Red Wolf

51

Thomas put the evening papers down on the desk before he took off his coat and hung it up on a hanger. He glanced at the desk over his shoulder as he hung the hanger on the back of the door. Annika’s solemn face stared up at him from the front page of the Evening Post, the new photo she had taken after the business with the Bomber, with her looking older and sadder.

Evening Post Reporter CRACKED TERRORIST GANG, the headline screamed, and his pulse started to race as he sat down and ran a finger over her face.

His wife, the mother of his children, was unique, and not only in his eyes.

He opened the paper. Articles about how Annika’s investigations had cracked the Norrbotten terrorist cell took up half the paper. Across the first news-spread inside, pages six and seven, there was a night picture, taken from a plane, of the Gulf of Bothnia, with someone running within an illuminated circle of light, and the caption: Terrorist hunt at sea tonight – serial killer tracked by helicopters with thermal cameras.

A long article described how a single man from Luleå had murdered at least four people in just the last few weeks. Journalist Annika Bengtzon had sounded the alarm at the West Checkpoint of Swedish Steel, the police had sealed off the Lövskatan district, forcing the man out onto the ice. Fortunately police helicopters were already fitted with thermal-imaging cameras, because they had been searching for a missing three-year-old the year before. He glanced through the article, then moved on.

The next spread described how Annika had been locked in an abandoned compressor shed beside the railway in Luleå with members of the terrorist cell, the Beasts, and how she had managed to alert the police before she was captured, and how she had saved the life of pensioner Yngve Gustafsson by keeping him warm with her own body-heat.

Thomas felt a jolt at that sentence, and had to swallow. He stopped reading and looked at the pictures.

A nice picture of Annika in the newsroom. Below that was a photograph taken with a flash, of a little red brick building. His wife could have died there.

He ran a hand through his hair and loosened his tie.

Annika had escaped the killer by throwing herself in front of an iron-ore train, and had run for a kilometre to Swedish Steel and sounded the alarm at the West Checkpoint. The article had been written by a reporter, Patrick Nilsson. Annika herself was interviewed and just said she was fine and that she was glad it was all over.

He breathed out hard. She was mad. What on earth was she thinking? How could she put herself in such a dangerous situation when she had him and the children?

They had to talk. She couldn’t carry on like this.

The following pages were full of Minister of Culture Karina Björnlund’s story of how she was lured to join the Beasts, a Maoist group in Luleå in the late 1960s. After Björnlund left the group it went to pieces and turned to violence, something she deeply regretted. The minister tried to describe the spirit of the times, a desire for justice and freedom that span out of control. The Prime Minister welcomed her honesty, and was giving her his full backing.

The truth about the story of the attack on F21 filled the next two pages. The serial killer now in custody had thrown one of the military’s own flares into a container of surplus aviation fuel and thereby caused the explosion.

He skipped the article once he’d read the introduction and captions.

The next two pages covered the hitman Ragnwald, one of ETA’s most ruthless terrorists, who had evaded the world’s police and security services for three decades. He had frozen to death in the compressor shed while Annika and the others had looked on, powerless to help.

He looked at the grainy photograph of a young man, dark and skinny, with nondescript features.

Then Annika was back again, a brief summary of her work and achievements.

He put the palm of his hand over her face and shut his eyes.

Strangely, he thought he could feel warmth from the newspaper.

A moment later the phone rang, and he picked it up with a smile.

‘I have to see you,’ Sophia Grenborg said, sobbing loudly. ‘Something terrible has happened. I’m on my way to you now.’

For a moment he was caught up in her panic, his throat constricting, terrorists, hitmen, people frozen to death.

Then everything fell into place. Sophia’s terrible things were not Annika’s. He cleared his throat and looked at the time, trying to think of an excuse not to see her.

‘There’s a committee meeting in quarter of an hour,’ he said, blushing at the lie.

‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

She hung up and he was left sitting there with an unidentifiable summer tune in his head.

