freelancer. The paper will be sorry about losing such an experienced member of the staff but will be grateful for your continued contributions as a stringer…'
Nils Langeby looked up at the editor-in-chief with an expression of loathing.
'Damn you,' he said. 'What an oily, false fucking serpent you are… Damn you…'
Without saying another word, Nils Langeby got up and walked out the door. He slammed it loudly behind him and Anders Schyman heard his steps disappear among the steps of the other people in the newsroom.
The editor went over to his desk and drank another glass of water. The headache had abated somewhat with the last pill, but it was still pounding like a red heart inside his forehead. He heaved a deep sigh. This was going better than he'd hoped. Had he already won the battle? One thing was sure: Nils Langeby had to go. He was going to be thrown out of the newsroom and not be allowed to set foot there ever again. Unfortunately, he would never go of his own accord. He could hang around and poison the air for another twelve years.
Schyman sat down in his chair behind the desk and looked out over the Embassy enclosure. Some children were trying to sled down the muddy hill on the front.
This morning the MD had given the go-ahead for the editor to juggle a few items in the budget to make money available to buy out Nils Langeby with up to four salaries. It would be cheaper than paying him twelve, which the company would have to do if he stayed on. If Nils Langeby had the bare minimum of intelligence- which, granted, he didn't- he'd accept the offer. If he didn't, the other, more protracted measures were at hand. He could, for example, be transferred to the proofreading section. This would naturally mean union involvement and a big fuss, but the union wouldn't be able to stop it. They could never show that the paper had made any formal mistake. As a reporter, you're assumed to be qualified for proofreading, so that shouldn't be a problem.
The union wouldn't have much to make a noise about anyway. Anders Schyman had simply made the reporter an offer. People were often offered severance packages in the trade, even if it hadn't happened many times at this particular paper. All the union could do was to support its member during negotiations and make sure he got as good a deal as possible.
And should all hell break loose, one of the in-house lawyers, an expert in employment law, was preparing a really nasty case before the industrial tribunal. Then the union's central ombudsman would enter as the other party and appear for Nils Langeby in court, but the paper couldn't lose. Schyman's only objective was to get rid of the fucker, and he intended to succeed.
The editor took another sip of water, lifted the receiver, and asked Eva-Britt Qvist to come in. He'd given Spike one hell of a tongue-lashing the night before, so there wouldn't be any further hassle from him. He might as well deal with them all at a stroke.
The call from the tipster Leif came to the newsdesk at 11:47 A.M., only three minutes after the event. Berit took the call.
'The central Stockholm sorting office has been blown up. There are at least four casualties,' the tipster said and hung up. Before the information had even registered in Berit's brain, Leif had already dialed the next paper. You had to be first, or there'd be no money.
Berit didn't put the receiver down; she just quickly pressed the cradle down and phoned the police central control room.
'Has there been an explosion at the sorting office?' she quickly asked.
'We have no information as yet,' an extremely stressed police officer replied.
'But has there?' Berit insisted.
'Looks like it,' he said.
They hung up, and Berit threw the remains of her sandwich in the trash.
At 12:00 P.M.
Annika left Tungelsta with a peculiar sense of warmth in her soul. The human psyche did, after all, have a remarkable ability to self-heal. She waved to Olof Furhage and Alice as she turned into Alvvagen and drove away toward Allevagen, cruising at a leisurely pace in the pleasant neighborhood toward the main road. She could picture herself living here. She drove past the villages Krigslida, Glasberga, and Norrskogen over toward Vasterhaninge Junction and the motorway into Stockholm.
She put the car in the right lane and picked up the phone that she had left on the passenger seat. 'Missed call' the display said; she pressed for 'show number' and noted that the switchboard of the paper had tried to reach her. She sighed lightly and put the phone back down. She was very happy Christmas was so near.
She switched on the radio and sang along to Alphaville's 'Forever Young.'
Just after the exit to Dalaro, the phone rang. She swore and turned down the radio, pushed the earpiece into her ear, and pressed 'answer.'
'Is that Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjo. We met last Tuesday at Satra Hall and then I called you in the evening…'
Annika groaned to herself, of course- the loony project manager. 'Hello,' Annika said, overtaking a Russian container truck.
'I was wondering if you've got time for a chat?'
'Not really,' Annika said and steered back into the right-hand lane.
'It's quite important,' Beata Ekesjo said.
Annika sighed.
'What's it about?'
'I think I know who killed Christina Furhage.'
Annika nearly drove into the ditch.
'You do? How could you know that?'
'I've found something.'
Annika's brain had really got going now.
'What?'
'I can't say.'
'Have you told the police?'
'No, I wanted to show you first.'
'Me? Why?'
'Because you've been writing about it.'
Annika slowed down in order to be able to think and was immediately overtaken by the Russian truck. The snow whirled around her on the road.
'It's not me investigating the murder, but the Krim,' she said.
'You don't want to write about me?'
The woman was obviously intent on appearing in the paper.
Annika considered the pros and cons. On the one hand, the woman was eccentric and probably didn't know a thing, and she just wanted to get home. On the other hand, you don't hang up if someone calls and offers you the solution to a murder.
'Tell me what you've discovered and I'll tell you whether I'll write about it or not.'
It was hard work driving in the snow whipped up by the Russian truck, so Annika overtook it once more.
'I can show you.'
Annika groaned quietly and looked at her watch: a quarter to one.
'All right, where is it?'
'Out here, at the Olympic arena.'
She was just driving past Trangsund, and Annika realized she would practically be driving past Victoria Stadium on her way back to the newspaper.
'Okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes.'
'Great,' Beata said. 'I'll meet you on the forecourt below…'
