Now the chairman turned round, sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs, and propped his elbows on his knees. ‘And take a look at the cost of any emotional response as well,’ he said.
Schyman was unsure what the man had meant.
Wennergren’s gaze was fixed on him. ‘Compromising and dragging the process out, that costs money. A quick strategy, without any compromises, must be cheaper. I’d like to know by how much.’
‘You mean the difference?’ Schyman said. ‘A longer process that shields the staff versus . . .’
‘Once you’ve taken a decision, it’s best to implement it quickly and decisively. That’s the most humane option,’ Wennergren said.
Schyman stared at the chairman of the board. He wasn’t going to be the first to look away. ‘It might be a little tricky to convey the board’s motives,’ he said. ‘Explaining and justifying this dramatic . . . change, after the newspaper has made a profit of around a billion kronor over the past twelve years.’
Wennergren nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It’s important that we don’t stifle debate, that people feel free to contribute to the discussion. We’ll simply have to explain that we regard news and social journalism as a fundamental part of our vision of publishing. What’s new about this is that we’ll be where the public wants to find us, and that, of course, will cost a lot in terms of investment. The staff have to understand that.’
Schyman tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone dry. Mustn’t stifle debate. Let people contribute to the discussion. ‘So, in order to secure the publication of serious, considered social journalism, we have to take difficult decisions about our priorities,’ he said, hoping he didn’t sound too ironic.
The chairman of the board nodded excitedly. ‘Exactly! We’re taking this extremely difficult decision because we want to be in control of our own future. We’re seizing the initiative while we still have a chance to do so!’
Schyman made a real effort to sound reasonable. ‘Our competitors aren’t exactly resting on their laurels, as we know.’
Wennergren leaned forward. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I was over in California last month, and met the bosses at Google. They’re not worried about competition but about the consumers. Our behaviour patterns are changing so fast that even they can’t keep up. The world’s biggest search engine! They’re worried about disappearing!’
He stood up and looked out across the newsroom again, the very embodiment of a desire for change. ‘It’s hard to comprehend how much the media industry is going to change in the next few years, but one thing is certain: the Evening Post will be part of it. We’re going to be in the vanguard.’
Schyman couldn’t reply. Twenty years ago there were seven thousand journalists working on daily papers in Sweden. Now there were just two thousand left. In the last year alone almost forty local papers had closed, and more than four hundred journalists had lost their jobs. The shadow hanging over the media was spreading across the country at the same pace and in the same way as neo-Fascist movements. The only roles that were gaining strength within the media were information management and PR consultancy, which existed to steer and influence.
Wennergren gestured towards the newsroom. ‘Isn’t that the woman who looked after Valter when he did his work-placement here last summer?’
Schyman got up and went to stand next to him, his knees aching. ‘They got on pretty well,’ he said.
‘She made a big impression on Valter. He talks about her a lot.’
Bengtzon must have felt their eyes on her, because she turned towards them. Schyman instinctively took a step back and moved away. ‘How’s Valter getting on?’ he asked, as he sat down again.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Wennergren said. ‘He finished his journalism degree a few weeks ago.’
‘It’s a shame there are no jobs for journalists in Sweden,’ Schyman said.
The chairman of the board smiled confidently. ‘Valter’s going to carry on with his academic career, researching media relations and press ethics.’
Schyman nodded. ‘A talented lad.’
Albert Wennergren let out a contented sigh. ‘I was a little sceptical when he said he wanted to do his work-placement here at the Evening Post, but this was actually where he worked out what he wanted to do. He had a lot of discussions about press ethics and the foundations of the tabloid press with his supervisor. What was her name? Berntson?’
‘Bengtzon,’ Schyman said. ‘Annika.’
‘I read Valter’s thesis the other evening. I thought it was rather exciting. He makes a distinction between self-important media, like the morning papers and state-funded television, and tabloids like the Evening Post. The former are regarded as “smart” and “serious”, which is partly a consequence of what they choose to cover, and how they angle their coverage. They report on the labour market and politics, sport, wars and the economy, all traditional male domains, and they do so in an official-sounding way.’
Schyman knew all of this. Hadn’t he once given a speech on the subject? ‘All media cover wars and politics,’ he said.
‘But their approaches differ. The tabloids focus on the personal and private, on people’s feelings and experiences, which have traditionally been regarded as female territory. And we address the little person on the street, not the establishment. That’s why the tabloids are so derided – because there’s nothing as provocative as an outspoken woman on the lowest rungs of society . . . I’d like to talk to Annika Berntson,’ Albert Wennergren said. ‘Can you ask her to come in for a few minutes?’
Schyman experienced a sudden chill inside him: what if she shot her mouth off? What if Wennergren realized he, Schyman, had been indiscreet and had told Annika about the closure? He reached across his desk and pressed the intercom. ‘Annika, can you come into my office for a moment?’
‘What for?’
Why did she always have to question him?
He watched her walk towards his glass box and pull open the door without any enthusiasm.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I was just telling Anders here about Valter’s doctoral thesis,’ Albert Wennergren said. ‘He’s thinking of researching the approaches of various media towards modern journalism.’
