Exposed (27 page)

‘I loved Josefin; she was the most important thing in my life,’ a male voice said. He sounded young and vulnerable.

‘How did it feel when the
Evening Post
identified you as Josefin’s killer?’ the reporter asked cautiously.

The man sighed. ‘Well, I can’t really describe it. What can I say? Reading that you’re supposed to have … No, you just can’t take it in.’ And he actually sniffed, as if on cue.

‘Have you thought about suing the paper?’

Another sigh. ‘No, it wouldn’t be worth it, everyone knows that. Corporations like that pay whatever it takes to crush ordinary people. I’d never get justice against that rag. Besides, it would stir up too many memories.’

The presenter came back on, and now he had another reporter with him in the studio who was evidently there as some sort of expert commentator.

‘Well, this is definitely a problem, isn’t it?’ the presenter said.

‘Yes, that’s absolutely right,’ the commentator said keenly. ‘A young man is identified as a murderer by a summer temp who has decided to play at being an investigative reporter, and then the lie is established as a truth. It’s very difficult to get any justice in cases like this. It costs a lot of money to bring a case against a newspaper, but we should point out to anyone who feels that they have been exploited or libelled by the media that they can get legal aid to help convict journalists who overstep the mark and spread lies.’

‘Could this be something for Joachim to look into?’

‘Yes, it might very well be. We can only hope that
he wants to pursue this all the way through the courts. It would be very interesting to see this become a test case.’

The presenter rustled his papers.

‘But why would a young summer temp do something like this?’

‘Well, part of the explanation is that she is prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her position at one of the evening papers. The evening press survives on sales of loose copies, and the juicier the headlines and flysheets, the more papers they sell and the more money they earn. Journalists who stoop to this level usually earn a very good salary from their sordid business, I’m afraid.’

‘So the juicier the headline, the bigger the journalist’s salary?’

‘Yes, that’s not an unfair summary of the situation.’

‘But do you really think it’s that simple, that she was trying to advertise her services to the highest bidder?’

‘No, I’m afraid there could well be more dubious motivations in this case.’

‘Such as?’

The commentator cleared his throat. ‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘There are ten thousand lobbyists in Stockholm. These lobbyists are only after one thing: to get the media and those in positions of power to do what their employers want. Influencing the media is known as “planting” stories. These people trick or bribe a journalist by planting news stories, and then the journalist runs off and does the lobbyists’ work for them.’

‘Do you think that’s what happened in this case?’

‘Yes, I’m quite convinced that’s exactly what happened here,’ the commentator said solemnly. ‘It’s quite obvious to anyone with any sort of knowledge of the industry that Annika Bengtzon’s articles about Christer Lundgren are the result of planted information.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ the presenter said, sounding impressed.

‘I’d like to play you a piece of evidence, a sequence that I recorded outside Rosenbad this morning,’ the commentator said triumphantly.

The Prime Minister’s voice filled the airwaves.

‘Of course I have every sympathy for what Christer is going through right now. This sort of media witch-hunt is always a severe trial. But I can assure you that for the government, and for the party, these exaggerated allegations have absolutely no significance at all. You must have seen today’s
Evening Post
, which explains why Christer has been questioned. He just happens to have a flat close to Kronoberg Park. Even government ministers need somewhere to sleep!’

Then back to the studio again.

‘Yes, we heard that with our own ears,’ the commentator said. ‘The Prime Minister made a direct reference to the newspaper and clearly hoped that the rest of the media would follow its lead.’

‘How much responsibility does the government have here?’

‘Well, of course they can be criticized for exploiting such a young and inexperienced journalist. Summer temps are unfortunately rather easier to manipulate than more practised hands.’

The presenter’s voice once more: ‘Naturally, we asked the editor-in-chief of the
Evening Post
to participate in this discussion, but were told that he wasn’t available …’

Annika got up to go to the toilet, the floor swaying beneath her. The feeling only intensified as she got out into the corridor, and she had to lean against the wall.

I’m falling apart, she thought. This isn’t working. I’m not going to make it. I’m going to be sick on the floor.

