and copy."
"I've just put some dough aside to rise," Eva-Britt Qvist said.
"Oh, that's a shame," Annika said. "But big things are happening here today, and the rest of us are a bit out of it. Patrik was here until half past four this morning, I worked from a quarter past three in the morning until eleven at night yesterday, Berit about the same. And we need help with what is really your job, looking things up in databases and compiling material…"
"I'm sorry, I've already said I can't," Eva-Britt Qvist said. "I do have a family."
Annika swallowed the first response that came into her mind. Instead she spoke very deliberately: "Yes, I know what it's like when you have to change your plans. It's awful to disappoint your children and partner. Naturally, you'll be paid overtime or you'll get time off in lieu whenever you want. Between Christmas and New Year, or the next school holiday, whatever. But it would be really great if you could have the material ready by the time we get back from the press conference."
"I told you, I'm in the middle of baking! I can't come in!"
Annika took a deep breath. "Okay, then we'll do it this way instead, if that's what you prefer. I order you to come in. I expect you to be here in fifteen minutes."
"What about my buns?!"
"Ask your family to mould them," Annika said and hung up. To her annoyance, she noticed that her hand was shaking.
She hated this. She would never dream of doing what Eva-Britt Qvist had just done if a superior called her and asked her to do over time. If you worked at a newspaper and something big happened, you had to be prepared to come in, that's just the way it was. If you wanted a nine-to-five job, Monday to Friday, you should join the accounts office of a phone company or something like that. Other people could check the databases— she or Berit or one of the newsroom reporters. But in a situation like this, everyone was hard-pressed. And everyone wanted to celebrate Christmas. It made sense to distribute the workload as fairly as possible and let everyone do their bit, even if it was Sunday. She couldn't climb down and let Eva-Britt off the hook because that would make her life as a manager hell. The kind of disrespect the crime-desk secretary had just shown her would not be rewarded with days off. She wished she could just fire the bitch.
"Eva-Britt's coming in," she said to the others, thinking she saw the shadow of a smile on Berit's face.
* * *
They took two cars to the press conference. Annika and Berit in one, together with the photographer Johan Henriksson, and Patrik in the other with Ulf Olsson. The media pack was, if possible, even more hysterical today. Henriksson had to park on Kungsholm's Square half a mile away; both Bergsgatan and Agnegatan, the streets running alongside the police headquarters, were solid with OB vans and Volvos with large media logos on them. Annika enjoyed the short walk. The air was clear and fresh after the previous day's snowfall, the top floors of the buildings aglow in the sharp sunlight. The snow crunched under their shoes.
"I live over there," she said, pointing at the newly renovated nineteenth-century apartment building further up on Hantverkargatan.
"Do you rent or own?" Berit asked.
"Secure tenancy," Annika said.
"How did you get hold of an apartment there?" Henriksson said, thinking of his sublet in the outer southern suburbs.
"Stubbornness," Annika replied. "I got a short lease in the house eight years ago. A small two-bedroom apartment with no mod cons at the back of the block. There was a communal bathroom in the basement of the adjoining house. The house was scheduled for a renovation and I was given a six-month lease. But then the recession came and the owner went bust. No one wanted to buy the place, and after five years I got tenancy rights. By then there were almost four of us in that small
"I've just put some dough aside to rise," Eva-Britt Qvist said.
"Oh, that's a shame," Annika said. "But big things are happening here today, and the rest of us are a bit out of it. Patrik was here until half past four this morning, I worked from a quarter past three in the morning until eleven at night yesterday, Berit about the same. And we need help with what is really your job, looking things up in databases and compiling material…"
"I'm sorry, I've already said I can't," Eva-Britt Qvist said. "I do have a family."
Annika swallowed the first response that came into her mind. Instead she spoke very deliberately: "Yes, I know what it's like when you have to change your plans. It's awful to disappoint your children and partner. Naturally, you'll be paid overtime or you'll get time off in lieu whenever you want. Between Christmas and New Year, or the next school holiday, whatever. But it would be really great if you could have the material ready by the time we get back from the press conference."
"I told you, I'm in the middle of baking! I can't come in!"
Annika took a deep breath. "Okay, then we'll do it this way instead, if that's what you prefer. I order you to come in. I expect you to be here in fifteen minutes."
"What about my buns?!"
"Ask your family to mould them," Annika said and hung up. To her annoyance, she noticed that her hand was shaking.
She hated this. She would never dream of doing what Eva-Britt Qvist had just done if a superior called her and asked her to do over time. If you worked at a newspaper and something big happened, you had to be prepared to come in, that's just the way it was. If you wanted a nine-to-five job, Monday to Friday, you should join the accounts office of a phone company or something like that. Other people could check the databases— she or Berit or one of the newsroom reporters. But in a situation like this, everyone was hard-pressed. And everyone wanted to celebrate Christmas. It made sense to distribute the workload as fairly as possible and let everyone do their bit, even if it was Sunday. She couldn't climb down and let Eva-Britt off the hook because that would make her life as a manager hell. The kind of disrespect the crime-desk secretary had just shown her would not be rewarded with days off. She wished she could just fire the bitch.
"Eva-Britt's coming in," she said to the others, thinking she saw the shadow of a smile on Berit's face.
* * *
They took two cars to the press conference. Annika and Berit in one, together with the photographer Johan Henriksson, and Patrik in the other with Ulf Olsson. The media pack was, if possible, even more hysterical today. Henriksson had to park on Kungsholm's Square half a mile away; both Bergsgatan and Agnegatan, the streets running alongside the police headquarters, were solid with OB vans and Volvos with large media logos on them. Annika enjoyed the short walk. The air was clear and fresh after the previous day's snowfall, the top floors of the buildings aglow in the sharp sunlight. The snow crunched under their shoes.
"I live over there," she said, pointing at the newly renovated nineteenth-century apartment building further up on Hantverkargatan.
"Do you rent or own?" Berit asked.
"Secure tenancy," Annika said.
"How did you get hold of an apartment there?" Henriksson said, thinking of his sublet in the outer southern suburbs.
"Stubbornness," Annika replied. "I got a short lease in the house eight years ago. A small two-bedroom apartment with no mod cons at the back of the block. There was a communal bathroom in the basement of the adjoining house. The house was scheduled for a renovation and I was given a six-month lease. But then the recession came and the owner went bust. No one wanted to buy the place, and after five years I got tenancy rights. By then there were almost four of us in that small
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