'I feel it's very important to really listen to these young people,' the counselor said.
'Can you really do that in this environment?' Annika asked tentatively.
'The children need to share their pain with someone. They help each other overcome the grief. We welcome all of Josefin's friends.'
'Including people from out of town?' Annika wondered.
'Everybody is welcome,' Larsson-Berg said emphatically. 'We can help everybody who needs it.'
'Do you do house calls?' Annika asked.
The counselor smiled an uneasy smile. 'How do you mean?'
'Well, Josefin's best friend, Patricia- have you been in contact with her?'
'Has she been here?' the counselor asked, a puzzled look on her face.
Annika looked around the room. Four girls sat next to a crackling stereo, sobbing and playing Eric Clapton's 'Tears in Heaven' at high volume. Three others were writing something to Josefin with a lit candle and the graduation photo from
'I doubt it.'
'But she's very welcome. Everybody's welcome,' the counselor declared.
'And you're going to stay open all night?'
'Our support is unwavering. I broke off my holiday to be here for them.'
The counselor smiled. Something shiny and unearthly was in her eyes. Annika stopped writing. This didn't feel right. The woman wasn't there for Josefin's or her friend's sake, but for her own.
'Maybe I could have a word with some of her friends?' Annika suggested.
'Whose?' the counselor asked.
'Josefin's.'
'Oh, yes, of course. Anyone in particular?'
Annika gave it a moment's thought. 'Charlotta? They were in the same class.'
'Oh, yes, Charlotta. I believe she's organizing a mourning procession to the murder scene. There's a lot to arrange, hiring a coach and stuff like that. This way.'
They went into an office behind the poolroom. A young woman with a short bob and a healthy tan was discussing something over the phone. She glared at them for disturbing her, but her face lit up when Annika mouthed,
'Charlotta, Josefin's best friend,' the counselor said by way of introduction, flashing an appropriately mournful smile.
Annika mumbled her name and lowered her gaze. 'We've spoken.'
Charlotta gave a nod of assent. 'Yes. I'm still in shock,' she said dryly. 'It's been such a blow.'
The counselor gave her a sympathetic hug.
'But together we're strong,' Charlotta resumed. 'We have to rouse public opinion against senseless violence. Josefin will not have died in vain, we'll see to that.'
There was passion and dedication in her voice. She would be the perfect guest on a talk show, Annika thought.
'In what way?' Annika asked quietly.
Charlotta shot the counselor a hesitant glance. 'Well, we have to be united. And protest. Show that we won't give way. That feels most important right now- to support each other in our grief. Share our feelings and help each other through the difficulties.' Charlotta gave a wan smile.
'And now you're organizing a mourning procession?' Annika remarked.
'Yes, so far over a hundred people have signed up. We'll fill at least two coaches.' Charlotta rounded the desk and picked up some lists of names that she showed to Annika.
'Naturally, we'll pay for all expenses,' the counselor interjected.
Pettersson, the photographer, appeared in the doorway. 'Can I take a picture of you two?'
The two women, one young, one older, lined up next to each other with straight backs.
'Could you try to look a bit sadder?' the photographer asked.
Annika groaned inwardly, shut her eyes, and turned her back. To the great satisfaction of the photographer, the women hugged each other and quivered their lips for him.
'We won't take up any more of your time now,' Annika said, and moved toward the exit.
'There are several more weeping kids out there,' Pettersson said.
Annika wavered. 'Okay,' she said reluctantly. 'We'll ask them if they want to be in a picture.'
They did. The girls cried their eyes out, the candles sparkled, and the grainy photocopy of Josefin's graduation photo floated behind them. Pettersson took pictures of the girls' poems and drawings, and while he was snapping away, the sound level rose to even higher levels. The youths were pumped up by the presence of the two journalists, their excitement growing fast.
'Hey, we want to be in a picture!' two guys with pool cues in their hands shouted out.
'I think it's time to leave,' Annika whispered.
'Why?' Pettersson asked in surprise.
'Let's go,' Annika hissed. 'Now.'
She walked off to find Martin Larsson-Berg while the photographer began to pack up his equipment. They thanked the deputy principal and left the building.
'What's the goddamn hurry?' Pettersson asked Annika testily on the way to the car. He was walking ten feet behind Annika, his camera bag bouncing against his hip.
Annika replied without turning round to look at him, 'That was a freak show. It could get out of hand real fast.'
She climbed in the car and turned on the radio.
They didn't speak on the way back to town.
Annika had just got back to her desk when she saw the man come walking from the far end of the newsroom. He was big and blond and the light from beyond the sports desk fell on him. She followed him curiously with her gaze. The man stopped every three feet, shaking hands and saying hello. Not until he reached the news desk did she see that the editor in chief was walking next to him, his slight figure almost invisible.
'Could I have your attention, please,' the editor in chief said in his nasal voice over at the news desk. Spike was on the phone, feet on the desk, and didn't even look up. Picture Pelle gave the man a quick glance and continued working at his screen. Some of the other staff stopped what they were doing and watched the men with skepticism. Nobody had asked to have a TV celebrity for editor.
'Could you listen, please?' asked the editor in chief.
The faces of the staff were impassive. Suddenly the big blond took a step toward Spike's desk. Athletically, he climbed up on the long desk and walked along it, dodging the telephones and coffee mugs. He came to a stop right in front of Spike, whose eyes traveled up his body. 'I'll call you back,' Spike said, and put the phone down. Picture Pelle let go of his Mac and came over. The sound level dropped to a quiet murmur as the staff slowly gathered in the center of the newsroom.
'I'm Anders Schyman,' the man said. 'At present I'm in charge of the current affairs desk at Swedish Television. Starting on Wednesday, August first, I'll be your new deputy editor.'
He paused; a palpable silence filled the big room. His voice had the intensity and bass that characterized the voice-overs you'd hear on TV documentaries. Fascinated, Annika stared at him.
The man took a step and looked out over another part of the newsroom. 'I don't know your job. You know it. I can't teach you what to do. You know that better than anyone.'
New silence; Annika could hear the sounds of the evening, the air-conditioning, and the traffic in the street below.
Annika felt he was looking straight at her. 'What I will do is smooth the ground for you. I won't be driving the engine. I will break the ground and plan the tracks. I can't lay them myself, we have to do that together. But you are the engine drivers, the stokers, and the conductors. You'll be the ones talking to the passengers and you'll be
