The Final Word

by Liza Marklund

  ‘The ones who gave the killer his alibi. Did you want anything in particular?’

  The editor-in-chief scratched his beard. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing at the chair on the other side of the desk.

  Without knowing why, she felt suddenly unsettled. Something in his tone, perhaps, or the greyness of his skin. The chair wobbled as she sat.

  ‘Have you got much left to do on the stripper’s murder?’

  ‘The stripper’s name was Josefin. She dreamed of becoming a reporter, and she liked cats. Yes, I’ve got a bit to do – I’ve only just started. Why?’

  ‘What do you think are the chances of one of these cases being solved? Or getting to trial?’

  ‘Are we in a hurry?’

  Schyman sat motionless, his arms resting on the desk.

  ‘Has your successor been appointed?’ she asked. ‘Is it going to be that bloke from the radio?’

  Schyman breathed out, making a sort of bottomless sigh, then pushed his chair back and hit the bookcase. ‘It’s not going to be him. Why? Have you got any suggestions?’

  ‘I have, actually,’ she said. ‘Berit.’

  He rubbed his forehead. ‘I see. Well, I already knew that.’

  ‘I’m telling you again, because I’m right.’

  ‘Justify it.’

  ‘She’s easily the best reporter on the Evening Post, with the widest range of coverage. She can do everything, and has usually already done it. She never gets stressed, she’s got excellent judgement, and she’ll be loyal to this paper until the day she dies.’

  Schyman blinked. ‘So you’re saying she’s got the experience, knowledge, loyalty, ability, calmness and judgement?’

  ‘It’s actually pretty disgraceful that she hasn’t already been asked.’

  ‘Let me tell you why,’ the editor-in-chief said.

  ‘This I want to hear.’

  ‘Berit doesn’t make mistakes. She’s never been reported to the press ombudsman, not once. She always writes correctly, belt and braces, everything careful and considered.’

  ‘And when did that become a handicap?’

  ‘She doesn’t take any risks.’

  Annika folded her arms. ‘You mean she’s not courageous enough?’

  ‘A newspaper like the Evening Post doesn’t need a captain, to use one of your favourite metaphors, who never takes risks. The very essence of this job is precisely that, taking risks, creating disorder, then keeping things balanced when the storm breaks.’

  ‘So why the rush with Josefin?’

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  Annika looked at him without saying anything. He had been looking tired for a while, but the set of his mouth was different today.

  ‘This isn’t official yet,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. Her unease was growing.

  He handed her a printout, the minutes of a committee meeting the previous week. ‘Paragraph four,’ he said.

  She read it three times. ‘In consideration of the development of the industry, it was agreed to discontinue the print edition of the Evening Post.’

  Discontinue. Print edition.

  ‘The print edition,’ she said. ‘They’re closing it down.’ Her voice was a little hoarse.

  He nodded.

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  She sat completely motionless on the chair, paralysed.

  ‘I’ve been asked to implement the closure before I leave,’ Schyman said.

  She cast an involuntary glance at the newsroom, at the people working and concentrating on the other side of the glass, unaware of the drop that was opening up right in front of them.

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘what’s going to happen to everyone who . . .?’

  ‘We can’t be selective about it,’ Schyman said. ‘All the reporters’ posts will go.’

  She stared at him, open-mouthed. The extent of this was slowly sinking into her head. All the reporters’ posts will go. That included her, Berit, Sjölander and everyone else. Their readers would no longer be able to buy the paper and sit down to do the crossword at the coffee-table. It was a whole culture that was disappearing, a whole way of life.

  ‘But I thought the print edition was making a profit!’

  ‘We’ve kept afloat up to now with sponsored supplements and the things we’ve been giving away, books and music and DVDs, but digitalization is taking over in those areas too, Netflix and Spotify and Bokus. This is the only logical conclusion.’

  ‘You can’t mean that.’

