that we will be writing about your wife in tomorrow's paper."
"You already have," the man said.
"Yes, we have been covering the bomb attack, the event itself."
"Weren't you the ones with that photo? The photo where…"
His voice cracked as he started sobbing. Annika put her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. God, the man had seen Henriksson's picture of the doctors picking up the pieces of his wife. God almighty! She soundlessly drew a breath.
"Yes, that was us," she said calmly. "I regret we couldn't warn you we would run that picture, but we have only now found out that your wife was the victim. I couldn't call any sooner. I apologize if the picture caused you suffering. That's why I believe it's vital to talk to you now. We will continue writing about this tomorrow."
The man was crying.
"If there's anything you want to say, I'm here," Annika said. "If you have any complaints or want us to write, or not write, about something in particular, we want you to tell us. Mr. Milander?"
He blew his nose.
"I'm still here," he said.
Annika looked up and through the glass wall saw the phalanx of media beginning to leave the building. Quickly she pushed the door open and went outside to stand next to the steps. Through the earpiece she heard two signals announce that someone was trying to get through to the other phone.
"I understand how completely awful this must be for you," she said. "I can't even begin to understand what it must be like. But this is a world event, one of the worst crimes ever committed in this country. Your wife was a prominent figure and a role model to the women of Sweden. That's why it's our duty to cover the event. And that's why I appeal to you to talk to us, to give us a chance to be respectful. Just tell me how you want it. We could make things even worse by writing the wrong things and unintentionally hurt you."
The call-waiting signal again. The man was wavering.
"I'll give you my own and my editor's direct numbers, and then you can call when you feel ready…"
"Come here," the man cut in. "I want to talk."
Annika closed her eyes and was ashamed of the exultation she felt inside. She had an interview with the victim's husband! She took the secret address, jotting it down on the back of a taxi receipt she found in her pocket. Before she had time to consider the ethics of it, she quickly added:
"Your phone will be ringing without interruption from now on. Don't hesitate to switch it off if you feel it's too much for you."
She had got hold of him. It would be best if no one else did.
She pushed inside the building to find her colleagues. The first one she bumped into was Berit.
"I got hold of the family," she said. "I'll take Henriksson and go there now. You do Furhage's last hours and Patrik the hunt for the murderer. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Berit said. "Henriksson is somewhere at the back. He dragged Kjell Lindström out to get a picture of him. It's probably quicker to go around…"
Annika rushed out and, sure enough, found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, the street around the corner from police headquarters. He was perched on a paper recycling container with Lindström below him and the steel-mesh corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindström and then pulled the young photographer along with her.
"Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow," she told him.
* * *
Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left.
"You already have," the man said.
"Yes, we have been covering the bomb attack, the event itself."
"Weren't you the ones with that photo? The photo where…"
His voice cracked as he started sobbing. Annika put her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. God, the man had seen Henriksson's picture of the doctors picking up the pieces of his wife. God almighty! She soundlessly drew a breath.
"Yes, that was us," she said calmly. "I regret we couldn't warn you we would run that picture, but we have only now found out that your wife was the victim. I couldn't call any sooner. I apologize if the picture caused you suffering. That's why I believe it's vital to talk to you now. We will continue writing about this tomorrow."
The man was crying.
"If there's anything you want to say, I'm here," Annika said. "If you have any complaints or want us to write, or not write, about something in particular, we want you to tell us. Mr. Milander?"
He blew his nose.
"I'm still here," he said.
Annika looked up and through the glass wall saw the phalanx of media beginning to leave the building. Quickly she pushed the door open and went outside to stand next to the steps. Through the earpiece she heard two signals announce that someone was trying to get through to the other phone.
"I understand how completely awful this must be for you," she said. "I can't even begin to understand what it must be like. But this is a world event, one of the worst crimes ever committed in this country. Your wife was a prominent figure and a role model to the women of Sweden. That's why it's our duty to cover the event. And that's why I appeal to you to talk to us, to give us a chance to be respectful. Just tell me how you want it. We could make things even worse by writing the wrong things and unintentionally hurt you."
The call-waiting signal again. The man was wavering.
"I'll give you my own and my editor's direct numbers, and then you can call when you feel ready…"
"Come here," the man cut in. "I want to talk."
Annika closed her eyes and was ashamed of the exultation she felt inside. She had an interview with the victim's husband! She took the secret address, jotting it down on the back of a taxi receipt she found in her pocket. Before she had time to consider the ethics of it, she quickly added:
"Your phone will be ringing without interruption from now on. Don't hesitate to switch it off if you feel it's too much for you."
She had got hold of him. It would be best if no one else did.
She pushed inside the building to find her colleagues. The first one she bumped into was Berit.
"I got hold of the family," she said. "I'll take Henriksson and go there now. You do Furhage's last hours and Patrik the hunt for the murderer. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Berit said. "Henriksson is somewhere at the back. He dragged Kjell Lindström out to get a picture of him. It's probably quicker to go around…"
Annika rushed out and, sure enough, found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, the street around the corner from police headquarters. He was perched on a paper recycling container with Lindström below him and the steel-mesh corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindström and then pulled the young photographer along with her.
"Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow," she told him.
* * *
Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left.
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