the hotel bill and come back to Stockholm.
This wasn’t front-page news. It was something that could be discussed in science programs and explored on the culture pages—but as an explosive story, the Æsir murder was definitely banished to the archives.
F ar, far,
far
back in the archives.
7
A Secret
I t was nearly five o’clock on the intern’s last day, and there was a send-off for him at
Dalakuriren
’s meeting table. He said his good-byes and sneaked off toward the stairs to the parking garage. When he’d made it halfway, he heard footsteps behind him, then felt the news director’s hand on his shoulder. Through labored breaths, the director offered him one last job. The intern had already opened his mouth to say no, when the news director spat out the three crucial syllables: “Erik Hall.”
Here’s the thing, the news director said when he had managed to catch his breath—that tiresome diver had called time and again the past week, asking what was going to happen with the
Dalakuriren
interview. What was up, were they still interested?
The mine story was dead and buried. But now something for the Saturday supplement had not come through, and there would be a gaping hole between the ads. Maybe the article didn’t need to be too long? Just a little weekend profile with the Dala diver who had been in the mass-media limelight for such a short time.
T he diver hadn’t said anything unexpected, but it was enough to get five thousand characters, one page in
Dalakuriren
’s Saturday section. The intern hadn’t planned to put his byline on some portrait of a hero anyway, so now there was just the part about the pictures …
The intern turned off his computer and walked with his head held high through the reporters’ corridor. He sauntered past the coffee machine and turned left where he found the photographer leaning over an evening paper at the scratched layout table. The photographer was a part-timer just out of high school, hired so that she could gain experience. She had a ponytail and was quite heavily made up, and her childishly round cheeks revealed that she could hardly be twenty years old. The intern asked her to take a few pictures that felt fresh. Nothing with that diving suit that had been in every paper.
The photographer nodded, excited for the opportunity. She heaved the heavy camera case up onto her shoulder, grabbed her denim jacket, and disappeared down toward the staff cars in the parking lot.
*
“W elcome to Svartbäck,” said Erik Hall. “You’d like some coffee, right? I’ve just put some on.”
Hall was already waiting for her by the gate to his yard. And now, as they walked along the raked gravel path, the photographer felt the diver’s hand on her back. With a firm shove, the hand pressed her up the steps to the glassed-in sunporch.
Inside, behind the barred French windows, she quickly took off her shoes. It felt like something you didn’t need to ask about here. The green-painted planks of the floor shone, and from the inside of the cottage came a sharp scent of cleaning products.
The diver showed her to the kitchen. Erik Hall took the pot off, filled two cups, and handed one to the photographer. Then he suggested that she sit on the wooden bench.
Once the photographer had squeezed her way onto it, the diver shoved the oak table toward her, so close that it almost blocked in herlegs. He sat down with his legs spread in an armchair on the other side of the table.
She should probably hurry back. But maybe, she thought, it would be worth a few extra minutes of chatting to get the diver in a good mood. Because at first he was really not in high spirits.
Apparently everything had been wrong: The other papers had misquoted him about the technical details of mines and diving, which made Erik Hall appear uninformed. Then, when he had tried to correct them, he had been ignored repeatedly.
And there was more he wanted to say—this was just the beginning. But who was going to
This wasn’t front-page news. It was something that could be discussed in science programs and explored on the culture pages—but as an explosive story, the Æsir murder was definitely banished to the archives.
F ar, far,
far
back in the archives.
7
A Secret
I t was nearly five o’clock on the intern’s last day, and there was a send-off for him at
Dalakuriren
’s meeting table. He said his good-byes and sneaked off toward the stairs to the parking garage. When he’d made it halfway, he heard footsteps behind him, then felt the news director’s hand on his shoulder. Through labored breaths, the director offered him one last job. The intern had already opened his mouth to say no, when the news director spat out the three crucial syllables: “Erik Hall.”
Here’s the thing, the news director said when he had managed to catch his breath—that tiresome diver had called time and again the past week, asking what was going to happen with the
Dalakuriren
interview. What was up, were they still interested?
The mine story was dead and buried. But now something for the Saturday supplement had not come through, and there would be a gaping hole between the ads. Maybe the article didn’t need to be too long? Just a little weekend profile with the Dala diver who had been in the mass-media limelight for such a short time.
T he diver hadn’t said anything unexpected, but it was enough to get five thousand characters, one page in
Dalakuriren
’s Saturday section. The intern hadn’t planned to put his byline on some portrait of a hero anyway, so now there was just the part about the pictures …
The intern turned off his computer and walked with his head held high through the reporters’ corridor. He sauntered past the coffee machine and turned left where he found the photographer leaning over an evening paper at the scratched layout table. The photographer was a part-timer just out of high school, hired so that she could gain experience. She had a ponytail and was quite heavily made up, and her childishly round cheeks revealed that she could hardly be twenty years old. The intern asked her to take a few pictures that felt fresh. Nothing with that diving suit that had been in every paper.
The photographer nodded, excited for the opportunity. She heaved the heavy camera case up onto her shoulder, grabbed her denim jacket, and disappeared down toward the staff cars in the parking lot.
*
“W elcome to Svartbäck,” said Erik Hall. “You’d like some coffee, right? I’ve just put some on.”
Hall was already waiting for her by the gate to his yard. And now, as they walked along the raked gravel path, the photographer felt the diver’s hand on her back. With a firm shove, the hand pressed her up the steps to the glassed-in sunporch.
Inside, behind the barred French windows, she quickly took off her shoes. It felt like something you didn’t need to ask about here. The green-painted planks of the floor shone, and from the inside of the cottage came a sharp scent of cleaning products.
The diver showed her to the kitchen. Erik Hall took the pot off, filled two cups, and handed one to the photographer. Then he suggested that she sit on the wooden bench.
Once the photographer had squeezed her way onto it, the diver shoved the oak table toward her, so close that it almost blocked in herlegs. He sat down with his legs spread in an armchair on the other side of the table.
She should probably hurry back. But maybe, she thought, it would be worth a few extra minutes of chatting to get the diver in a good mood. Because at first he was really not in high spirits.
Apparently everything had been wrong: The other papers had misquoted him about the technical details of mines and diving, which made Erik Hall appear uninformed. Then, when he had tried to correct them, he had been ignored repeatedly.
And there was more he wanted to say—this was just the beginning. But who was going to
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