Carlsson. Can’t do anything, doesn’t know anything, but looks disgustingly good in front of the camera.’
Annika laughed. ‘Isn’t that the TV industry in a nutshell?’
‘Ha, that’s easy for you to say,’ Anne said. ‘Tabloid journalists in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
Anne switched on the television, just at the start of the main news show.
‘
Et voilà
, the epitome of pretension,’ she said.
‘Shh,’ Annika said. ‘I want to hear if they’ve got anything on the Frihamnen murders.’
The news began with the after-effects of the hurricane in southern Sweden. The local news team in Malmö had been out filming wrecked bus shelters, barns with their roofs blown off, broken windows. An old man scratchedthe back of his neck as he looked at the shattered remains of his greenhouse, and said something in such a strong Skåne accent that it should have been subtitled. The scene moved to inside an energy company, where a hollow-eyed spokesman declared that they were doing everything they could to restore power supplies to all their customers that evening. And gave the number of households still without power in Skåne, Blekinge and Småland.
Annika sighed quietly. It was incredibly dull.
Then came a report on the estimated cost of the damage, reckoned to run to many million kronor. A woman had been killed in Denmark when a tree fell on her car.
‘Do they actually have trees in Denmark?’ Anne Snapphane asked.
Annika looked at her northern Swedish friend.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been that far from home, have you?’ she said.
Then came subtitled reports from Chechnya and Kosovo. Russian troops, blah, blah, Kosovo Liberation Army, blah, blah. The camera swept over bombed buildings and dirty refugees on the backs of lorries.
‘They evidently don’t care about your murder,’ Anne said.
‘It isn’t mine,’ Annika said. ‘It’s Sjölander’s.’
But, after a short item about something the Prime Minister had said, there was a live report from Frihamnen. The presenter read the details over footage of the space between the silos. They had pretty much the same information that the
Evening Post
had printed twelve hours earlier.
‘God, they never manage to come up with anything new,’ Annika said. ‘They’ve had all day and they haven’t found a thing.’
‘They don’t prioritize stuff like this,’ Anne said.
‘They’re stuck in the fifties,’ Annika said. ‘They’re happy as long as they’ve got a few moving pictures with a bit of sound. They don’t give a damn about the quality of the journalism. Unless they’re just incompetent. Their reporters are utterly useless.’
‘Amen to that,’ Anne said. ‘God’s gift to journalism has spoken. Hang on, have you eaten all the sweets? You could have saved me a couple!’
‘Sorry,’ Annika said, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I have to go.’
She left Anne in her attic flat and headed along Stora Nygatan towards Norrmalm. The air didn’t feel so sharp any more, just fresh and clean. Something inside her shifted, and she felt like bursting into song. She was standing at the pedestrian crossing by Riddarhuset, humming to herself, when a rather short man wheeling a bicycle appeared alongside her.
‘I’ve just cycled all the way from Huddinge,’ he said, making Annika jump.
The old man looked exhausted. His whole body was trembling and his nose was streaming.
‘But that’s miles away,’ Annika said. ‘Your legs must be made of rubber!’
‘Not at all,’ the old man said, tears trickling down his face. ‘I could ride just as far again.’
The pedestrian crossing turned green. As Annika started to cross the old man followed her, hanging over his bike. Annika waited for him at the other side.
‘Where are you heading?’ she asked.
‘The train,’ he whispered. ‘The train home.’
She helped him across Tegelbacken and over to the Central Station. The old man didn’t have a penny on him, so Annika
Annika laughed. ‘Isn’t that the TV industry in a nutshell?’
‘Ha, that’s easy for you to say,’ Anne said. ‘Tabloid journalists in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
Anne switched on the television, just at the start of the main news show.
‘
Et voilà
, the epitome of pretension,’ she said.
‘Shh,’ Annika said. ‘I want to hear if they’ve got anything on the Frihamnen murders.’
The news began with the after-effects of the hurricane in southern Sweden. The local news team in Malmö had been out filming wrecked bus shelters, barns with their roofs blown off, broken windows. An old man scratchedthe back of his neck as he looked at the shattered remains of his greenhouse, and said something in such a strong Skåne accent that it should have been subtitled. The scene moved to inside an energy company, where a hollow-eyed spokesman declared that they were doing everything they could to restore power supplies to all their customers that evening. And gave the number of households still without power in Skåne, Blekinge and Småland.
Annika sighed quietly. It was incredibly dull.
Then came a report on the estimated cost of the damage, reckoned to run to many million kronor. A woman had been killed in Denmark when a tree fell on her car.
‘Do they actually have trees in Denmark?’ Anne Snapphane asked.
Annika looked at her northern Swedish friend.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been that far from home, have you?’ she said.
Then came subtitled reports from Chechnya and Kosovo. Russian troops, blah, blah, Kosovo Liberation Army, blah, blah. The camera swept over bombed buildings and dirty refugees on the backs of lorries.
‘They evidently don’t care about your murder,’ Anne said.
‘It isn’t mine,’ Annika said. ‘It’s Sjölander’s.’
But, after a short item about something the Prime Minister had said, there was a live report from Frihamnen. The presenter read the details over footage of the space between the silos. They had pretty much the same information that the
Evening Post
had printed twelve hours earlier.
‘God, they never manage to come up with anything new,’ Annika said. ‘They’ve had all day and they haven’t found a thing.’
‘They don’t prioritize stuff like this,’ Anne said.
‘They’re stuck in the fifties,’ Annika said. ‘They’re happy as long as they’ve got a few moving pictures with a bit of sound. They don’t give a damn about the quality of the journalism. Unless they’re just incompetent. Their reporters are utterly useless.’
‘Amen to that,’ Anne said. ‘God’s gift to journalism has spoken. Hang on, have you eaten all the sweets? You could have saved me a couple!’
‘Sorry,’ Annika said, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I have to go.’
She left Anne in her attic flat and headed along Stora Nygatan towards Norrmalm. The air didn’t feel so sharp any more, just fresh and clean. Something inside her shifted, and she felt like bursting into song. She was standing at the pedestrian crossing by Riddarhuset, humming to herself, when a rather short man wheeling a bicycle appeared alongside her.
‘I’ve just cycled all the way from Huddinge,’ he said, making Annika jump.
The old man looked exhausted. His whole body was trembling and his nose was streaming.
‘But that’s miles away,’ Annika said. ‘Your legs must be made of rubber!’
‘Not at all,’ the old man said, tears trickling down his face. ‘I could ride just as far again.’
The pedestrian crossing turned green. As Annika started to cross the old man followed her, hanging over his bike. Annika waited for him at the other side.
‘Where are you heading?’ she asked.
‘The train,’ he whispered. ‘The train home.’
She helped him across Tegelbacken and over to the Central Station. The old man didn’t have a penny on him, so Annika
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