the TV screen.
Whenever the discussions were at their most heated, Grenfors would shout at Johan that he was a damned bleeding-heart reporter, meaning that he always thought too much about the consequences of his reporting.
There was a school of journalism that advocated remaining neutral when it came to consequences; Grenfors belonged to that school, but Johan did not. He thought that journalists had a responsibility that extended beyond the publication of an interview. And this was especially true of crime reporting, when both the victim and family members became part of the story. This responsibility particularly came into play with TV because of its enormous and widespread impact.
He was tired of this discussion, which was constantly coming up. Every day there were new positions to be taken, which always promoted new disputes. He and Pia had spent half of Sunday evening bickering about the photo of Egon Wallin. Johan had been against publication, but both Pia and the editorial management disagreed with him. In the end he was forced to go along with a brief shot from a distance showing the body hanging from the gate. By then only a few minutes remained before the broadcast, and they risked having the entire spot dropped if no decision was reached.
B ut today was a new day, and Johan and Pia had agreed to start off with the gallery, provided it was open after the events that had occurred. They at least hoped to find someone working there.
As they drove, Pia peeked at him from under the straggly black fringe that hung into her eyes. ‘You’re not angry, are you?’
‘Of course not. We just happen to disagree.’
‘Good,’ she said, patting his knee.
‘I wonder who that was inside the gallery yesterday,’ said Johan, just to change the subject.
‘Maybe it was an employee who saw us arrive and didn’t feel like talking,’ said Pia. ‘They must have to clean up the place after an opening.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘And maybe they needed to have a chat about what happened,’ said Pia, swerving to miss a big orange cat that ran across the road.
She expertly steered the car through the narrow cobblestoned streets and parked in the middle of Stora Torget. That was no problem in the wintertime when the open marketplace was empty of all the booths and vendors’ stalls that filled the square in the summer.
Pia set up her equipment on the street and began filming. Just as she turned on the camera, a plump older woman wearing a sheepskin coat and cap came walking over with a bouquet of flowers in her hand.
Johan quickly approached with a microphone. ‘What do you think about the murder?’
The woman looked a bit hesitant at first, but quickly collected herself. ‘It’s dreadful that something like that could happen here, in little Visby.And he was such a nice man, Egon. Always friendly and amiable. It’s hard to believe that this has actually happened.’ ‘Why are you bringing flowers here?’
‘It’s the least I can do to honour Egon. Everybody is terribly shocked.’
‘Does it make you scared?’
‘You do start thinking about the fact that a crazy man might be on the loose. And whether it’s even safe to go out any more.’
The woman had tears in her eyes. She fell silent and waved her hand to indicate that Pia should stop filming. Johan asked whether he could use her in his report. She agreed and clearly spelled her name for him.
A modern sign made of steel was posted between the medieval masonry anchors in the rough stone facade, stating that the name of the gallery was Wallin Art. In the display window was a photograph of Egon Wallin with a lit candle in front of it. When they tried the door, they found that it was locked, but they could see people moving about inside. Johan pounded on the door and managed to catch a woman’s attention. She came over and opened the door for them. A bell rang as they entered. The woman introduced herself as Eva Blom. At a counter stood another
Whenever the discussions were at their most heated, Grenfors would shout at Johan that he was a damned bleeding-heart reporter, meaning that he always thought too much about the consequences of his reporting.
There was a school of journalism that advocated remaining neutral when it came to consequences; Grenfors belonged to that school, but Johan did not. He thought that journalists had a responsibility that extended beyond the publication of an interview. And this was especially true of crime reporting, when both the victim and family members became part of the story. This responsibility particularly came into play with TV because of its enormous and widespread impact.
He was tired of this discussion, which was constantly coming up. Every day there were new positions to be taken, which always promoted new disputes. He and Pia had spent half of Sunday evening bickering about the photo of Egon Wallin. Johan had been against publication, but both Pia and the editorial management disagreed with him. In the end he was forced to go along with a brief shot from a distance showing the body hanging from the gate. By then only a few minutes remained before the broadcast, and they risked having the entire spot dropped if no decision was reached.
B ut today was a new day, and Johan and Pia had agreed to start off with the gallery, provided it was open after the events that had occurred. They at least hoped to find someone working there.
As they drove, Pia peeked at him from under the straggly black fringe that hung into her eyes. ‘You’re not angry, are you?’
‘Of course not. We just happen to disagree.’
‘Good,’ she said, patting his knee.
‘I wonder who that was inside the gallery yesterday,’ said Johan, just to change the subject.
‘Maybe it was an employee who saw us arrive and didn’t feel like talking,’ said Pia. ‘They must have to clean up the place after an opening.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘And maybe they needed to have a chat about what happened,’ said Pia, swerving to miss a big orange cat that ran across the road.
She expertly steered the car through the narrow cobblestoned streets and parked in the middle of Stora Torget. That was no problem in the wintertime when the open marketplace was empty of all the booths and vendors’ stalls that filled the square in the summer.
Pia set up her equipment on the street and began filming. Just as she turned on the camera, a plump older woman wearing a sheepskin coat and cap came walking over with a bouquet of flowers in her hand.
Johan quickly approached with a microphone. ‘What do you think about the murder?’
The woman looked a bit hesitant at first, but quickly collected herself. ‘It’s dreadful that something like that could happen here, in little Visby.And he was such a nice man, Egon. Always friendly and amiable. It’s hard to believe that this has actually happened.’ ‘Why are you bringing flowers here?’
‘It’s the least I can do to honour Egon. Everybody is terribly shocked.’
‘Does it make you scared?’
‘You do start thinking about the fact that a crazy man might be on the loose. And whether it’s even safe to go out any more.’
The woman had tears in her eyes. She fell silent and waved her hand to indicate that Pia should stop filming. Johan asked whether he could use her in his report. She agreed and clearly spelled her name for him.
A modern sign made of steel was posted between the medieval masonry anchors in the rough stone facade, stating that the name of the gallery was Wallin Art. In the display window was a photograph of Egon Wallin with a lit candle in front of it. When they tried the door, they found that it was locked, but they could see people moving about inside. Johan pounded on the door and managed to catch a woman’s attention. She came over and opened the door for them. A bell rang as they entered. The woman introduced herself as Eva Blom. At a counter stood another
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