drink.
Thirty seconds later he was a member of the gang.
*
Annika had her feet on the desk and was eating a prepacked salad containing vegetables that had been shipped halfway round the planet and tasted accordingly. Valter had gone out to get a hamburger, so she took the opportunity to Skype Berit, who was sitting in her hotel room in Norway, writing something as they talked. The camera on her computer was slightly crooked and all Annika could see was one wall and a bit of Berit’s hair.
‘Today I interviewed a girl from Norrköping, a literary scholar, who moved to Oslo six months ago,’ Berit said. ‘She spends eight hours a day sitting in a fruit factory peeling bananas.’
At least a hundred thousand Swedes worked in Norway, most of them doing jobs that the Norwegians refused to do. Berit was writing a series of articles about the new Swedish underclass.
‘My brother-in-law is there this week trying to find a job,’ Annika said. ‘I doubt he’s even going to get one peeling bananas.’
‘Maybe I should talk to him about his dreams and ambitions,’ Berit said.
‘It would be a very short interview,’ Annika said.
Tore, one of the caretakers, appeared beside her desk, evidently keen to talk to her. He seemed so cross that Annika wondered if he was personally acquainted with Steven, her hopeless brother-in-law. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he said.
‘Who is it, and what do they want?’
‘A Marianne Berg-Something. Says she wants to talk to you.’
Berit adjusted her camera so Annika could see her chin, hands and chest.
‘She’s the CD woman from yesterday,’ Annika told Berit, but at that moment she realized that Marianne Berg-Holmlund had followed Tore into the newsroom and was standing right behind him.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Annika said, clicking to close the connection with Berit and standing up to greet the woman.
Tore wandered back to the caretaker’s desk.
‘The seedy woman,’ Marianne Berg-Holmlund repeated. Annika felt herself blush.
She had looked her up after their meeting: the woman was a member of the Christian Democratic Party committee, their International Council, and the executive board of Stockholm City Council. ‘You did seem rather isolated among all those seedy men,’ Annika said, gesturing her to Berit’s chair. ‘What can I do for you?’
The woman sat down cautiously and fiddled with her handbag. It was a multi-coloured Louis Vuitton, so vulgar that it was probably genuine.
‘I’d like to talk to you about Ingemar. Lots of us feel really desperate about what’s happened.’
Annika looked at her thoughtfully. She was clearly very uneasy. ‘What do you mean? Weren’t your colleagues telling the truth during yesterday’s interview?’
Marianne Berg-Holmlund took a handkerchief out of her bag and twisted it between her fingers. ‘I don’t know how to say this … My friends in the party, they don’t know Ingemar …’
Annika picked up a pen and notepad.
‘They talk about what happened as if they knew him,’ the woman said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘As if they cared. They’ve got no idea, and they can’t imagine …’ She blew her nose loudly.
‘Are you referring to Ingemar’s resignation?’ Annika wondered.
She nodded. ‘Among other things. Do you have to tell anyone that I’ve been here? Can I be anonymous?’
Annika glanced around. Marianne Berg-Holmlund was sitting in the middle of the newsroom of the largest evening paper in Sweden (if you were counting printed copies, of course), talking to a reporter, and she thought no one would notice? ‘If you want to give me information anonymously, then that’s your prerogative. I’ll never tell anyone what you’ve told me, if you don’t want me to. On the other hand, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to publish anything.’
Berg-Holmlund nodded eagerly and took a deep breath. ‘They make out that they’re supporting Ingemar now, but I know they called the
Thirty seconds later he was a member of the gang.
*
Annika had her feet on the desk and was eating a prepacked salad containing vegetables that had been shipped halfway round the planet and tasted accordingly. Valter had gone out to get a hamburger, so she took the opportunity to Skype Berit, who was sitting in her hotel room in Norway, writing something as they talked. The camera on her computer was slightly crooked and all Annika could see was one wall and a bit of Berit’s hair.
‘Today I interviewed a girl from Norrköping, a literary scholar, who moved to Oslo six months ago,’ Berit said. ‘She spends eight hours a day sitting in a fruit factory peeling bananas.’
At least a hundred thousand Swedes worked in Norway, most of them doing jobs that the Norwegians refused to do. Berit was writing a series of articles about the new Swedish underclass.
‘My brother-in-law is there this week trying to find a job,’ Annika said. ‘I doubt he’s even going to get one peeling bananas.’
‘Maybe I should talk to him about his dreams and ambitions,’ Berit said.
‘It would be a very short interview,’ Annika said.
Tore, one of the caretakers, appeared beside her desk, evidently keen to talk to her. He seemed so cross that Annika wondered if he was personally acquainted with Steven, her hopeless brother-in-law. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he said.
‘Who is it, and what do they want?’
‘A Marianne Berg-Something. Says she wants to talk to you.’
Berit adjusted her camera so Annika could see her chin, hands and chest.
‘She’s the CD woman from yesterday,’ Annika told Berit, but at that moment she realized that Marianne Berg-Holmlund had followed Tore into the newsroom and was standing right behind him.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Annika said, clicking to close the connection with Berit and standing up to greet the woman.
Tore wandered back to the caretaker’s desk.
‘The seedy woman,’ Marianne Berg-Holmlund repeated. Annika felt herself blush.
She had looked her up after their meeting: the woman was a member of the Christian Democratic Party committee, their International Council, and the executive board of Stockholm City Council. ‘You did seem rather isolated among all those seedy men,’ Annika said, gesturing her to Berit’s chair. ‘What can I do for you?’
The woman sat down cautiously and fiddled with her handbag. It was a multi-coloured Louis Vuitton, so vulgar that it was probably genuine.
‘I’d like to talk to you about Ingemar. Lots of us feel really desperate about what’s happened.’
Annika looked at her thoughtfully. She was clearly very uneasy. ‘What do you mean? Weren’t your colleagues telling the truth during yesterday’s interview?’
Marianne Berg-Holmlund took a handkerchief out of her bag and twisted it between her fingers. ‘I don’t know how to say this … My friends in the party, they don’t know Ingemar …’
Annika picked up a pen and notepad.
‘They talk about what happened as if they knew him,’ the woman said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘As if they cared. They’ve got no idea, and they can’t imagine …’ She blew her nose loudly.
‘Are you referring to Ingemar’s resignation?’ Annika wondered.
She nodded. ‘Among other things. Do you have to tell anyone that I’ve been here? Can I be anonymous?’
Annika glanced around. Marianne Berg-Holmlund was sitting in the middle of the newsroom of the largest evening paper in Sweden (if you were counting printed copies, of course), talking to a reporter, and she thought no one would notice? ‘If you want to give me information anonymously, then that’s your prerogative. I’ll never tell anyone what you’ve told me, if you don’t want me to. On the other hand, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to publish anything.’
Berg-Holmlund nodded eagerly and took a deep breath. ‘They make out that they’re supporting Ingemar now, but I know they called the
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