completely empty."
"Maybe she's doing her Christmas cleaning," Evert Danielsson said, and now both he and Helena Starke smiled. The thought of Christina in a housecoat with a feather duster in her hand was funny.
"Who called?" Helena Starke asked, putting the diary away in the drawer. The director noted that she pushed it firmly shut and turned a key in the upper right-hand corner of the drawer unit.
"Some journalist from Kvällspressen. A woman. I don't recall her name."
Helena put the key in her jeans pocket. "Why did you tell her we haven't been able to reach Christina?"
"What was I supposed to say? That she has no comment? That she's hiding? That would make it even worse." Danielsson flung his hands out to the sides in a gesture of helplessness.
"The question is…" the woman said, coming so close that he could smell the stale alcohol on her breath. "The question is: where is Christina? Why hasn't she come in? Wherever she is, has to be in a place where she hasn't been getting any news whatsoever, right? Where the hell could that be? Any ideas?"
"Her country cottage?"
Helena looked at him with pity. "Please… And that terrorist bullshit you came out with at the press conference wasn't very smart, was it? What do you think Christina will say about that?"
Evert Danielsson lost his temper now; the overwhelming feeling of failure felt stiflingly unjust. "But that's what we agreed on. You were there when we discussed it. It wasn't only my view. On the contrary, we were going to seize the initiative and direct public opinion straight away. We all agreed on that."
Helena turned away and started walking toward the door.
"It got a bit embarrassing when the police denied it all with such emphasis. On TV you appeared hysterical and paranoid— not particularly becoming."
She turned around in the doorway and put a hand on the doorpost. "Are you staying in here or can I lock up?"
The director left Christina Furhage's room without a word.
* * *
The evening news meeting took place around the large conference table in the editor's office. TV1's Aktuellt news would start in fifteen minutes. Everybody except the night editor Jansson was present.
"He'll be here," Annika said. "He's just…"
"He/she is just" is the code for delays caused by general disturbances or other b.s.— reporters who don't know what they're supposed to do or readers on the phone who simply have to state their opinions at that very moment. It can also mean you've gone to the toilet or to get coffee.
The participants around the table were preparing or waiting. Annika went through her list of points to be presented during the meeting. She didn't have a long list like Ingvar Johansson, the news editor, who was handing out slips of paper with the different jobs in progress to the people around the table. The picture editor, Pelle Oscarsson, was on his cellphone. The editor was rocking to and fro on his feet, staring unseeing at the muted TV.
"Sorry," the night editor said as he hurtled into the room, coffee mug in one hand and the dummies for all the pages of the paper in the other. He was barely awake and was into his second mug. Naturally, he spilled some coffee on the floor as he shut the door. Anders Schyman noticed and sighed.
"Okay," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. "Let's begin with the Bomber. What have we got?"
Annika didn't wait for Ingvar Johansson but started talking straight away. She knew the news editor liked to go through the whole lot, including her patch. She wasn't going to sit around and wait for that.
"The way I see it, there'll be four stories from us on the crime desk," she said. "We won't be able to escape the terrorist angle. Evert Danielsson himself brought it up at the press conference, but the police want it toned down. That in itself could be a story.
"Maybe she's doing her Christmas cleaning," Evert Danielsson said, and now both he and Helena Starke smiled. The thought of Christina in a housecoat with a feather duster in her hand was funny.
"Who called?" Helena Starke asked, putting the diary away in the drawer. The director noted that she pushed it firmly shut and turned a key in the upper right-hand corner of the drawer unit.
"Some journalist from Kvällspressen. A woman. I don't recall her name."
Helena put the key in her jeans pocket. "Why did you tell her we haven't been able to reach Christina?"
"What was I supposed to say? That she has no comment? That she's hiding? That would make it even worse." Danielsson flung his hands out to the sides in a gesture of helplessness.
"The question is…" the woman said, coming so close that he could smell the stale alcohol on her breath. "The question is: where is Christina? Why hasn't she come in? Wherever she is, has to be in a place where she hasn't been getting any news whatsoever, right? Where the hell could that be? Any ideas?"
"Her country cottage?"
Helena looked at him with pity. "Please… And that terrorist bullshit you came out with at the press conference wasn't very smart, was it? What do you think Christina will say about that?"
Evert Danielsson lost his temper now; the overwhelming feeling of failure felt stiflingly unjust. "But that's what we agreed on. You were there when we discussed it. It wasn't only my view. On the contrary, we were going to seize the initiative and direct public opinion straight away. We all agreed on that."
Helena turned away and started walking toward the door.
"It got a bit embarrassing when the police denied it all with such emphasis. On TV you appeared hysterical and paranoid— not particularly becoming."
She turned around in the doorway and put a hand on the doorpost. "Are you staying in here or can I lock up?"
The director left Christina Furhage's room without a word.
* * *
The evening news meeting took place around the large conference table in the editor's office. TV1's Aktuellt news would start in fifteen minutes. Everybody except the night editor Jansson was present.
"He'll be here," Annika said. "He's just…"
"He/she is just" is the code for delays caused by general disturbances or other b.s.— reporters who don't know what they're supposed to do or readers on the phone who simply have to state their opinions at that very moment. It can also mean you've gone to the toilet or to get coffee.
The participants around the table were preparing or waiting. Annika went through her list of points to be presented during the meeting. She didn't have a long list like Ingvar Johansson, the news editor, who was handing out slips of paper with the different jobs in progress to the people around the table. The picture editor, Pelle Oscarsson, was on his cellphone. The editor was rocking to and fro on his feet, staring unseeing at the muted TV.
"Sorry," the night editor said as he hurtled into the room, coffee mug in one hand and the dummies for all the pages of the paper in the other. He was barely awake and was into his second mug. Naturally, he spilled some coffee on the floor as he shut the door. Anders Schyman noticed and sighed.
"Okay," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. "Let's begin with the Bomber. What have we got?"
Annika didn't wait for Ingvar Johansson but started talking straight away. She knew the news editor liked to go through the whole lot, including her patch. She wasn't going to sit around and wait for that.
"The way I see it, there'll be four stories from us on the crime desk," she said. "We won't be able to escape the terrorist angle. Evert Danielsson himself brought it up at the press conference, but the police want it toned down. That in itself could be a story.
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