  ‘Everyone else will be forced to do the same, sooner or later. We can gain the upper hand if we take the initiative.’

  ‘And you’re going to do it? Wield the axe?’

  ‘There will still be jobs for a few key members of staff,’ he said. ‘We’ll be expanding our digital platform. The journalism won’t just disappear simply because we’re no longer using newsprint to distribute it. But I’d like to see this story about the strip— about Josefin in printed form.’

  Oh, he would, would he? ‘How long have I got?’ She couldn’t hide her sarcasm.

  ‘The distribution contracts need to be renegotiated, all the agreements with the printers, it’s going to take a while . . .’

  Her mouth was dry, but she had to ask. ‘And then what? What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘Naturally there’ll be a place for you in the new organization. You know I want you on the newsdesk.’

  ‘To spend my days dreaming up imaginary newspapers?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  Tears were pricking her eyes, and she got to her feet. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘I’d rather stack shelves in a supermarket.’

  He sighed. ‘Don’t say anything to the others,’ he said. ‘We’re not going public until early next week.’

  She nodded and walked out of the glass box, closing the door behind her.

  The Underground took her to Södermalm, the people around her jolting into her as they all swayed and rocked. Annika was trying not to cry. Obviously Schyman was right: the Evening Post would be the first in a long series of newspapers that would stop publishing a print edition. She looked around the carriage. A few older men were holding newspapers, but not many. The change had already happened.

  She turned towards the window and caught sight of her own hollow-eyed reflection.

  What would a world without newspapers be like? The streets would seem different: the bright yellow fly-sheets would disappear from outside kiosks and shops, but they would be replaced by other forms of advertising. On buses and trains people would spend even more time staring at their phones and the free papers would no longer blow about on the platforms.

  How would it feel to live and work in that world?

  According to a recent Norwegian study, you don’t remember the things you read digitally as clearly as you would if you’d read them on paper. Fifty people had read the same story by a British crime writer, half in printed form, half as an e-book, and the people who had read the e-book had had much more trouble remembering the storyline than those who had read it on paper. The researchers weren’t sure why: something to do with the weight of the paper, the act of turning the pages, the sense of forward momentum? What did it mean for her as a journalist? Would she have to simplify things even more for her readers? Make the world even more black and white?

  Maybe this was her punishment, this and the panic attacks, for how she had behaved, everything she had done badly, everyone she had let down . . . Immediately she was ashamed of the thought – how could a major change in journalism have anything to do with her shortcomings? The panic attacks were founded in her personality: why shouldn’t she suffer them, given the way she had behaved?

  The train slowed, and she clung to a handrail to stop herself falling on to a woman with a pushchair.

  A few moments later, she climbed up into the light again at Medborgarplatsen station. The yellow fly-sheets were still shrieking outside the newsagent’s. Södermalm had a different rhythm from Kungsholm
en, a different texture. She still felt humbled at being there – she couldn’t quite believe it. She was less judgemental there, more patient, and there were no ghosts. She even felt benevolent towards the men in bright yellow helmets who had cordoned off the whole of Götgatan and were busy ripping up the tarmac, making an infernal racket.

  Anyway, who was she to judge? She had betrayed her own husband when he was at his most vulnerable, tormented and mutilated, and embarked on a relationship with his boss. Why should she be shown any consideration?

  The screen of her phone lit up inside her bag: the clamour of the roadworks drowned the sound but she saw it was ringing. She wiped her eyes, pressed the phone hard against one ear, stuck her finger into the other and hurried away from the noise.

  ‘Hello, Annika,’ a male voice said. ‘It’s Steven.’

  ‘Hi, Steven.’ She crossed the street, her bag thumping against her hip, stopped outside McDonald’s and let it fall to the ground.

  In spite of his Anglo-Saxon name, Steven had been born and raised in Malmköping, the neighbouring town to Hälleforsnäs. He was five years older than Birgitta, and Annika had never met him until Birgitta and he had tumbled into her flat on Kungsholmen late one night while Thomas was still with the kidnappers.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Birgitta?’ he asked.