On Friday she had been happy as a lark, because she was going to be in an article in County Council World. They had asked her what she wanted for Christmas.

‘I said you,’ she had whispered, then kissed him on the ear.

He looked at the front page of the Evening Post, one of the biggest papers in Scandinavia, his serious-looking wife uncovering a group of terrorists. She was changing reality, while he and his colleagues were trying to tame it and administer it; she was making a difference while he was putting up smokescreens.

The telephone rang again, an internal call from reception.

‘There’s someone here to see you.’

He stood up and stared out across the churchyard below, frosted and frozen. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the disquiet, the clamminess, the feeling of reluctance and obligation.

A few seconds later Sophia Grenborg stumbled into his room, her eyes red with crying, her nose puffy and swollen. He went over and helped her take off her coat.

‘I don’t understand what’s happened,’ she sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from her bag. ‘I don’t know what’s got into them.’

He stroked her on the cheek and tried to smile. ‘What’s happened?’

She sank onto a chair, holding the handkerchief to her mouth.

‘Management want to move me,’ she said, breathing unevenly. ‘Clerk in the traffic safety department.’

She lowered her head, her shoulders began to shake, he shuffled his feet a couple of times, bewildered, then leaned over her, paused.

‘Sophia,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, come on, poor you…’

She stopped, looking up at him in genuine confusion.

‘After all the work I’ve done,’ she said. ‘I’ve put everything into this job for five years. How can they downgrade me like this?’

‘Are you sure it isn’t a promotion?’ he said, sitting down on the desk and putting his hand on her back.

‘Promotion?’ she said. ‘I’m losing my project management bonus, and I have to clear my room this afternoon and move out to an open-plan office in Kista. I won’t even have my own desk.’

Thomas rubbed her shoulders, looking down at her hair, breathing in the smell of apples.

‘What reason are they giving?’

Sophia started to cry again, he stood up and pushed the door shut properly.

‘Come on, love,’ he said, crouching down and stroking the hair from her face. ‘Tell me what happened.’

She pulled herself together and wiped her nose.

‘We’ll sort this out,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

‘They called me in for a meeting,’ she said. ‘I was really pleased. I thought I was going to join the congress group, or maybe one of the committees, but instead this happened.’

‘But why?’

She shook her head. ‘They said it was part of the reorganization ahead of the merger with you, and then they sent me out. Thomas, I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

He kissed her on the forehead, stroked her hair, looked at his watch.

‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I have to get to my meeting, and I don’t have any contacts in the Federation…’

The words hung in the air. She looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘Can’t you pull any strings?’

He patted her cheek. ‘Well, I can try. This will all sort itself out, you’ll see.’

‘Do you think so?’ she said, and stood up.

He followed her, breathing in the scent of her apple hair.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, getting her coat.

She kissed him gently before turning round and letting him help her with her coat.

‘Can’t you come over tonight?’ she whispered into his neck. ‘I could cook something Italian.’

He felt the sweat break out between his shoulder blades.

‘Not tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘My wife’s home. Haven’t you seen the paper?’

‘What?’ She opened her damp eyes wide. ‘Which paper?’

He walked away from her, went over to the desk, and held up the front page of the Evening Post towards her. Annika’s dark, unseeing eyes stared at them.

‘Cracked terrorist gang,’ Sophia read in astonishment and disbelief. ‘What does your wife do, exactly?’

Thomas looked at his wife as he replied. ‘She used to be head of the crime desk, but that took too much time from the family. Nowadays she’s an independent reporter, looking into official corruption and political scandals. She’s been working on this terrorism case for the last few weeks.’

He put the newspaper down, the picture facing upwards, noting the pride in his voice and behaviour.

‘She was supposed to come back yesterday, but this came up instead. She’s flying home this afternoon.’

‘Oh well,’ Sophia said, ‘I can understand that you’re busy tonight.’

