Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"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!"

Anders Schyman barely had time to lift the first piece of paper from the top of the highest pile before there was another knock at the door. This time it was the photographer Ulf Olsson who wanted a heart-to-heart. He had just returned from the press conference at police headquarters and wanted to tell the editor in all confidentiality how he had been treated by the crime editor Annika Bengtzon the previous day.

"I'm not used to people criticizing me on account of my clothes," the photographer said, adding that he had been wearing an Armani suit at the time.

"Tell me what happened," Schyman said.

"Annika Bengtzon expressed her disapproval of my wearing a designer suit. I don't think I should have to take that. I've never been treated like that at other jobs."

Anders Schyman contemplated the man for a few seconds before replying.

"I don't know what went on between you and Annika Bengtzon," he said. "Nor do I know where you've worked previously or what the dress code was there. As far as I'm concerned- and I know that goes for Annika Bengtzon, too- you can wear Armani as much as you like. You can wear it down a coal mine if you want. But don't blame anyone but yourself if you've got the wrong clothes for a job. I and all the rest of the senior editors of this paper take it for granted that everyone here is reasonably up to date on what's happening in the world when they come to work. If there's been a murder or a bomb attack, just assume you'll be covering it. I suggest you get a big bag with long johns and maybe a tracksuit and keep it in the car…"

"I've already got a bag," the photographer said morosely. "Annika Bengtzon gave one to me."

Anders Schyman gave the man a detached look.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he said. The photographer got up and left.

The editor sighed heavily when the door closed. Jesus. Sometimes he felt like a grade school principal. Bunch of children. He longed to go home to his wife and a large whisky.

Annika and Johan Henriksson pulled up at McDonald's on Sveavägen and bought two Big Mac meals, which they ate in the car on their way back to the paper.

"I hate doing that," Henriksson said when he had put away the last of his French fries.

"Visiting bereaved families? Yeah, I guess that's about as bad as it gets," Annika said, wiping ketchup off her fingers.

"I can't help it, but I feel like a parasite sitting there," Henriksson said. "Like I'm only there to revel in their misfortune. Gloat because it looks good in the paper."

Annika wiped her mouth and pondered his words for a moment.

"Yes," she said, "it's easy to have that feeling. But sometimes people just want to talk. You mustn't think people are stupid just because they're in a state of shock. Sure, you have to show respect. It's not certain you'll write about the family just because you listen to and talk to them."

"But people who've just lost someone don't always know what they're doing."

"How can you be so sure?" Annika said. "Who are you to decide that someone shouldn't get the chance to talk? Who are we to judge what's best for a particular person in a particular situation? You, me, or that person? We're always arguing about this in the papers and no one has the right answer."

"I still think it's horrible," he said sulkily.

Annika smiled faintly.

"Of course it is. Facing a person who's just met with the worst possible misfortune is one of the hardest things that can happen to you, that's a fact. You can't do many interviews like that in a month. But you get used to it too. Think of people in the caring professions or in the church; they work with tragedies daily."