Borderline (37 page)

Thomas had been staying in that hotel. He had eaten breakfast in the Traveller’s Restaurant, flirted with the British woman in the bar, she was sure. He had been on a bus tour of Nairobi, he’d told her, when he called the evening after the second day of the conference, but she doubted he would have seen either Kibera or Langata Women’s Maximum Security Prison. Thomas inhabited a world where getting red wine on your tie was a disaster. Women in red jeans and white tops were regarded in terms of cost and integration issues. In the USA Annika had seen injustice and exclusion on grounds of race and class; Thomas had seen individual freedom and economic opportunity. She knew perfectly well that neither of them was right, or perhaps that they were both right. But Thomas was in no doubt. A person who was strong and free and shouldered their responsibilities always managed okay. If he came back, would his worldview remain the same?

She opened her eyes. Several people had sat down on the gravel around the car. She raised the camera and filmed them eating bread they had brought with them, rocking children in their arms. A man and a woman were sitting on a tree stump a bit further away. She was wearing a lilac turban, he had a mobile in his hand. Annika zoomed in on the man through the camera. Was he one of them? Was he sending Halenius a text, specifying where the money was to be left?

The man with the loudspeaker started to sing.

Frida yanked her door open.

‘Put the camera down,’ she hissed. ‘This is a state institution. They’ll arrest us if they see you filming.’

Halenius opened his door and held up his mobile, his mouth a thin line. ‘It’s not here either,’ he said. ‘They’re sending us to Eastleigh.’

The sudden draught made her eyes water. Frida slammed the door and Annika closed her window. She felt like bursting into tears.

‘This time it’s probably right,’ Halenius said. ‘Eastleigh is known as Little Mogadishu. That’s where most of the Somalis live.’

Frida started the car.

The woman in the lilac turban had vanished.

The man with the mobile was still there. He didn’t look at them as they drove away.

* * *

‘Three million?
Three million!
’

Chairman of the board Herman Wennergren’s cheeks were flushed with anger.

‘The decision wasn’t only based upon sales figures,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘In this instance it was also about saving lives, taking humanitarian responsibility.’

‘But three million? Out of the newspaper’s profits? For that unstable individual?’

Herman Wennergren was (with good reason) no great supporter of Annika Bengtzon. Schyman wouldn’t have described her in that way. He was just grateful that his chairman hadn’t picked up the most controversial argument, that the
Evening Post
was sponsoring international terrorism.

‘She’s in Nairobi now to hand over the ransom,’ Schyman said. ‘It’s actually far more than three million, and she’s put up most of the total herself. I think this money will turn out to be a profitable investment.’

Herman Wennergren muttered something inaudible. ‘Have you rearranged everything down here again?’ he asked, sitting down on the visitor’s chair in Schyman’s glass box. He put his briefcase beside it, and draped his coat over the arm.

There hadn’t been any budget for rebuilding or renovating the newsroom for years, which the chairman was well aware of. ‘How do you mean?’ Schyman said, leaning back in his new chair.

‘Your office feels … smaller.’

‘It’s always been this size,’ Schyman said. There’s something seriously wrong with his sense of perspective, he thought. Wennergren was like a grown man returning to a place where he had played as a child and feeling that everything had shrunk. His way of thinking about all the companies he ran (four in total, plus a number of external committee responsibilities) was much the same, far more grandiose than the size of the companies warranted. In Wennergren’s world, any expenses were always bad. He had once said, admittedly after a committee dinner with plenty of vintage wine, that ‘The
Evening Post
would have been a well-run little business, if it weren’t for its editors.’

The chairman of the board cleared his throat. ‘Your resignation didn’t exactly come as a surprise,’ he said. ‘We realized some time ago that you were on your way out of here.’

Anders Schyman studied him and concentrated on maintaining a strictly neutral expression. The statement surprised him immensely. The board hadn’t had any idea that he was about to leave the paper: he hadn’t breathed a word of it. On the contrary, there had been whispers from various board members about giving him greater responsibility within the empire of the family that owned the paper, hints that he had humbly acknowledged and graciously pretended to appreciate. ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said. ‘It ought to make the process of finding my successor easier.’

