make clear that this was his information rather than the paper’s. It was a little clumsy, but it worked. Then she updated the news report, adding a few more details, and made sure she included the dog’s age. Finally she wrote a short piece about Nora Lerberg, who appeared to have vanished without a trace. She quoted Q, the prosecutor and the press spokesperson in Nacka as saying they had tried without success to get hold of her, but that she wasn’t the subject of an official search. It wasn’t great, but it would do.
She let out a silent sigh. ‘Valter Wennergren,’ she said. ‘Has anyone ever called you VW? Volkswagen?’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Have you finished?’
He pressed his keyboard and an email with the heading threatened politicians appeared on her screen: 1,780 characters, including spaces. The press spokesperson at the Ministry of Justice couldn’t comment on the specific case of Ingemar Lerberg, but said that the minister was following developments closely, and expressed regret at the increasing level of violence against elected representatives. That was followed by a summary of the current situation, using figures from the latest government investigation, as well as some slightly less-up-to-date statistics in the most recent report from the National Council for Crime Prevention.
‘Excellent,’ Annika said.
When she had sent the whole lot off – the new video piece, the online radio item and the three articles – she stood up, pulled on her coat and packed away her laptop.
She waved at Schyman in his glass box on the way out.
Thomas Samuelsson stared at the computer screen in front of him. The Light of Truth. What pretentious irony. But whoever was behind it was good at expressing himself. (Why did he assume that the writer was male? He just did. The turn of phrase felt masculine.)
He took a deep breath.
Schyman deserved it. Thomas had only met him a few times, even though he worked so closely with Annika. Presumably he thought he was too important to associate with the families of his staff.
Thomas got up and walked the short distance to the kitchen. His legs were heavy and his back felt stiff. His hand ached – the phantom hand that was no longer there. The prosthesis (the hook!) was heavy and unwieldy. He hadn’t made up his mind what sort he wanted yet. This latest version certainly wasn’t in the running, he knew that much.
They had all lied to him. Not just Annika, although she was obviously the worst, but everyone else as well. His employers, not to mention the people in the health service.
Oh, there are brilliant prosthetics, these days. Just wait till you see them! In a lot of ways a prosthetic hand actually works better than an ordinary hand. Have you ever considered that? You can open tins without an opener, lift hot things directly off the stove or barbecue. You can use it as a hammer, you don’t have to worry about corrosive acids, and you can hold a match until it’s burned right down …
He opened the fridge door. There were chicken fillets and steak but he wasn’t particularly hungry.
Telling Annika he had a lot to do at work hadn’t been quite true: he’d taken the week off sick. He just felt that things were getting on top of him, and his bosses in the Ministry of Justice were very
understanding
because they were conscious of the
trauma
he had suffered. Take all the time you
neeeed
, your job will be waiting for you when you feel like …
That was the least they could do, Thomas thought, as he shut the fridge. He had risked life and limb for his work, and was now crippled for life and had lost his family. The least he could expect of his employers was that he should be allowed to keep his job. It would look bad if they tried to fire him. He could see the headline: ‘GOVERNMENT FIRES MUTILATED HERO’ …
No, they’d never dare. They’d rather leave him mouldering in a corner at the taxpayers’ expense, somewhere in the main government offices at
She let out a silent sigh. ‘Valter Wennergren,’ she said. ‘Has anyone ever called you VW? Volkswagen?’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Have you finished?’
He pressed his keyboard and an email with the heading threatened politicians appeared on her screen: 1,780 characters, including spaces. The press spokesperson at the Ministry of Justice couldn’t comment on the specific case of Ingemar Lerberg, but said that the minister was following developments closely, and expressed regret at the increasing level of violence against elected representatives. That was followed by a summary of the current situation, using figures from the latest government investigation, as well as some slightly less-up-to-date statistics in the most recent report from the National Council for Crime Prevention.
‘Excellent,’ Annika said.
When she had sent the whole lot off – the new video piece, the online radio item and the three articles – she stood up, pulled on her coat and packed away her laptop.
She waved at Schyman in his glass box on the way out.
Thomas Samuelsson stared at the computer screen in front of him. The Light of Truth. What pretentious irony. But whoever was behind it was good at expressing himself. (Why did he assume that the writer was male? He just did. The turn of phrase felt masculine.)
He took a deep breath.
Schyman deserved it. Thomas had only met him a few times, even though he worked so closely with Annika. Presumably he thought he was too important to associate with the families of his staff.
Thomas got up and walked the short distance to the kitchen. His legs were heavy and his back felt stiff. His hand ached – the phantom hand that was no longer there. The prosthesis (the hook!) was heavy and unwieldy. He hadn’t made up his mind what sort he wanted yet. This latest version certainly wasn’t in the running, he knew that much.
They had all lied to him. Not just Annika, although she was obviously the worst, but everyone else as well. His employers, not to mention the people in the health service.
Oh, there are brilliant prosthetics, these days. Just wait till you see them! In a lot of ways a prosthetic hand actually works better than an ordinary hand. Have you ever considered that? You can open tins without an opener, lift hot things directly off the stove or barbecue. You can use it as a hammer, you don’t have to worry about corrosive acids, and you can hold a match until it’s burned right down …
He opened the fridge door. There were chicken fillets and steak but he wasn’t particularly hungry.
Telling Annika he had a lot to do at work hadn’t been quite true: he’d taken the week off sick. He just felt that things were getting on top of him, and his bosses in the Ministry of Justice were very
understanding
because they were conscious of the
trauma
he had suffered. Take all the time you
neeeed
, your job will be waiting for you when you feel like …
That was the least they could do, Thomas thought, as he shut the fridge. He had risked life and limb for his work, and was now crippled for life and had lost his family. The least he could expect of his employers was that he should be allowed to keep his job. It would look bad if they tried to fire him. He could see the headline: ‘GOVERNMENT FIRES MUTILATED HERO’ …
No, they’d never dare. They’d rather leave him mouldering in a corner at the taxpayers’ expense, somewhere in the main government offices at
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