She left without saying anything else, and he was surprised at how genuinely relieved he felt when she had gone.

Annika was staring at the countryside outside the window of the Arlanda Express. Frozen fields and icy farms rushed past but she barely registered them. Her eyes were fixed.

The night had disappeared as she had weighed up and analysed different options and their consequences, piecing together the facts and formulating her argument. Now the article was in her notepad, ready to be printed.

Home, she thought. It doesn’t have to be a place or a house; it’s something else entirely.

She shut her eyes and thought through her decisions one more time. One: the text would be published. Two: she had lived in the building on Hantverkargatan for ten years. That didn’t mean that her home was there. Thomas had never really liked living in the city, for him it would come as a relief.

You have to win, she thought. You have to be stronger. You can’t give your opponent a chance. She must not be an alternative. Thomas will never pick a loser.

Her phone started to vibrate in the inside pocket of the polar jacket. She pulled it out and saw it was Q, calling from his private number.

‘Congratulations,’ the head of the national crime unit said.

‘What for?’ Annika said.

‘I heard you got your mobile phone back.’

She smiled weakly. ‘From your lads up in Luleå. Hans Blomberg had it in his trouser pocket when they caught him out on the ice. What can I do for you today?’

‘I was wondering about something,’ he said. ‘It’s this business of the money.’

‘What money?’ Annika said.

‘Ragnwald’s money. A bag full of euros.’

Annika watched blue-panelled industrial units fly by at 160 kilometres an hour.

‘Don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘How did you find it?’

She shut her eyes, swaying with the movement of the train.

‘I was just out taking a walk. I stumbled across a bag of money that someone must have dropped. I handed it over to the police as lost property. Anything else you’re wondering?’

‘That’s Ragnwald’s life’s work,’ the commissioner said. ‘He killed people for money all his life and never used a franc to make his life easier, and because of that he was never caught. He collected it all in his doctor’s safety deposit box in Bilbao and took the whole lot out one month ago.’

Annika looked through the window again.

‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘I wonder what happened to it.’

‘Perhaps he dropped it? In a transformer box, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps, but I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’

The commissioner chuckled, admitting defeat.

‘Do you know how much it was?’

‘I’d guess about twelve million.’

‘Almost fourteen; one hundred and twenty-eight million kronor.’

‘Wow.’

‘No one has reported the money as missing. If the owner doesn’t come forward within six months, it goes to the person who found it.’

‘But?’ Annika said.

‘But,’ Q said, ‘because the chief prosecutor in Luleå suspects that the money was the result of criminal activity, he’s considering impounding it.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ Annika said.

‘Hang on a moment, I haven’t finished. So that you don’t fight for the money, the prosecutor has decided to give you the customary ten per cent finder’s reward.’

The carriage, and the world, suddenly went very quiet. Annika saw a shopping mall and a garden centre swirl past.

‘Really?’ she said.

‘You’ll have to wait six months. Then it’s yours.’

She did the calculations in her head, stumbling over the zeros.

‘What happens if someone claims it?’

‘They’d have to describe the object the money was in when it was found, describe roughly where it was found, and naturally how they came to be in possession of it. Are you fond of money?’

‘Not particularly,’ Annika said. ‘It’s really only exciting when you haven’t got any.’

‘True enough.’

‘By the way,’ Annika said, opening the newspaper on the seat beside her, ‘who said Blomberg blew up the plane at F21?’

‘He did, he confessed to it. Why? Do you know otherwise?’

Annika saw Thord Axelsson in front of her, his face turned grey by lifelong secrets.

‘No, no,’ she said quickly, ‘I was just wondering how it all fitted together…’

‘Hmm,’ Q said, and hung up.

She was left sitting there with her phone, weighing it in her hand.

Twelve point eight million. Kronor. Almost thirteen million kronor. Thirteen. Million. In six months. Was anyone likely to claim the money? Could anyone? Who could describe the bag it was found in, the place it was found?

