said. ‘I was there, wasn’t I? It’s a scoop. And I know a bunch of stuff that hasn’t been published yet.’
‘You are not going to write a single line,’ Schyman responded, unpleasantly aware of how tense he sounded. ‘As long as you are a special witness in a murder investigation, you aren’t going to cover the cause for this paper.’
‘I should be entitled to write about my own experiences. Barbara got to!’
A spark went off in Anders Schyman’s brain, igniting the volatile mass of thoughts that had expanded to dangerous proportions due to fatigue and stress.
‘Do you think this is some kind of goddamned kindergarten?’ he roared into the reporter’s face. ‘“Barbara got to …” Christ!’
He covered his eyes with his hands and turned away. He had lost control, lost some authority. Forcing himself to breathe calmly and think, he looked at the reporter again and noticed that the man’s nose and cheeks had gone pale.
‘Right now, Sjölander’s on a plane crossing the Atlantic,’ the managing editor said in a gravelly voice. ‘Tomorrow he will be able to interview you about your experience, as a witness, under the exact same conditions as the other witnesses. Naturally, the decision to be interviewed is yours. The resulting article is not under your jurisdiction. Have I made myself clear?’
Something had crumbled in Carl Wennergren’s gaze. His eyes had an expression that Anders Schyman had never seen before: an illusion had been shattered – Carl had gained a certain insight about life that had never entered his mind before.
‘What kind of interview?’ he managed to ask.
‘Our reporter tells all about the night of the murder at the castle,’ Schyman said, suddenly drained. He had to sit down.
‘That makes me sound like a real wuss,’ Carl Wennergren said.
‘Have you ever figured out how many articles you’ve written on a similar theme?’ Schyman asked.
The reporter stood by the door, started pulling the sliding doors open and paused.
Bristling with defiance and contempt, he turned to face Schyman.
‘Just for your information,’ he said, looking straight at the managing editor, ‘I saw Barbara by the bus right before three o’clock in the morning. She could very well have murdered Michelle. Would you like me to tell all about that as well?’
‘This paper’s computers are off limits to those pornographic pictures,’ Schyman said.
Carl Wennergren left the room, silently closing the sliding doors and then floating off towards the sea of people over by the news desk.
Anders Schyman held his wet socks in one hand and the scissors from his desk drawer in the other. Working methodically and keeping his hands out of sight, he cut the socks into thin ribbons.
Annika’s first thought when the children came in was that their features were so clear-cut. Their eyes were round: Kalle’s were glad to see her again, Ellen’s reflected a one-year-old’s sense of betrayal. Their bodies were so warm, so simultaneously hard and soft, and their scent was so distinctive. Sitting on the floor in the hall, she rocked them both with tears in her eyes.
‘Can you help me out with the stuff?’
Thomas’s voice was commanding and flat.
&
nbsp; Annika hurriedly let go of the children and went to the elevator to drag in backpacks, the beach bag, the stroller, sleeping bags and blankets.
‘Dinner’s ready – it might be a little cold, though,’ she said, closing the door and feeling overwhelmed by the situation: her little kids, clinging to her legs, the man who came home, home to her, the life they shared.
Dinner was a bit tense; the children were overtired and all wound up, and Thomas avoided meeting Annika’s gaze. By the time she had put the kids to bed, Thomas had parked himself on the couch to watch a movie on TV. She sat down next to him, close but still so very far away.
It wasn’t until they had gone to bed, and both of them were lying there staring up at the ceiling, that she could manage to talk to him.
‘How was it?’
He swallowed hard.
‘Well, they wondered why you hadn’t come along.’
‘How did your mother react?’
‘She’s not a narrow-minded person, you know,’ Thomas said. ‘She accepts Sverker, calls him her son-in-law, and that’s pretty impressive. People may gossip behind her back, but she holds her head high.’
Annika felt hot tears sting her eyes and swallowed to hold them back.
‘I know that,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you see how that makes things even worse? She’s not a snob or a bigot, she just doesn’t accept me. Do you know how much that hurts?’
Her tears spilled out, heavy and salty, and rolled down into her ears.
‘She’s disappointed, that’s all,’ Thomas said without looking at her. ‘Eleonor was the daughter she never had – they still call each other several times a week. But their relationship doesn’t have anything to do with you. Just let them do their thing.’
‘She feels sorry for you because you live with me,’ Annika said in a small voice as she stared at the ceiling.
Thomas snorted.
‘That’s bullshit. Her frame of reference is different, that’s all. A house is nicer than an apartment, being a chief financial officer for Social Services is better than doing research on welfare cases, and sure, being a banker is fancier than being a journalist. But let her have her opinions. After all, it’s a free country.’
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