‘Exciting,’ Annika Bengtzon said blankly, from the doorway.
‘He often refers to conversations he had with you, about methodology and journalism and ethics. You have strong opinions on those subjects. Can you expand upon what you said about gender identification in the media?’
She glanced around in confusion, as if she were looking for a hidden camera. ‘I can’t really remember,’ she said. ‘I say so many silly things.’
‘You told Valter that the Evening Post was a shrill working-class woman, yelling truths that no one wants to hear.’
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Come in and close the door,’ Wennergren added. ‘You know that Anders is going to be leaving – I’d like to hear your thoughts on his successor. What are the qualities we need?’
Her eyes darkened. ‘An evening paper is a warship,’ she said, ‘in a world that is always in a state of war. And if there’s no battle going on nearby, you go out and find one, or you attack someone and start one of your own. You need a captain who can steer the ship, who understands the scale of the task. Knowing how to sail and windsurf is no good.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Berit Hamrin, but apparently she won’t do. She’s too decent.’
‘Someone from television, perhaps? Or business?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Someone who’s already a name, you mean. If you want to drive the paper on to the rocks, then get one of those self-important idiots. Was there anything else?’
‘No,’ Schyman said quickly. ‘You can go.’
She closed the door and walked away without looking back.
Albert Wennergren watched her go. ‘I’d like, as far as possible, to be sorted out before we go
public with the board’s decision,’ he said. ‘An outline of the new organization, the cost of reducing staff numbers, the question of premises, technical investment and, ideally, a new editor-in-chief as well.’
Schyman was holding on to the arms of his chair tightly. ‘What about the printers and distributors? When are we going to tell them?’ It wasn’t just the journalists who would be losing their jobs. The printers they used had just invested in an entirely new packaging room, with all the equipment necessary for folding, trimming, stickering, inkjet address-printing and leaflet insertion. The Evening Post wasn’t the company’s only client, but it was by far the largest. Three hundred people worked there, but for how much longer?
‘We’ll hold back on that,’ Wennergren said. ‘Our contract with the printers expires this autumn, so we’ll be in a damn good negotiating position then.’ He reached for his briefcase. It was made of cloth, some sporting label. No traditional leather nonsense for him. ‘It goes without saying that it’s vitally important none of this leaks out,’ he added.
A guilty shiver ran down Schyman’s spine, and he saw Annika standing before him with the minutes of the board meeting in her hand. He stared at the chairman without blinking. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Berit put her bag on the desk and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Annika took a deep breath and switched her attention from Schyman’s glass box to her colleague. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘Rosa speaks out about her weight.’
‘She feels badly violated,’ Berit confirmed, sinking on to her chair.
It looked like the chairman of the board was getting ready to leave: he had picked up his briefcase and he was laughing.
‘I read in the preliminary edition that Rosa had spoken to her PR people and realized what a terrible ordeal she had been subjected to,’ Annika said.
‘She took the teasing as a general attack on her as a person,’ Berit said, getting her laptop out. ‘She wanted to broaden the discussion, show that she’s more than good enough as she is. No one has the right to tell her how she should look.’
‘You’d never guess she had PR advisers,’ Annika said.
Berit switched on her computer, idly polishing her glasses while she waited for the programs to load – how many times had Annika seen her do that? How many more before it was all over?
‘It’s quite interesting, this business of being good enough as you are,’ Berit said, inspecting her glasses. ‘What it actually means is that you never need to develop, that any sort of ambition or change is negative.’
Annika raised her eyebrows. She saw Albert Wennergren close the door of the editor-in-chief’s aquarium and head towards the exit. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked, following the man with her eyes.
Berit put her glasses on. ‘I kept thinking about it all the way through the interview with Rosa. How angry she was at the suggestion that she might have changed somehow since that reality show. She was who she was, and she had the right to be who she was.’
‘Hasn’t she, then?’
Wennergren disappeared round the office manager’s cubbyhole. In the glass box, Schyman was sitting motionless behind his desk, staring into space. The two men must have been discussing the details of the closure, and no one around her had any idea of what was coming. The catastrophe was approaching with full force, but here on the shop-floor everyone was still sitting at their desks, getting on with all manner of tasks. She turned to Berit and realized she hadn’t been listening to her.
‘Rosa,’ Annika said. ‘She doesn’t need to change anything about herself because she’s perfect.’
‘It was interesting listening to her,’ Berit said. ‘Her whole attitude is anchored in identity politics instead of being progressive, just like the Sweden Democrats: everything new and unknown is bad and must be rejected. She has the right to demand respect in spite of her pitiful vocabulary, wasted education and stale opinions.’ Berit took two apples out of her bag, passed one to Annika and took a bite out of the other.
‘And that’s a problem because?’ Annika said.