She threw up in the hand-basin of the handicapped toilet, blocking the plughole when she tried to rinse it away. She looked in the mirror and was surprised to see that she was still intact. She looked the same as usual, she was still breathing, her heart was still beating.

I’ll never be able to show my face out there again, she thought. I’m finished now, for ever. I’ll never get another job. They won’t even want me at the
Katrineholm Courier
now, I’ll get the sack.

She started to cry.

Hell, where am I going to live? If I can’t pay the rent, where am I going to go?

She sank onto the floor, crying into her skirt.

Lyckebo, she thought suddenly, and stopped crying. I’ll go to Grandma’s. No one will find me there. Grandma moves into her flat in Hälleforsnäs in October each year, but I could stay on out there.

She blew her nose on some toilet paper and dried her tears.

Yes, that’s what she would do. Grandma had said she’d always be there for Annika, she wouldn’t let her down. She was in the union, she’d get unemployment benefit for at least a year, then she’d just have to see. She could move abroad, a lot of people did that. Pick oranges in Israel or grapes in France. Or why not New Zealand?

She stood up. There were loads of ways out of this.

‘Don’t limit your options,’ she said out loud to herself.

She’d made up her mind. She would never set foot in a newsroom again, and especially not this one. She’d take her bag and her box of notes and give up journalism for ever. She unlocked the toilet door with a fresh sense of determination.

The floor still wasn’t quite steady. She stayed close to the wall to make sure she didn’t fall.

Back at Berit’s desk she quickly gathered her things together in her bag.

‘Ah, there you are! Would you mind coming into my office for a few minutes?’

It was the voice of the new head editor, Anders Schyman, and she turned round in surprise.

‘Who, me?’ she said.

‘Yes, you. I’m in the aquarium with the awful curtains. Come when you’ve got a minute.’

‘I’ve got time now,’ she said.

She felt the furtive glances of the rest of the newsroom as she walked into the boss’s office.

Oh well, she thought. At least things can’t get any worse.

It wasn’t a nice room. The shabby curtains really were awful, and the air felt stale and enclosed.

‘Where’s that smell coming from? Haven’t you emptied the ashtray?’

‘I don’t smoke. It’s the sofa. Don’t sit on it – it gets into your clothes.’

She stayed standing in the middle of the floor, while he sat on the edge of the desk.

‘I’ve called
Studio Six,’
he said. ‘I’ve never heard such a personal attack before, and they didn’t give us the right of reply. I’ve already faxed a complaint to the Broadcasting Commission. The editor-in-chief may well have been unavailable, but I’ve been here all day. Did they try to contact you?’

She didn’t answer, just shook her head.

‘I know that so-called expert commentator. He worked for a while on my magazine programme until I got rid of him.

‘He’s impossible to work with. He plotted and gossiped behind other people’s backs until the programme was on the brink of collapse. As luck would have it, he wasn’t employed directly on the programme, but used to invoice us from his own company. Once I’d made up my mind, he was gone that same day.’

Annika was staring at the floor.

‘And as for planted stories,’ Anders Schyman said, pulling a fax out of the mess that had already accumulated on his desk. ‘We’ve received an anonymous tip-off that one of the right-wing party leaders has also been questioned about Josefin’s murder.’

He held the fax out to Annika, and she took it, still numb to the world.

‘Where’s it from?’ she said.

‘My question exactly,’ the head editor said. ‘You see the sender’s number up in the top corner? It’s the number of the Social Democrats’ advertising agency.’

‘God, that’s so blatant,’ Annika said.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

Silence. Annika took a deep breath.

‘I haven’t been the target of any planted stories,’ she said.

Anders Schyman looked at her intently, waiting for her to go on.

‘I haven’t spoken to anyone about our coverage of this story, apart from Berit and Anne Snapphane.’

‘Not the news editors?’

Annika shook her head.

‘Not much, anyway,’ she said quietly.

‘So you’ve been looking after our coverage entirely on your own?’

He sounded rather sceptical, and she squirmed.

‘Well, almost,’ she said, feeling tears welling up. ‘There’s no one else to share the blame.’

