herself. She said they were from
'Hyenas,' the woman said contemptuously. 'Did you smell blood, is that why you came here? To get at the remains of the body? Suck out the best parts while you can?' She walked around the couch and came closer to Annika, who forced herself to remain seated and look calm.
'I'm so sorry about your mother's death…'
'Well, I'm not!' the daughter screamed. 'I'm glad she's dead. Glad!' She burst into tears and left the room running. Bertil Milander showed no reaction; he was looking down at his hands twiddling the handkerchief.
'Is it okay to take a picture?' Henriksson said. It woke Bertil Milander up.
'Yes, yes, of course it is,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Right here?'
'Maybe if you could walk over to the window, that'll give us a bit more light.'
Bertil Milander posed next to the beautiful, high windows. It would make a good picture. The thin daylight filtered through the mullioned window, the expensive blue curtains framing the portrait.
While the photographer shot his roll, Annika quickly went after the young woman into the room next door. It was a library, tastefully decorated with English period furniture and thousands of books. The woman was sitting in a burgundy leather armchair.
'I'm sorry if you feel we're intruding,' Annika said. 'It's not our intention to cause you any pain. On the contrary, we just want to tell you what we're doing.'
The woman didn't reply. She didn't seem to notice Annika's presence.
'You and your father are welcome to call us if there's anything you wish to bring up, if you feel we're not telling the truth, or if there's anything you want to add or tell us.'
No reaction.
'I'll give my phone number to your father,' Annika said and left the room. Carefully, she closed the beautiful twin doors behind her.
Henriksson and Bertil Milander were standing in the hallway. Annika went up to them, pulled out a business card from her wallet, and added the editor's direct number to her own.
'Just call, if there's anything,' she said. 'I always have my phone on. Thank you for your trouble.'
Bertil Milander took the card without looking at it. He put it on a gilt table next to the front door.
'My grief over her is endless,' and Annika knew she had just gotten her headline for the center-spread photo.
The editor let out a sigh when he heard the knock at the door. He had hoped to get to the bottom of at least one of the piles of paper on his desk, but since he arrived at the paper an hour ago he hadn't had a quiet second.
'Come in,' he said. He tried to relax. After all, he prided himself on his open-door policy.
It was Nils Langeby, and Anders Schyman's heart sank a bit further toward his shoes.
'Nils. What can I do for you?' he said without getting up from behind his desk.
Nils Langeby poised himself in the middle of the floor of the corner office, wringing his hands in a theatrical gesture.
'I'm worried about the crime desk,' he began. 'It's a complete mess.'
Anders Schyman looked up at the reporter, stifling a sigh.
'How do you mean?'
'We're going to miss out on things; things are hanging in the air. Everyone feels insecure after the changes. What will become of our crime coverage?'
The editor pointed at a chair on the other side of his desk and Nils Langeby sat down.
'All change, even change that means improvement, brings some turbulence,' Schyman said. 'It's quite natural for the crime desk to be a bit unsettled. You've been without a chief for a long time and have just gotten a new one.'
'Exactly, and that's what I feel is the problem. I don't think Annika Bengtzon is up to scratch.'
Schyman gave it some thought.
'You don't think so? I feel exactly the opposite. I think she's a formidable reporter and a good organizer. She knows how to prioritize and delegate. And she doesn't balk at doing difficult and uncomfortable things. She's driven and knowledgeable. Just look at today's paper for an example of that. What's your problem with her, Nils?'
Nils Langeby leaned forward in a confidential gesture.
'People don't trust her. She thinks she's a big shot. She steps on people's toes and doesn't know how to behave properly.'
'What do you mean, Nils?'
The reporter threw his hands out to the side.
'Well, I haven't been affected personally, but one hears things…'
'So you're here because you're concerned for your colleagues?'
'Yes. And because we're losing our coverage of crimes against the environment and in the school system.'
'But I thought those particular areas were your responsibility?'
'Yes, but…'
'Has Annika tried to take them away from you?'
'No, not at all.'
'So if we fail to get stories in those particular areas, it's really your responsibility, isn't it? It doesn't really have anything to do with Annika Bengtzon, does it?'
A look of confusion spread on Nils Langeby's face.
'I think you're a good reporter, Nils,' the editor went on calmly. 'It's people like you, with your weight of experience that this paper needs. You'll be continuing to supply us with headlines for a long time to come, I hope. I have full confidence in you, just as I have full confidence in Annika Bengtzon as crime desk editor. That's why my job here gets better and better every day. People grow and learn to work together for the benefit of the paper.'
Nils Langeby was listening intently. He grew taller with each word. This was what he wanted to hear. The editor believed in him. He would go on producing headline copy and he would be a force to be reckoned with. When he left the room, he felt cheerful and in good heart. He was actually whistling to himself on his way out of the newsroom.
'Hiya, Nisse, what have you got cooking today?' he heard someone call from behind him.
It was Ingvar Johansson, the news editor. Nils Langeby stopped short and thought for a moment. He hadn't planned to work at all today, and he hadn't been called in. But the editor's words made him feel the measure of his responsibility.
'Well, quite a lot,' he therefore replied. 'The terrorist attack, the terrorist angle. That's what I'm working on today…'
'Great, it would be good if you could write it up straight away, so we have it ready for when the subs come in. Everyone else will have their hands full with Furhage.'
'Furhage?' Nils Langeby said. 'What about her?'
Ingvar Johansson looked up at the reporter.
'Didn't you hear? The mincemeat at the stadium, it was the Olympic boss.'
'Yeah, right. Well, my sources tell me it was a terrorist attack, a clear as day terrorist attack.'
'Police sources?' Ingvar Johansson sounded surprised.
'Impeccable police sources,' Nils Langeby said, thrusting his chest out. He took off his leather jacket, started rolling up his shirt sleeves, and walked off toward his room along the corridor that overlooked the parking lot.
'I'll fucking show you, bitch!'