They did. The girls cried their eyes out, the candles sparkled, and the grainy photocopy of Josefin's graduation photo floated behind them. Pettersson took pictures of the girls' poems and drawings, and while he was snapping away, the sound level rose to even higher levels. The youths were pumped up by the presence of the two journalists, their excitement growing fast.

"Hey, we want to be in a picture!" two guys with pool cues in their hands shouted out.

"I think it's time to leave," Annika whispered.

"Why?" Pettersson asked in surprise.

"Let's go," Annika hissed. "Now."

She walked off to find Martin Larsson-Berg while the photographer began to pack up his equipment. They thanked the deputy principal and left the building.

"What's the goddamn hurry?" Pettersson asked Annika testily on the way to the car. He was walking ten feet behind Annika, his camera bag bouncing against his hip.

Annika replied without turning round to look at him, "That was a freak show. It could get out of hand real fast."

She climbed in the car and turned on the radio.

They didn't speak on the way back to town.

Annika had just got back to her desk when she saw the man come walking from the far end of the newsroom. He was big and blond and the light from beyond the sports desk fell on him. She followed him curiously with her gaze. The man stopped every three feet, shaking hands and saying hello. Not until he reached the news desk did she see that the editor in chief was walking next to him, his slight figure almost invisible.

"Could I have your attention, please," the editor in chief said in his nasal voice over at the news desk. Spike was on the phone, feet on the desk, and didn't even look up. Picture Pelle gave the man a quick glance and continued working at his screen. Some of the other staff stopped what they were doing and watched the men with skepticism. Nobody had asked to have a TV celebrity for editor.

"Could you listen, please?" asked the editor in chief.

The faces of the staff were impassive. Suddenly the big blond took a step toward Spike's desk. Athletically, he climbed up on the long desk and walked along it, dodging the telephones and coffee mugs. He came to a stop right in front of Spike, whose eyes traveled up his body. "I'll call you back," Spike said, and put the phone down. Picture Pelle let go of his Mac and came over. The sound level dropped to a quiet murmur as the staff slowly gathered in the center of the newsroom.

"I'm Anders Schyman," the man said. "At present I'm in charge of the current affairs desk at Swedish Television. Starting on Wednesday, August first, I'll be your new deputy editor."

He paused; a palpable silence filled the big room. His voice had the intensity and bass that characterized the voice-overs you'd hear on TV documentaries. Fascinated, Annika stared at him.

The man took a step and looked out over another part of the newsroom. "I don't know your job. You know it. I can't teach you what to do. You know that better than anyone."

New silence; Annika could hear the sounds of the evening, the air-conditioning, and the traffic in the street below.

Annika felt he was looking straight at her. "What I will do is smooth the ground for you. I won't be driving the engine. I will break the ground and plan the tracks. I can't lay them myself, we have to do that together. But you are the engine drivers, the stokers, and the conductors. You'll be the ones talking to the passengers and you'll be signaling to us so the train arrives on time. I'll be coordinating departures and make sure that we go to the right places and that there are tracks all the way. I'm no engineer. I want to become one in time, when you have taught me all the things I don't know. But today I'm only one thing: a media man."

He turned round and looked at the sports desk; Annika could only see his broad back. His voice carried almost as well.

"I feel a deep sense of duty as a journalist. Ordinary people are my employers. I have fought corruption and the abuse of power all my working life. That's the core of journalism. Truth is my guiding principle, not influence or power."

He turned so that Annika saw his profile.

"Big words, I know. But I'm not being pretentious, only ambitious. I didn't take this job for the salary and the title. I've come here today for one single reason, and that is to work with you."

You could have heard a pin drop. Spike's phone rang and he quickly took it off the hook.

"Together we can make this newspaper the biggest in Scandinavia. All the qualities required are already in place, meaning you, the staff. The journalists. You are the brain and heart of the paper. In time we'll make everybody's heart beat as one, and the roar that will issue forth will tear down walls. You'll see that I'm right."