Ragnwald and her. No one else.

And who was going to stick their hand up and say: the serial killer’s money is mine?

Thirteen million kronor.

She rang Anne Snapphane.

‘What was the flat on Artillerigatan like, then?’

Anne sighed, only just awake. ‘What time is it?’

‘Quarter past something. Was it stylish?’

‘Pure pornography; I had an orgasm the moment I entered the building.’

‘Put in an offer. You can borrow four million from me. I’ve found a load of money.’

‘Hang on, I need a pee…’

Annika heard the receiver hit Anne’s bedside table, as she watched the inner city rear up with its brick buildings and traffic-packed streets, swirling traffic fumes and crowds of commuters.

‘This train will reach Stockholm Central in three minutes,’ a metallic voice announced.

Annika pulled the polar jacket up over her shoulders.

‘What did you say?’ Anne said, back on the line. ‘You found a load of money?’

‘Well, I’m not exactly going to broadcast the fact, but round about Midsummer I’m going to get a reward of several million for handing it in. You can have four of them to help you move to Östermalm.’

She bit her lip and waited. No one needed to know exactly how much she was going to get.

There was a clattering sound on the line.

‘You’re mad; you do know that, right?’

The train slowed down, the rails fanning out as it approached the station.

‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘Then I’ll buy it and you can rent it from me.’

‘Look,’ Anne Snapphane said, ‘I can’t let you do this.’

Annika stood up, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.

‘You haven’t read the papers, then?’

‘You woke me up.’

‘It says in the Evening Post that Karina Björnlund isn’t planning to resign. She wants to carry on as a minister.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s wrong,’ Annika said, bracing herself for the jolt as the train stopped. ‘She’ll resign tomorrow.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I’ve got to go-’ She ended the call, jumped down onto the platform and walked back towards the exit. The air was cold, but still milder and softer than in Luleå and she filled her lungs greedily. The bag slapped against her back, the ground was solid and even.

She would do some shopping, write up the article, email it to Schyman and pick up the children early. They would have time to bake something and rent a film and watch it together as they waited for Daddy. Maybe some crisps, just this once, and a big bottle of cola. Have a meal with a starter and dessert, with homemade Béarnaise sauce.

She emerged onto Kungsbron, and walked off towards Fleminggatan. The angels in her head were completely quiet. The space they had occupied was now available for real thoughts, but right now she was taking a break from thinking.

Maybe the angels were gone for good.

Maybe they were only hiding for a while.

The most important thing is having somewhere to belong, she thought.

52

Thomas stepped off the bus outside their door and looked up at the façade. There were lights on in all their windows, he could see an Advent star and a Christmas candlestick in the living-room window, and felt a warm, soft glow in his chest.

It was good to have her home again.

He flew lightly up the stairs, rang the bell cheerily before opening the door, and was met with the children’s happy cries; he could hear them before he even stepped into the flat.

‘Daddy!’

They leaped into his arms and showed him drawings and told him about outings and the film they had watched was really good, they asked about the computer, and Mummy had given them crisps, and cola, and Ellen had made the salad and Kalle had made a Swiss roll with buttercream that they were going to have for dessert.

He hung up his coat, put his briefcase to one side, loosened his tie and went into the kitchen. Annika was frying steak, and had opened the window a little to let out the smell.

‘Oh good, you’re here,’ she said. ‘We’re ready to eat.’

He went over and put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her neck and pressed his crotch hard against her buttocks, wrapping his arms round her.

‘You need to be careful,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you realize how precious you are to us?’

She turned round, looked up into his eyes, kissed him gently.

‘I’ve got something good to tell you,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

He sat down at the table, already laid for dinner, poured some mineral water and looked round for the morning paper.

‘I’ve found a house,’ she said, putting the sizzling frying pan on the designer trivet. ‘In Djursholm. Newly built, only six point nine million.’

He looked up at her, at her blushing cheeks. ‘What?’