‘No, no,’ Anders Schyman said quickly. ‘That’s not what I meant. I think our coverage has been fine, really pretty good. The only thing we missed was the fact that she worked at a sex club. And you knew about that anyway, didn’t you?’

She nodded.

‘We should have written about that earlier. But doing what our rivals and
Studio Six
have done – making out that the girl was a prostitute – is much worse. By the way, how did you find out about the minister’s overnight flat?’

Annika sighed. ‘I was having coffee with one of his neighbours.’

‘Brilliant!’ Anders Schyman said. ‘And what really happened with those teenagers out in Täby?’

Annika’s eyes flashed.

‘That bit’s completely fucking unbelievable! They asked us to go, first out to Täby, and then to the demonstration in the park today.’

‘Yes, I heard that got a bit out of hand.’

Annika dropped her bag on the floor and held out her hands.

‘They’re grieving, so anything they say and do can’t be questioned. They’re having a hard time, which means that you can’t really approach them at all. Anything that’s the slightest bit unpleasant or controversial in this bloody country can never even be named. We think death and violence and suffering will just disappear if we bury it and never talk about it again. But that’s wrong! That’s so wrong! It only makes things worse. Those kids out there today were crazy! They were trying to set fire to us!’

‘Okay, you’re exaggerating a bit now,’ Anders Schyman said gently.

‘Like hell I am!’ Annika exclaimed. ‘Those pathetic little social workers have got a monopoly on suffering and grief and sympathy. Crisis team, my arse! All they’ve done is wind those kids up beyond any semblance of sanity. Most of them had never even spoken to Josefin, I’d put money on that! What the hell are they doing, having a week-long orgy of grief? Schyman, it was like
they were in some kind of trance, they had no idea what they were doing. They identified us as evil, as targets for revenge, as sacrifices. So don’t try to tell me I’m exaggerating!’

Her face was red with fury and anger, and she was breathing hard and fast. The head editor was watching her with interest.

‘Do you know, I think you’re probably right,’ he said.

‘Of course I bloody am!’ she said.

He smiled. ‘It’s a good thing you don’t swear this much in your writing,’ he said.

‘What a bloody stupid thing to say,’ she said. ‘Of course I fucking don’t.’

Anders Schyman started to laugh. Annika walked over to him.

‘This isn’t funny,’ she said. ‘This is serious. Those kids at the cemetery were a lynch-mob. I don’t know if they’d really have hurt us, but they certainly threatened to. We really ought to report them to the police. Pettersson’s car has scorch marks in the paint, not that it makes much difference to a heap of junk like that, but anyway … We ought to make some sort of statement that people can’t behave however they want to, even if they think they can use grief as an alibi.’

‘There are actually a lot of crisis groups that do fantastic work,’ the head editor said seriously. ‘Tarring them all with the same brush is just as bad as suggesting that the evening papers only ever want to wallow in other people’s pain.’

Annika didn’t answer, and he looked at her for a while in silence.

‘You’ve been working a lot lately, haven’t you?’ he said.

She went on the defensive at once.

‘I’m not over-reacting because I’ve been working too much,’ she said tersely.

The head editor stood up.

‘I wasn’t thinking of that,’ he said. ‘Is this your regular shift?’

She looked down.

‘No, I start again on Saturday.’

‘Take the weekend off,’ he said. ‘Go away somewhere and relax, you need to after going through something like this.’

She turned and left the room without another word. On the way out of the newsroom she heard Johansson yell: ‘Fuck, we’ve got a brilliant paper here! The speaker of parliament confesses: I was in charge of IB; the Prime Minister comments on the murder suspect; and the Ninja Barbies have been arrested, and we’ve got exclusive pictures!’

She hurried into the lift.

It wasn’t until she was standing in the courtyard that she realized that she didn’t have any keys. And the door could only be opened with a key, there was no coded lock. She almost started to cry again.

‘Fuck!’ she said, yanking at the door. To her surprise it glided open. A little piece of light-green cardboard floated down to the ground. Annika bent down and picked it up. She recognized the pattern: it came from a box of Clinique skin cream.