Without saying anything more, he stepped over the edge of the desk and jumped down to the floor. The murmur returned.

"Amazing," said Carl Wennergren, who had suddenly appeared by Annika's side.

"Yes, really," she replied, still moved by the man's presence.

"I haven't heard such pretentious nonsense spoken since my dad's speech at my graduation. Did you get anywhere?"

Annika turned around and returned to her desk. "The police have a suspect."

"How do you know that?" Carl said skeptically from behind her.

Annika sat down and looked him straight in the eye. "It's quite simple, really. It's her boyfriend. That's almost always the case, you know."

"Has he been arrested?"

"Nope, he hasn't even been cautioned."

"Then we can't publish anything," Carl said.

"It depends how you formulate the words. What have you been doing?"

"I've copied out my diary from the race. The guys at the sports desk want it. Do you want to read it?"

Annika gave a lopsided grin. "Not just now, thanks all the same."

Carl sat down on her desk again. "It's turned out to be quite a break for you, this murder."

Annika threw away some old TT wires. "That's not exactly how I see it."

"First page two days in a row- no other freelancer has managed that this summer."

"Except you, of course," Annika pointed out in a silken voice.

"Well, yes, that's true, but then I had a head start. I did my work experience here."

And your father's on the board of the paper, Annika thought, but didn't say.

Carl got up. "I'll go down to the murder scene and catch a few mourners," he said over his shoulder.

Annika nodded and turned to face the computer. She created a new document, setting a dramatic tone: "The police have made a breakthrough in the hunt for Josefin Liljeberg's killer-"

That's as far as she got before the Creepy Calls phone rang. She swore and picked it up.

"Enough is enough," a woman's voice wheezed.

"I agree."

"We won't bow to patriarchy any longer."

"Fine by me."

"We're out for revenge."

"Sounds like fun," Annika said, unable to keep the mocking tone out of her voice.

The voice got irritated. "Just listen to me. We're the Ninja Barbies. We've declared war on oppression and violence against women. We won't take it anymore. The woman in the park was the final straw. Women shouldn't have to be afraid to go outside. Men will know the fear of violence- you just wait and see. We're starting with the police force, Establishment hypocrites."

Annika was listening now. This sounded like a genuine nutcase. "So why are you calling us?"

"We want our message to be communicated in the media. We want maximum publicity. We're offering Kvallspressen the opportunity to be present at our first raid."

What if she was serious? Annika looked around the newsroom, trying to catch someone's eye and wave him or her over. "How... What do you mean?" she said hesitantly.

"Tomorrow. Do you want to be in on it?"

Annika frantically looked around the room. Nobody paid her any attention. "Are you serious?" she asked feebly.

"These are our terms. We want full control over copy, headlines, and pictures. Guaranteed absolute anonymity. And we want fifty thousand kronor in advance. Cash."

Annika breathed silently down the phone for a few seconds. "That's impossible. Out of the question."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I've never been more sure in my life."

"Then we'll call the Rival," the woman retorted.

"Go ahead, be my guest. You'll get the same answer from them. Sure as hell."

There was a click and the line went dead. Annika put the phone down, shut her eyes, and hid her face in her hands. Christ, what the hell should she do now? Call the police? Tell Spike? Pretend nothing had happened? She had a feeling she'd be taken to task whatever she did.

"And this is where the night reporters sit," she heard the editor in chief say. She looked up and saw the senior editors of the paper over at the picture desk, and they were walking in her direction. They were, apart from the editor in chief, the new deputy editor, Anders Schyman; the sports editor; the features editor; the picture editor; the arts editor; and one of the lead writers. They were all men, and all of them, apart from Anders Schyman, were dressed in the same navy jackets, jeans, and shiny shoes.

The group of men stopped next to her desk.

"The night reporters go on at noon and work until eleven P.M.," the editor in chief said with his back turned to Annika. "They work on a roster and many of them are freelance. We see the night shift as a bit of a learning experience."