  People streamed past her along Folkungagatan.

  ‘No. I spoke to Barbro earlier. I haven’t heard anything since then. What’s actually happened?’ She tried to make her voice sound cheerful, keep the darkness at a distance.

  ‘Birgitta didn’t come home from work yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘So Mum said. She didn’t say anything before she left? You haven’t heard from her?’

  ‘Not since . . . no.’

  He fell silent. A gang of teenage girls with blue hair, their hands full of hamburgers, pushed past her on the pavement. One dropped a cup of Coca-Cola on Annika’s shoes. She turned her back on them. ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘I wondered if she’d said anything to you.’

  Annika stared at the wall. ‘Steven,’ she said, ‘why would she have done that? Birgitta and I have practically no contact with each other.’

  ‘You didn’t even come to our wedding.’

  That old story. ‘I thought you were going to move to Oslo,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that . . . Well, we applied for jobs there, but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He didn’t reply, and she stared at the screen: no, the call hadn’t been cut off. The number 71 bus rumbled past on its way to Danvikstull. She closed her eyes.

  Steven cleared his throat. ‘There’s something about this that doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. Diny keeps asking for her. What do I say?’

  All of sudden Annika felt drained. ‘Steven, why did she leave? Did you have a fight?’

  ‘No, not exactly . . .’

  Not exactly.

  ‘Did you . . . did you hit her?’

  ‘Never.’

  The answer was quick, clear. Too quick?

  ‘If you manage to get hold of her, please, let me know,’ he said.

  Annika brushed the hair from her face. Why would Birgitta contact her, and not Steven? ‘I don’t think I’ve got her number. I’ve got a new phone and I couldn’t transfer my old address book . . . By the way, how did you get my number?’

  ‘From Barbro.’

  Of course.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand. New contact received.

  ‘Promise you’ll be in touch,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  She clicked to end the call, her heart thudding. She took several deep breaths before dropping her phone into her bag and hoisting it on to her shoulder.

  She walked slowly towards Södermannagatan. She and Birgitta had nothing in common any more, except their childhood.

  She went into the Co-op on Nytorgsgatan and bought some mince, cream, onions, and new potatoes from Belgium: Kalle had requested beef patties for dinner.

  There was a small queue at the checkout, a line of urban middle-class people on their way home from work, just like her, wearing something a bit vintage, the odd expensive accessory, something from H&M. A young woman, who hadn’t been born in Sweden and who couldn’t afford to live on Södermalm, was sitting behind the counter, doing the job that Birgitta had chosen to do. It was no surprise that Birgitta had decided to work as a cashier because she loved shops. She could spend hours shopping, for food, clothes or skincare products, it didn’t matter, as long as she could lose herself in products and labels. As a child, she had often spent her pocket money on a pretty jar of jam or rose-scented soap.

  Annika used her Co-op member’s card to pay, and noted that the woman behind the till had artistically designed acrylic nails, the sort Birgitta usually wore.

  The meal with the children went well, even though Jimmy was working late. They sat round the table in the dining room and talked through the day, just as they always had. Serena had finally stopped her seemingly interminable testing and questioning, and the sense of liberation Annika felt was greater than she cared to admit. Now her stepdaughter described in great detail something they had discussed in her craft lesson. She was good at sewing and handicrafts, and very interested in techniques and materials. Ellen chattered on about a YouTube video she had watched, with some Norwegians singing a song about a fox. Jacob was quiet, but ate a lot. Kalle wouldn’t drink the milk she had poured for him. He continued to refuse it, even after Annika had explained that ‘best before’ did not mean ‘poisonous after’.