Wennergren raised an eyebrow.

‘If you already have a list, I mean,’ Schyman said, touching the compress taped to the back of his head.

‘We were thinking you might be able to help us with that,’ Wennergren said. ‘One last task before you disappear.’

Anders Schyman folded his hands on his desk, making sure they weren’t shaking. He hadn’t been expecting this. Not this utter disregard for all the work he had put in over the years, or the man’s failure to make any attempt to persuade him to stay. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Herman Wennergren ran a hand over his bald head. ‘You’re good at this sort of thing,’ he said, with a degree of embarrassment. ‘Your position here at the paper has given you an extensive network of contacts and a degree of insight into the industry.’

Really? Schyman thought. And I’d thought my position was the result of my own efforts and hard work. ‘So what criteria should I be looking for in my successor?’ he asked mildly.

The chairman made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘You probably know that.’

The outgoing (dismissed?) editor-in-chief leaned back in his chair and noted that the back creaked in an entirely new, unthreatening way. ‘Give me a few pointers,’ he said.

Wennergren shuffled in his chair. ‘He needs to be credible, obviously. Representative. Able to defend the paper in television debates. Financially responsible. Innovative and loyal, which go without saying. A good negotiator, with the ability to find new distribution and sales partners. And someone who can identify and kick-start complementary new projects.’

Kick-start
. What a horrible expression. But presumably the Swedish Academy would soon give it its blessing, if it hadn’t already done so. And the fact that his successor would be a man was obviously taken as read.

They don’t deserve me, he thought. ‘And in terms of journalism?’ Schyman said. ‘What sort of publisher should I be looking for?’

The chairman leaned across the desk. ‘Someone like you,’ he said. ‘Someone who knows all the buzz words about democracy and freedom of expression, but is basically prepared to publish anything—’ He broke off, possibly aware that he had gone too far.

Schyman put his hands into his lap, unable to hold them still any longer. He wondered if the old bastard was consciously trying to antagonize him, or if he thought it was perfectly normal and unremarkable to humiliate him in this way. Not a word about his successes, the sacrifices he had made for the paper, his indisputable competence with regard to steering a ship of this magnitude.

Ever since Schyman had been appointed editor-in-chief fourteen years ago, Wennergren had been the proprietors’ right-hand man on the board of the paper, the paper that made the most profit for its owners but which was always treated with the least respect. The
Evening Post
was something the cat had dragged in, but it managed to keep all the rats fed.

But the board clearly thought he was a puppet who could talk about responsibilities and freedom of the press while at the same time printing crap in the paper and, as a parting shot, he was being made to find his own successor. That would save the board a job, but leave them to bask in the glory.

‘I’d suggest promoting someone internally,’ he said. ‘There aren’t many outsiders who combine the necessary competence in tabloid thinking with presenting a credible attitude about the press to the outside world.’

‘We’d rather bring in someone external,’ Wennergren said.

‘From television, like me?’

‘Perhaps someone from the competition.’

Of course. Buy the other team’s best player. Classic tactic in sport.

He studied the chairman’s face. A stealthy, destructive thought began to form in his mind. ‘There are some good candidates here in the newsroom that the board might not be aware of,’ he said.

‘Do you mean Sjölander?’ Wennergren said. ‘He doesn’t come across well on television.’

Schyman looked out at the newsdesk. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. ‘We have a new boss on the desk who’s shown a lot of potential,’ the editor-in-chief said. ‘He’s extremely loyal, very creative when it comes to publicity, and has a burning passion when it comes to tabloid thinking. His name is Patrik Nilsson.’

Herman Wennergren’s face lit up. ‘The one who wrote the articles about the serial killer?’

Schyman raised his eyebrows. So Wennergren did read the paper. And thoroughly, at that: Patrik had had a byline on only one of many articles.