Schyman broke off from the group and came up to her. "I'm Anders Schyman." He held out his hand.

Annika looked up at him. "So I've gathered." She smiled and took his hand. "I'm Annika Bengtzon."

He returned her smile as they shook hands. "You've been covering the Josefin Liljeberg murder."

Her cheeks turned red. "You're on the ball."

"Are you on the permanent staff?"

Annika shook her head. "No- I'm just covering for the summer. My contract ends in a few weeks' time."

"We'll get a chance to talk more later," Schyman said, and returned to the group. All the eyes that had been fixed on Annika lifted and flew away over the newsroom.

She made her decision when the group left.

She was no squealer. She wasn't going to call the police and tell them about the Ninja Barbies; neither would she tell Spike. So many lunatics called the paper every day, she couldn't go running to the news editor with all of them.

She returned to her story on the police breakthrough and managed to sound well informed without quoting Patricia. She wrote about the suspect without betraying the police press officer as her source and hinted the boyfriend was the wrongdoer without actually saying it explicitly. She kept the story about the Taby grief counseling concise and terse.

She went to the cafeteria, bought a Coke, and listened to the headlines on Studio 69, the current affairs program. They were talking about the role of the media during the election campaign. She switched off and instead started working on Josefin's last hours, entering addresses and times on a grid. The only thing she left out was the name of the club where Josefin had worked- she just called it the Club. When she had finished, she walked over to the illustrators, who would enter the data on a map or an aerial photograph of Kungsholmen.

When she was done, it was nearly seven o'clock. She felt hot and weak and had no energy for more research. Instead she made herself comfortable and scrutinized the morning broadsheets. At half past seven, she turned up the volume on the TV and watched Rapport. They had nothing on either Josefin or the IB affair. The only item of interest came from the Russia correspondent, who rounded off his series on the Caucasus with an expert in Moscow who gave his view of the situation.

"The president needs weapons," the expert announced. "The country has completely run out of ammunition, shells, antiaircraft defenses, rifles, machine guns, everything. This is the main problem facing the president. As the U.N. has imposed a weapons embargo on the nation, he is finding it extremely difficult to get hold of anything. The only alternative is the black market, and he can't afford that."

"How come the guerrillas are so well equipped?" the correspondent asked.

The expert gave an embarrassed smile. "The guerrillas really are quite weak- they're badly trained and have poor leadership. But they have unlimited access to Russian weapons. Russia has important interests in the Caucasus region and is subsidizing the guerrilla warfare."

Annika remembered the Swedish-speaking old man, the president, whose people suffered constant attacks from the guerrillas. World leaders were such cowards sometimes! Why didn't they stop Russia from supporting this civil war?

By the time Rapport had finished, the calm had returned to the newsroom. Spike had gone home and Jansson had taken his place in the chief's chair. Annika scanned through the latest TT telegrams, read the copy on the server, and checked the headlines on the nine-o'clock TV news Aktuellt. Then she went over to Jansson.

"Nice map," the night editor said. "And good copy on the suspect boyfriend. No big surprise there."

"Is there anything else for me to do here?"

Jansson's phone rang. "I think you should go home now You've been here all weekend."

Annika hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Jansson didn't reply. Annika walked over to her desk and collected her stuff. She cleared up the desk as she would be gone for four days and some other reporter would be using it.

She bumped into Berit on the way out.

"Do you want to go for a beer at the pizza place on the corner?" her colleague asked.

Annika was surprised but tried not to show it. "Sure, I'd love to. I haven't had dinner."

They took the stairs down. The evening was as sultry as the day had been hot. The air above the multistory garage was still quivering.

"I've never seen the likes of this summer," Berit said.

The women walked slowly toward Rlambsvagen and the seedy pizzeria that miraculously survived year after year.

"Do you have any family in town?" Berit asked as they waited for the traffic light to change at the crossing.

"My boyfriend lives in Halleforsnas. What about you?"