The Final Word (6 page)

‘There’s one new piece of evidence,’ Berit said. ‘National Crime and Europol are sharing the investigation with police forces in other countries. That’s why it’s taken so long to come to trial.’

Red circles appeared on Patrik’s cheeks. ‘SUSPECTED OF SERIAL KILLINGS ALL OVER EUROPE!’ he said, in capital letters.

‘I don’t know,’ Berit said. ‘He hasn’t been convicted yet.’

‘That’s just a matter of how you phrase it,’ Patrik said, and bounced off towards the newsdesk.

‘Did you get anything from your prosecutor?’ Berit asked.

Annika handed her the list of witnesses as her intercom crackled into life.

‘Can you come into my office for a moment?’ editor-in-chief Anders Schyman asked, through the tinny speaker.

‘Now?’ Annika said. ‘Right away?’

‘Preferably.’

The intercom crackled and died.

‘Great news,’ Berit said, passing the list back. ‘Imagine if you could get them to talk.’

Annika stood up and went over to Schyman’s glass box. He was sitting there looking at her so she didn’t bother to knock, just walked in and closed the door firmly behind her. It was never left open, these days.

‘What did the prosecutor say?’ her boss asked. He was seated behind his desk, looking heavier than ever.

‘I got the list of witnesses. Why do we have to have the air-conditioning set to below freezing?’

He looked at her quizzically. On the desk in front of him lay bundles of notes, printouts, Post-its and something Annika thought might, with a bit of imagination, be a flowchart.

‘What witnesses? There were witnesses to the murder?’

‘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 Kungsholmen, 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’.