‘Sea view,’ she said, ‘so you’ll be able to see the sea again. Vinterviksvägen, do you know where that is? Big garden with fruit trees, oak floors throughout, open-plan kitchen and dining room. Mediterranean mosaic in both bathrooms, four bedrooms.’

Her eyes were excited and glowing, but there was something dark and mysterious swimming about in there, and he felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine.

‘How can we afford that?’ he said, staring at the basket of bread, then picked up a slice and took a bite from it.

‘Ellen and Kalle, it’s ready!’ she called out into the hall, and sat down opposite him. ‘I found a load of money. I’m going to get a huge reward.’

He took the slice of bread out of his mouth and looked up at her. ‘What do you mean, found?’

She smiled into his eyes without blinking. ‘Seven million.’

He stopped chewing and frowned. ‘Found?’

‘A sack of money.’

‘Money?’

She smiled and nodded.

‘That’s crazy,’ he said, putting the bread down. ‘Really?’

‘I have to head over to the paper for a while after dinner,’ she said, and helped herself to a baked potato.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I’ll sit up and wait.’

She leaned over and stroked his hair and cheek.

‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘Seven million,’ he said. ‘Where did you find it?’

The children rushed into the kitchen, fighting over who was going to sit next to Annika.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she mouthed.

‘And we’ll make a huge profit on the flat as well,’ he said.

She stood up to get the sauce, and he had a sudden giddy sense of incomprehensible reality, she was a little green woman from another planet. There was nothing soft or malleable or negotiable about her, she was simply her own solid core.

The next thought hit him from out of the blue. There’s no one else like Annika.

The realization made his throat tighten, with something that might have been happiness.

Annika was sitting outside Anders Schyman’s office and felt like she was falling. The sounds from the newsroom were muffled and thin, the day crew had gone home and the evening gang were still waking up, the recessed lighting in the corridors was throwing irregular dancing shadows across the floor.

Her workplace. A context in which she belonged.

‘You can go in now,’ Schyman’s secretary said.

Annika stood up shakily, walked into the editor-in-chief’s office and shut the door firmly behind her.

He was sitting at his desk, staring at a printout. His face was red, and his neck looked sweaty. She took several tentative steps forward, glancing at the printout. It was her article, of course. She sat down, her back stiff and straight.

‘What are you playing at?’ he said without looking up, trying to sound derisive but concerned.

She stared at him, the feeling of falling still within her, her tiredness throbbing.

‘I’ve written an article that’s going to be printed in the paper tomorrow,’ she said in a voice that lacked all emotion.

He picked up a pen and tapped it against the printout.

‘It will hardly come as news to you that I am legally responsible for what gets published in this paper,’ he said. ‘The decision on whether or not this article gets printed is down to me.’

She swallowed hard. ‘And?’

‘And I’m saying no,’ he said.

‘Then I’ll take it elsewhere.’

‘You can’t,’ Anders Schyman said.

‘Of course I can,’ she said quickly. ‘The Worker wouldn’t say no. They published Vilhelm Moberg’s articles about corruption in the legal system in the fifties; they’d snap up the article like a shot.’

‘I forbid it.’

‘Freedom of expression,’ Annika said. ‘Ever heard of that? The free world, democracy? If my employer – the Evening Post in this instance – says no to an article I’ve written, then I have the right to offer it to someone else.’

She felt her pulse quicken, the air was full of his doubt and repudiation. There were several seconds of silence.

‘I had a very unpleasant conversation today,’ he said. ‘Who’s Sophia Grenborg?’

The floor opened up beneath her. She gasped as all colour drained away.

‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘How do you know her?’

‘She’s my husband’s… colleague.’

‘Ah,’ Schyman said, a glint in his eyes. ‘So she worked with your husband. Closely?’

Thoughts swirled, spinning and dancing.

‘Did she call you?’ Annika said, and heard how shaken she sounded.

