The Final Word by Liza Marklund

was her name? Berntson?’
    ‘Bengtzon,’ Schyman said. ‘Annika.’
    ‘I read Valter’s thesis the other evening. I thought it was rather exciting. He makes a distinction between self-important media, like the morning papers and state-funded television, and tabloids like the
Evening Post
. The former are regarded as “smart” and “serious”, which is partly a consequence of what they choose to cover, and how they angle their coverage. They report on the labour market and politics, sport, wars and the economy, all traditional male domains, and they do so in an official-sounding way.’
    Schyman knew all of this. Hadn’t he once given a speech on the subject? ‘All media cover wars and politics,’ he said.
    ‘But their approaches differ. The tabloids focus on the personal and private, on people’s feelings and experiences, which have traditionally been regarded as female territory. And we address the little person on the street,not the establishment. That’s why the tabloids are so derided – because there’s nothing as provocative as an outspoken woman on the lowest rungs of society . . . I’d like to talk to Annika Berntson,’ Albert Wennergren said. ‘Can you ask her to come in for a few minutes?’
    Schyman experienced a sudden chill inside him: what if she shot her mouth off? What if Wennergren realized he, Schyman, had been indiscreet and had told Annika about the closure? He reached across his desk and pressed the intercom. ‘Annika, can you come into my office for a moment?’
    ‘What for?’
    Why did she always have to question him?
    He watched her walk towards his glass box and pull open the door without any enthusiasm.
    ‘What is it?’ she asked.
    ‘I was just telling Anders here about Valter’s doctoral thesis,’ Albert Wennergren said. ‘He’s thinking of researching the approaches of various media towards modern journalism.’
    ‘Exciting,’ Annika Bengtzon said blankly, from the doorway.
    ‘He often refers to conversations he had with you, about methodology and journalism and ethics. You have strong opinions on those subjects. Can you expand upon what you said about gender identification in the media?’
    She glanced around in confusion, as if she were looking for a hidden camera. ‘I can’t really remember,’ she said. ‘I say so many silly things.’
    ‘You told Valter that the
Evening Post
was a shrill working-class woman, yelling truths that no one wants to hear.’
    She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable.
    ‘Come in and close the door,’ Wennergren added. ‘You know that Anders is going to be leaving – I’d like to hear your thoughts on his successor. What are the qualities we need?’
    Her eyes darkened. ‘An evening paper is a warship,’ she said, ‘in a world that is always in a state of war. And if there’s no battle going on nearby, you go out and find one, or you attack someone and start one of your own. You need a captain who can steer the ship, who understands the scale of the task. Knowing how to sail and windsurf is no good.’
    ‘Any suggestions?’
    ‘Berit Hamrin, but apparently she won’t do. She’s too decent.’
    ‘Someone from television, perhaps? Or business?’
    Her eyes narrowed. ‘Someone who’s already a name, you mean. If you want to drive the paper on to the rocks, then get one of those self-important idiots. Was there anything else?’
    ‘No,’ Schyman said quickly. ‘You can go.’
    She closed the door and walked away without looking back.
    Albert Wennergren watched her go. ‘I’d like, as far as possible, to be sorted out before we go public with theboard’s decision,’ he said. ‘An outline of the new organization, the cost of reducing staff numbers, the question of premises, technical investment and, ideally, a new editor-in-chief as well.’
    Schyman was holding on to the arms of his chair tightly. ‘What about the printers and distributors? When are we going to tell them?’ It