Berit chewed and swallowed. ‘In the long run, identity politics will become an ideology that produces a new underclass. It means we can never become anything other than what we are born into. Imagine how the workers’ movement at the turn of the last century would have sounded if they’d acted like that. “Never mind education, carry on getting drunk! That’s your identity!” ’
The apple seemed to expand in Annika’s mouth. Who was she? Where could she work, if not here? Was she needed anywhere, except on the ethical fringes of journalism? ‘What’s happening with the Timberman today?’ she asked, pulling her laptop towards her.
‘Technical witnesses,’ Berit said. ‘The mobile operator and the National Forensics Lab, then some neighbour, nothing exciting. What are you up to?’
Annika slumped and pushed her laptop away. What was the point? Should she pack up and go home, or stay and let the tidal wave hit her along with everyone else? ‘Nina Hoffman’s managed to get me the whole preliminary investigation into Josefin’s murder, off the record, so I’m going to go through it this evening. I’ve tracked down all the witnesses: one’s dead, four still live in Stockholm, and the most interesting one, Robin Bertelsson, has moved to Copenhagen. He works for Doomsday, one of those overhyped IT companies that doesn’t have any phone lines, just an anonymous email address.’ Annika looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning, a Tuesday at the start of June, the last week, the last few days. ‘The prosecutor who was in charge of the case has retired. I’ve arranged to see him at his home in Flen.’ She tossed the apple core into the paper-recycling box and walked towards the office manager’s desk.
The tarmac on the motorway was steaming as Annika drove south in one of the paper’s cars. The traffic was as slow and stop-start as always, which she found oddly reassuring. She was keeping an eye on her mobile, which lay silent on the passenger seat beside her. The catastrophe still hadn’t broken. There were no messages, from her sister or anyone else.
There was a sort of loneliness in leaving behind everything familiar. She had moved away from Hälleforsnäs, but Birgitta had stayed, at least until she moved to Malmö. Why? And why choose to disappear now? Unless she hadn’t gone of her own free will?
The turning for Skärholmen appeared ahead, one of the vast concrete housing projects from the 1960s, with a huge shopping centre that she had been to before. She pulled off the motorway and parked in a multi-storey car park the size of a small town. When she switched on the car alarm, the sound echoed off the concrete pillars.
The mall was air-conditioned, and all the discount brands in the northern hemisphere were gathered in one place. She felt an intense sense of déjà vu: all of these shopping centres blurred into a single amorphous mass. She had been here with Valter Wennergren, the chairman’s son, when she had been supervising him on his work-placement. They had interviewed a man who sold a car to Viola Söderland. He’d had a flower stall, hadn’t he? Or was it vegetables? She cruised past the clothes shops and electronics stores with growing lethargy. People streamed past her, their voices scraping the inside of her head.
She was about to give up when she found what she was looking for: a windowless shop selling phones connected to her old mobile network. She took a numbered ticket from the machine, then stood and read about their various phones and contracts while she waited for her turn. The handsets were ridiculously cheap, almost free, but in return you had to sign up to never-ending contracts for the privilege of making calls. She had fallen for it, and was still paying for a number she hadn’t used for at least six months.
There was only one customer ahead of her, a man who looked Middle Eastern. He was holding a little girl’s hand, and spoke Arabic to the shop assistant. The child smiled at Annika and waved. She waved back.
‘I’ve got a question,’ Annika said, when it was her turn.
‘I hope I’ll be able to answer it,’ said the young man behind the counter, as he crumpled
her ticket and tossed it into the bin in an elegant arc.
‘My phone’s broken,’ she said, putting her old mobile on the counter. ‘It won’t charge any more. Is it because of the battery or the charger?’
The young man picked it up and inspected it, then disappeared behind a curtain and came back just five seconds later. With a practised hand he removed the cover, took the battery out and inserted a new one. The screen lit up: Searching for signal.
‘There,’ he said. ‘It was the battery. The new one will last until you get home. Then you must charge it for sixteen hours.’
‘Is it still covered by the guarantee?’ she asked.
‘Are you joking?’ the guy said.
She bought a new charger as well, just in case, thanked him and went back to the car. The sounds of people shopping bounced off the glass and chrome and hit her eardrums, jagged shards of light reflecting off the walls.
There was a buzzing sound from inside her bag, a sound she hadn’t heard for a long time: the screen of her old mobile was glowing somewhere towards the bottom. She stopped at a café and took it out. The phone had been out of use for six months. Who was still using her old number?
Two new messages.
Her pulse-rate went up.
They were both from Birgitta.
The first had been sent on 25 May, just over a week ago, last Monday. She clicked to open the text. Annika, please get in touch, you’ve got to help me! Birgitta (sent 16.25) If her sister really wanted to get hold of her, why hadn’t she mentioned what it was about?
Sent at 16.25. Wouldn’t she have been at work then? Or did she work shifts?
The second had been sent on 31 May, Sunday. The text was very short, and had been sent at 04.22: Annika, help me!
Thomas pressed his pass card against the reader, mid-stride, then greeted the guard with a friendly nod. He received no response, which sent a little shiver of satisfaction through him: he was recognized as a regular.
The Final Word Page 7