‘No,’ Schyman said, ‘not her, but her boss at the Federation of County Councils. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

She shook her head, her mouth dry.

‘They’re saying you called and made insinuations about this woman to various departments within the Federation. Is that correct?’

Annika took a deep breath. ‘I had a tip-off.’

Anders Schyman nodded and looked down at his desk, tapping his pen again.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You got a tip-off that this woman had fiddled her tax, used to be a right-wing extremist, and had exaggerated her expenses?’

Annika squeezed the arms of the chair; this conversation wasn’t exactly turning out as she had imagined.

She nodded.

‘How closely did she work with your husband?’

‘Not too close; they were in the same working group.’

‘Much overtime?’ Schyman said, leaning towards her. ‘A lot of late nights?’

Annika stretched her neck. ‘Some.’

The silence in the room grew thick and heavy. She gulped audibly.

‘They’ve seen through you at the Federation of County Councils,’ the editor-in-chief said slowly. ‘I just thought you should know. They realized that you were just trying to throw mud at her. But they’re letting her go anyway. Do you know why?’

Annika stared at Schyman, shaken and confused. They were letting her go? She’s been fired? She’s disappearing?

‘They’re merging with the Association of Local Councils in the spring,’ Schyman said, his voice utterly cold. ‘They daren’t risk a dirt-throwing campaign in the Evening Post right now, would do anything to avoid it, in fact. A crisis of confidence in the Federation would sabotage the merger they’ve spent four years preparing for.’

The editor-in-chief could sit still no longer and stood up to pace the room, then leaned over her. ‘Do you think I don’t get it? She got too close to your husband, didn’t she? How close? Were they fucking in your bed?’

She put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes.

‘Stop it!’ she shouted.

‘How dare you?’ he shouted back at her face. ‘How dare you exploit your position at this paper for your own sordid purposes?’

She let her hands drop, her eyes opening wide.

‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ she said in a cracked voice.

His face was quivering with rage and fury. He stared into her eyes as though he were trying to find an explanation.

‘You’re not going anywhere with that article,’ he said eventually, then stretched and walked back to his desk. ‘The moment that text leaves this building I’ll report you to the police.’

She felt her brain explode, and flew up out of her chair, setting her face ten centimetres from his. She saw him flinch.

‘Okay,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I’ll be fine. Because you know what? I know I’m right. There’s no way I can lose.’

He was dumbfounded.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘What will you say to your husband when the police arrest you for grave defamation and gross misconduct? How will he react when he finds out why she was fired? Who will get custody of your children? And what do you think will happen to your job? Surely you don’t imagine you can stay here if you publish that article in The Worker?’

Annika felt the adrenalin pumping, tore her eyes away from him and walked giddily round the desk, stopping right in front of him.

‘And what do you think will happen to you?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Do you think you’ll still be sitting at this desk after I explain how it all happened, including your threat to crush me because of my desperate attempt to save my marriage? Do you imagine that you’ll have an ounce of credibility left once you block an article that reveals the worst abuse of media power in modern times? How you’ve exploited unpublished information about a minister obtained by the paper in an attempt to blackmail her into destroying a business competitor? And what about the Newspaper Publishers’ Association? Do you imagine for a moment that you’ll get to be chair? You’re finished, Schyman. I might go down with you, but you’re going to fall a hell of a lot harder.’

He stared at her. She felt her eyes burning and returned his gaze.

There was something dark and unfathomable in there, shadows of desire and ambition and social conscience that had been shaped and misshaped by time and experience. When thoughts and problems were poured into the editor-in-chief’s head, they didn’t run smoothly in straight lines. They jolted and twisted along the tracks carved by previous experiences, but their path was still logical.

Anders Schyman was a pragmatist. He would do whatever was required for him and his pet project to escape as unscathed as possible.

She suddenly had to smile.

‘So what would happen if we ran the piece?’ he said quietly, doubt rising behind his larynx.