  Once they had helped clear up after the meal, the children disappeared into their rooms to play with various electronic gadgets. Annika sat down at the kitchen table, the dishwasher humming in the background, and dialled Birgitta’s number. She put her hand over her eyes as she waited for the call to be connected, then listened to the hissing silence. She steeled herself to be friendly and polite to her sister, but found herself listening to her voicemail message instead: Hi, this is Birgitta, I’m afraid I can’t take your call, but if you leave me a message after the tone, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Bye!

  The bleep that followed was long and piercing. Oddly Annika felt rather let down, and hesitated for a moment before she spoke. ‘Yes, er, hi,’ she said, into the silence. ‘It’s Annika. I’ve heard you didn’t go home after work yesterday, and, well, we’re wondering where you are. Get in touch, okay? Bye for now.’

  She clicked to end the call, relieved to have passed responsibility for any further communication to her sister. At that moment a minor tussle broke out along the corridor leading to the children’s rooms. ‘Time to brush your teeth!’ she called.

  The noise got louder, and there was shouting and crying. She made her way to the boys’ room, where a catastrophe had evidently occurred. Jacob had lost his mobile phone. He didn’t think anyone had taken it, just couldn’t remember where he’d put it or when he’d last seen it.

  Together they turned the flat upside down, to no avail. But at the bottom of an old removal box she found her own old one. It wasn’t a smartphone, but it would be usable with a new battery. She explained that you couldn’t expect to get a replacement smartphone straight away if you lost yours.

  Through the careful use of gestures, words, hugs and a bit of rough and tumble, along with reference to the general rules, she got the situation under control, succeeded in uniting sworn enemies against a common foe (her) and, with some appreciative noises about YouTube videos of songs about foxes and a short collective reading from one of C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books, she brought peace and harmony to the children’s department.

  Then she went and sat on the sofa in the living room and watched the evening news, which included a debate about internet privacy and who should take responsibility for it. One of the participants was a representative of Feminist Initiative, who thought everyone should be allowed to be anonymous on the internet at all times. Her adversary
was a representative of the music industry, who reckoned that people sharing files ought to be traced and given the same punishment as if they had stolen a CD from a record store. Annika agreed with each of them while they were talking, which told her that she was very tired but also that they were probably both right, albeit in different ways.

  That was what Jimmy was doing this evening. There was a meeting of the parliamentary committee that was looking into the issue, the inquiry that Thomas was working on. She couldn’t help wondering how on earth that could happen. Thomas and Jimmy were far enough apart within the ministry that they didn’t bump into each other very often, but in this instance they couldn’t avoid one another.

  She dozed off on the sofa and woke up to find Jimmy stroking her hair. Overjoyed, she wrapped her arms round his neck, breathing in his scent. ‘How did it go?’

  Jimmy pulled her upright, then sank down beside her on the sofa. She ended up on his lap, his breath in her ear. ‘Semi-okay,’ he said.

  She looked at him over her shoulder.

  ‘I haven’t read Thomas’s report properly,’ he said, in response to her quizzical expression. ‘There are details I missed. If his proposals go through, it would be impossible for the police and prosecutors to track down IP-addresses on the internet.’ He fell silent.

  ‘I saw a discussion about it on the news,’ Annika said. ‘I agreed with both sides.’

  Jimmy sighed. ‘This sort of stuff isn’t easy,’ he said, his stubble catching in her hair. ‘Even the members of the parliamentary committee are having trouble getting to grips with it. Several of them think that freedom of expression means being able to say whatever you like anonymously online. And I wasn’t well enough prepared. I should have kept myself better informed of how the work was going . . .’

  She turned her head. ‘What’s Thomas done?’ she asked.

  He kissed her hair. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with him about it tomorrow. How did you get on with the psychologist?’

  She sat up. ‘I don’t really know. She asked me a bit about my childhood, and how it felt to talk about it . . .’

  ‘So how did it feel?’

  ‘Unpleasant.’ She looked across the room with half-closed eyes. ‘Why is it so important for people to have the right to spew out hatred without anyone knowing who they are?’