‘Gustaf Holmerud,’ Schyman confirmed. ‘We’ve just had confirmation of the grounds for his arrest, and they’re sensational. So far Holmerud has confessed to five murders, and he’s going to be questioned about all the unsolved murders in Scandinavia over the past twenty-five years.’

‘Really?’

Schyman nodded towards the newsdesk. ‘It was Patrik who first spotted the connection between the cases and put the police on the right track.’

‘Patrik Nilsson,’ Herman Wennergren said, as if he were tasting the name. ‘That’s an extremely good idea. I’ll suggest it.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘When are you thinking of leaving?’ he asked.

Anders Schyman stayed in his seat. ‘As soon as the official figures say we’ve overtaken the competition.’

The chairman nodded. ‘We must arrange a proper leaving ceremony here in the newsroom,’ he said. ‘And I very much hope that those three million turn out to be a profitable investment. Has the husband been released yet?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Wennergren grunted something and slid the glass door open, stepped cautiously into the newsroom and walked off, without bothering to close the door behind him. Schyman watched him walk towards the exit with his briefcase and coat.

There was nothing so vital for an evening paper as its credibility, its journalistic capital. With Patrik Nilsson as its editor-in-chief, it would be a matter of months, possibly weeks, before disaster was an inescapable fact. Herman Wennergren, as the man who had appointed him, would be forced to resign, and the newspaper would be seriously damaged for years to come.

But first he had to overtake the other evening paper. He would leave behind him the biggest newspaper in Scandinavia, in excellent financial condition and with a reasonable reputation for journalism.

He reached for his phone and rang Annika Bengtzon’s private mobile.

They were stuck in a queue of traffic, between a donkey-cart and a Bentley, when her phone rang. ‘How are you getting on?’ Anders Schyman asked.

‘Things are moving, I think,’ Annika said. ‘Unlike the traffic.’ She was thirsty, and needed the toilet.

‘Have you delivered the ransom?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How do things look?’

No pavements, brownish-red soil, patched-up tarmac. Rubbish piled beside the roads, crumpled plastic and broken glass, paper and cardboard. Electricity cables strung between the trees, like lianas. But that probably wasn’t what he meant. ‘We’ve been sent to the wrong place a few times,’ she said. ‘But now we’re on our way to a fourth location. We think this may be the one where we hand over the money.’

‘I’ve just had Wennergren here. He’s worried about the newspaper’s investment.’

Annika shut her eyes tight. ‘And what am I supposed to say to that?’

‘I have to report back to the board, tell them how it’s going.’

‘The old bastard could always have a chat with the kidnapper once Thomas is free, maybe ask for a refund.’

Silence on the line.

‘Did you want anything in particular?’ Annika asked. She thought she heard Schyman sigh.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, not at all. I just wanted to hear how it was going.’

‘Things are moving,’ she repeated.

Halenius glanced at her. ‘Schyman,’ she mimed.

‘Have you heard that the serial killer has confessed?’ the editor-in-chief said in her ear.

A man cycled past her window with a dozen hens in a crate on the handlebars.

‘Who?’

‘Gustaf Holmerud. He’s confessed to all five suburban murders. Patrik said it was your idea. Congratulations. You were right.’

The killings had been turned into ‘suburban murders’, nice and manageable. ‘Schyman,’ she said. ‘That’s ridiculous. All those women were murdered by their partners. You know that as well as I do.’

There was a crackle on the line and she missed a few words.

‘… very interested in how things are going for you,’ Schyman was saying. ‘Are you doing any filming?’

She looked down at the video-camera on the seat beside her. ‘Some.’

‘We’re on our way to becoming the largest on-line news site as well. A really good film from you could be what it takes to give us the final push.’

The traffic in front of them moved and Frida put the car back in gear. Annika looked out through the windscreen: girls in school uniform, men in dusty caps and jackets too big for them, schoolboys in grey shirts. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ the editor-in-chief said.

Halenius looked at her inquisitively.

‘Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with Anders Schyman,’ Annika said, putting her mobile down.

‘We need to eat,’ Frida said. ‘With this traffic it’s going to take hours to get to Eastleigh. Do you want the sandwiches from the cool-box?’