She felt her eyes calm down.

‘The Evening Post reinforces its position as the last outpost of freedom of expression,’ she said, ‘stifling any doubts about what we stand for these days. We alone stand for truth and democracy. Without us the barbarians would run amok.’

‘Thin,’ he said.

‘Depends entirely on how we present it,’ Annika replied. ‘People will believe us if we believe it.’

He sat up, reached for a bottle of mineral water, drank some, and looked at her under his brow.

‘You’re bluffing,’ he said, once he had put the bottle down. ‘You’d never do this to the paper.’

Annika thought for a moment.

‘Not before,’ she said, ‘but I won’t hesitate now.’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ Schyman said.

She sat down on the desk, rested her elbows on her knees, put her hands together and leaned forward.

‘Do you know,’ she said quietly, ‘you might well be right; but only you and I know that. If you try to stop me publishing this because you think I’m mentally ill, you’ll make things even worse.’

He shook his head. ‘If I were to even contemplate publishing this, I’d be finished, utterly finished,’ he said, so quietly she could hardly hear him.

‘But don’t you see how wrong you are?’ Annika said. ‘If we get this right you can sit at that desk for ever, completely untouchable.’

He looked at her, the abyss dancing inside him, a battle of shadows.

‘Just think,’ she said, feeling her eyes narrow. ‘We tell it exactly how it is, the whole story, how we discovered that Karina Björnlund was a member of a terrorist cell, how I told you, you told the chairman of the board, he sent an email to the minister and demanded an urgent meeting – I’ve got the register number of the email – how he exploited what we knew, you and me, to blackmail the minister into changing a government proposal in order to close down a television channel that posed a threat to the interests of our proprietors. But now we’re revealing the truth, in spite of the danger, you had the nerve to do it, you’re legally responsible for what we publish and you’re the chair of the Newspaper Publishers’ Association, and you took your responsibility, in spite of all the pressure.’

‘It won’t work,’ he said quietly.

She gave a thin smile. ‘Yes it will. And you know why? Because it’s true.’

‘It isn’t worth the risk,’ he said.

‘If this isn’t,’ she said, ‘then what is? What are we for? To provide a dividend on our proprietors’ shares, or to protect democracy?’

‘It’s not that simple,’ he said.

‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s precisely that simple.’

She stood up, picking up her bag and hanging it on her shoulder.

‘I’m going now,’ she said.

‘But it was only a crap American commercial channel,’ he said.

‘That doesn’t make any difference,’ she said.

She saw the air go out of him as he slumped back.

‘Wait,’ he said, holding up one hand. ‘Don’t go yet. You’re not serious?’

She swayed a little.

‘Yes I am,’ she said.

Silence spread out around her, large and heavy and dark. She stood there, halfway to the door, and looked at him, saw the doubts and various alternatives coursing through him.

‘The owners would have the whole edition withdrawn,’ he said.

‘True,’ she said.

‘This mustn’t leak out,’ he said.

‘No, it mustn’t,’ she said.

‘So we can’t run it through the newsroom.’

She didn’t reply, allowing the dizzying conclusions to settle in his head.

‘All the work will have to be done in here,’ he went on. ‘That means you and me. Can you do layout?’

‘More or less.’

He shut his eyes, and covered them with his hands for a few seconds.

‘How many pages are we talking about?’

‘Four spreads,’ she said. ‘Plus the front and the leader.’

He sat silent, thinking, for an infinitely long minute before he spoke.

‘I’ll call the printers and tell them to shift half the news section.’

‘Extra pages?’

‘Two plates is enough,’ Schyman said, ‘eight pages.’

‘Is there anyone we can trust to keep quiet at the printers?’

‘Bob. He can set the plates. How quick are you with Quark?’

She dropped her bag on the floor.

‘Not very.’

She looked at his eyes. Concentration had drawn a veil of decisiveness and determination over them.

‘It’s going to be a long night,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said.