“Just do the interview and we’ll make the ethical decisions back here in the newsroom,” shouted Grenfors. “See to it that you go out there to meet her. I want it on tonight’s program. I’ve already promised the interview to Aktuellt, Rapport, and 24.”
“And all of them want it?” asked Johan dubiously.
“You bet they do. So get going. Otherwise she might change her mind and talk to somebody else!”
“Fine. Let TV3 interview her, or the newspapers if they want to. But I won’t do it.”
“So you refuse?” Grenfors went on.
“What do you mean by ‘refuse’?”
“You won’t carry out the assignment that I’ve asked you to do. That’s a dereliction of duty, damn it!”
“Call it whatever you like. I’m not going to do it.”
Johan closed his phone, bright red in the face. His breath was visible in big billowing puffs all around him. He turned to Peter and the farmer.
“What a fucking pig.”
“To hell with him,” said Peter, in an attempt to console him. “Let’s get back to work. I’m freezing to death.”
The farmer, who had listened in astonishment to the phone argument while he waited to be filmed, was now interviewed. He told them about the car that he had seen driving along the tractor path one evening two weeks earlier when he was out in the barn tending to the evening milking. As he was crossing the barnyard, he saw lights from the road. No one ever drove out here so late at night. He couldn’t say what type of car it was. He had stopped and waited for a while, but when the car didn’t reappear, he gave up and went inside his house.
Johan and Peter headed back to town. They were planning two reports, one that dealt with the police work and another that focused on the feeling of shock the day after among the schoolkids, the stable staff, the neighbors, and the ordinary citizens of Visby.
Many had still been hoping that Fanny would be found alive, even though hope had dwindled with each day that passed. Now there was a great sense of sorrow.
Back at the hotel that evening, Johan tried to get hold of Grenfors, but the editor refused to talk to him. He had found a trainee to do the interview with Fanny’s mother, but after discussions with the producer and editors, the piece was never aired. No one else seemed to be interested in it, either. It’s just a matter of prestige, thought Johan when a colleague later recounted on the phone the wrangling going on in the newsroom. Good Lord, sometimes his job was like kindergarten.
The important thing was never to forget your purpose and to keep asking yourself why you were doing a particular story and whether it had general interest. And then you had to weigh that against the harm that you might cause people. He was sure that he had made the right decision when he refused to contact Majvor Jansson. No one could make him interview people who were in shock.
That was one lesson he had learned after all his years working in TV. On a few occasions he had done what some overzealous editor wanted and interviewed people who had just lost a loved one or who had been involved in an accident. Just in order to be accommodating. Afterward he had realized that it was wrong. Even though at the time of the interviews the individuals had wanted to talk in order to share their grief or to draw attention to a problem, they were confused and unable to think clearly. To dump the responsibility on them was indefensible. Besides, they didn’t comprehend the scope of their participation. The impact of TV was enormous. Images and interviews could be repeated in all kinds of contexts, without allowing the person involved any opportunity to stop them. And each time his or her grief would be torn wide open.
She felt as if she were in a soundproof glass bubble, cut off from the rest of the world. Someone had pulled the cord, stopped the noise, brought the merry-go-round to a halt.
Emma was lying on her back on the floor of Viveka’s small living room. Her friend was away for the weekend, so she had plenty of peace and quiet to think things through.
It was very tranquil in the living room. She didn’t want any disturbing sounds-no radio, no TV, no music. She wished she could sink deep into an undemanding darkness that would simply embrace her.
Another body was growing inside of her body. A tiny human being that was part of her and Johan. Half him and half her. She closed her eyes and ran her hand over her smooth abdomen. Nothing was visible on the outside yet, but her body was sending her signals. Her breasts were tender, she had started suffering from morning sickness, and her craving for oranges was just as strong as during her previous pregnancies. She wondered what kind of person was inside her. A girl or a boy? A little sister or a little brother?
She let the tips of her fingers move in circles under her shirt, sliding down to her crotch and then back up to her sore nipples. The baby was telling her that he or she was inside, already taking nourishment through the umbilical cord, and growing bigger every day. She had figured out that she was in her eighth week. How far had the fetus developed? She and Olle had followed closely the various stages of development when she was pregnant with Sara and Filip. He had read aloud to her from a book about what was happening each week. They had been so filled with anticipation.
Now everything was different. This weekend she would have to make a decision. To have the baby or not. She had made a promise to Olle. He had reacted with surprising composure to the news that she was pregnant, even though it was quite clear that he was not the father. With icy determination he had told her that if she decided to have the child, their divorce would be inevitable. He had no intention of taking care of Johan’s kid and being saddled with her lover for the rest of his life. If they were going to continue as a family, there was only one choice-to get rid of it, as he said. Get rid of it. The words sounded absurd to her ears. As if it were merely a matter of picking off a scab. Just scrape it off and flush it down the toilet.
She wished that someone else could make this decision for her. No matter which option she chose, it was going to be trouble.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 17
On Monday morning the phone began ringing the minute Knutas stepped through the doors of police headquarters.
“Hi, this is Ove Andersson, the building superintendent at Jungmansgatan. We met in connection with the murder of Henry Dahlstrom.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, the thing is that we’re cleaning out the darkroom that Dahlstrom was using here. It’s going to be a storage room for bicycles again. I’m standing in the room right now.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve found something odd, behind a vent. It’s a plastic bag with a package inside. It’s taped up and I didn’t want to open it because I thought I might destroy some evidence.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a brown paper package with ordinary tape around it, very lightweight, about the same size as a stack of postcards.”
Under Knutas’s intense supervision, Sohlman opened the carefully wrapped package, which had been delivered to the crime tech division. It turned out to contain photographs. Rather blurry, but there was no doubt about the subject matter. Almost identical, they all seemed to have been taken from the same angle. In the pictures they could distinguish a man who was having intercourse with a young woman, or rather a girl. She seemed to be half the size of the man. Her face was hidden, partly by him and partly by her long black hair. Her arms were stretched up in an unnatural position, as if she had been tied to something. The man was bending over her, almost covering the girl’s body with his, but one of her legs was visible. She had dark skin.
Sohlman and Knutas looked at each other.
“It must be Fanny Jansson,” Knutas said at last. “But who’s the man?”
“God only knows.”