Annika didn't respond.
'That the minister was in Tallinn is news, but it doesn't give him an alibi for the time of the murder. He was home by five, the time when the girl was murdered. You remember the neighbor who bumped into him?'
Annika nodded.
Schyman continued, 'Christer Lundgren has resigned, and you don't kick-'
'Someone who's down, I know. But you can publish facts, the burglaries at the addresses where the archives were kept, the invoices, the strip club receipt…'
The deputy editor sighed. 'For what purpose? To show how the government smuggles arms? Imagine the court case involving the freedom of the press that would follow.'
Annika stared down at the floor.
'This story is dead, Annika.'
'What about the trip to Tallinn?' she said quietly.
Schyman sighed again. 'Maybe, if circumstances had been different. Unfortunately, though, the editor in chief is allergic to this story. He won't hear the mere mention of either the murder or the minister. And for a minister to go to a meeting in a neighboring country isn't controversial enough for me to put my job on the line. We've got nothing to show who he met or for what purpose. The minister for foreign trade probably travels for three hundred days of the year.'
'Why did he hand in his travel-expenses invoice to the Inspectorate of Strategic Products?'
'It's strange, but hardly worth writing about. The ministries hand over hundreds of invoices for payment every day; this isn't even controversial. There's nothing fishy about a minister for foreign trade going abroad.'
Annika felt her chest tighten. At heart she knew that Anders Schyman was right. Now she just wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.
The deputy editor got to his feet, walked up to the window, and looked out over the newsroom. 'We need you here.'
Annika was startled. 'What?'
Schyman sighed. 'We could do with someone of your character on the crime desk. Right now there are only three people working there: Berit Hamrin, Nils Langeby, and Eva-Britt Qvist. It would do Berit good to have a competent person by her side.'
'I've never met the other two,' Annika said quietly.
'What are you doing now? Did you get another job?'
She shook her head.
The deputy editor came and sat down next to her on the couch. 'I'm sincerely sorry that we can't publish your stuff. You've done a fantastic piece of research, but the story is simply too incredible to be told.'
Annika didn't reply, just stared down at her hands.
Schyman watched her in silence. 'The worst of it is that you're probably right.'
'I've got something else. I can't do it myself, but you can give it to Berit.'
She pulled out the copy of the TV guy's credit card slip. It was a second-generation photocopy; she'd made a copy of her original copy at the post office.
'He rented two girls and spent nearly an hour with them in a private room. On his way out he bought three videos. With animals. The thing is, he paid for it all with a Swedish Television credit card.'
Schyman whistled. 'What do you know. This can go straight into the paper- TV star visits brothel, pays with TV license-payers' money.'
Annika smiled tiredly. 'Glad to be of service,' she said acerbically.
'Why don't you write it yourself?'
'You don't want to know.'
'But you've got to have something for it. What do you want?'
Annika looked out over the deserted newsroom, which was bathed in the slanting rays of the fall sun.
'A job,' she whispered.
Schyman walked over to his desk and flipped through the pages in a binder. 'Subeditor on Jansson's night shift, starting in November, covering for parental leave. How does that sound?'
'Sounds fine. Offer accepted.'
'It's a six-month contract so I have to take it up with the executive. The hours are awful; you start at ten P.M. and work until six A.M., four days on, four days off. You'll have to wait for a formal offer of a job, but this time I won't give in. This contract is yours. How about that?'
He got up and held out his hand to her. She got up and shook his hand, embarrassed at the cold clamminess of hers.
'Good to have you back.' Schyman smiled.
'Just one more thing. Do you remember that they said on
Schyman blinked, gave it some thought, then shook his head. 'Don't remember.'
'I'm sure they did. But the receipt wasn't there, it was at the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communication. What do you think that means?'
Schyman gave her a penetrating look. 'Probably the same as you. They didn't find the slip themselves.'
Annika gave a faint smile. 'Exactly.'
'Some lobbyist put it in their hands. It was planted.'
'Now, isn't that ironic?' Annika said, and left the fish tank.
The rain was hanging in the air just above the treetops, and the wind was cold. She turned up her collar and walked toward Fridhemsplan. She felt a warm tranquillity inside. Perhaps she was going to make it. Subediting wasn't her favorite thing, but it still felt as if she'd hit the jackpot. She'd be sitting with the backbench subs at the night desk going through the other reporters' copy, correcting spelling and grammar, cutting where necessary, adding a sentence. She'd be writing captions and little fact boxes, making suggestions for headlines and rewriting bad intros.
She didn't have any illusions as to why Schyman had been able to offer her the job. Nobody else at the paper wanted it, they needed to get someone from outside. Even though the work was vital, it was seen as menial. No byline, no glamour, it was thoroughly uncool.
Well, they've never run an illegal gambling outfit in a brothel, Annika thought.
The wind was getting up as she came out onto the bridge. She walked slowly, pulling down the air into her lungs, holding it. She closed her eyes against the damp and let her hair fly free in the wind.
November, she thought. Nearly two months away. She had some time to think and refuel her energy supply. Clear out the apartment in Halleforsnas, draft-proof the windows in the apartment on Hantverkargatan. Go to the Museum of Modern Art, catch a musical at the Oscars Theater. See Grandma, hang out with Whiskas.
She suddenly missed her cat. But she couldn't have him with her in the city. He'd have to stay with Grandma.
She had to break up with Sven.
There it was- the thought that she'd been putting off all summer. She shuddered in the wind and pulled the jacket tighter around her. The summer was definitely over, time to get the winter clothes out.
She walked along Drottningholmsvagen, kicking at the wet leaves that were piling up on the sidewalk. Not until she was right next to the park did she look up at the foliage.
The vegetation sat brooding on the Kronoberg hill like a big, moldering mass.
She slowly walked up to the cemetery. The damp made the fence shine. The air stood still, the wind didn't reach here. The sounds of the city were muffled and drifted away.
Annika stopped by the entrance gate, put her hand on the padlock, and closed her eyes. All at once, the glow of the summer returned to her: the heat and the dizziness of the day Josefin lay in there among the graves; the sunlight dancing across the granite stones; the vibrations from the subway deep below.
How futile, she thought. Why did Josefin Liljeberg live? Why was she born? Why did she learn to read, count, write? Why did she worry about the changes in her beautiful body? For what purpose- only to die?
