The Final Word by Liza Marklund Read Free Book Online Page B

disgraceful that she hasn’t already been asked.’
    ‘Let me tell you why,’ the editor-in-chief said.
    ‘This I want to hear.’
    ‘Berit doesn’t make mistakes. She’s never been reported to the press ombudsman, not once. She always writes correctly, belt and braces, everything careful and considered.’
    ‘And when did that become a handicap?’
    ‘She doesn’t take any risks.’
    Annika folded her arms. ‘You mean she’s not courageous enough?’
    ‘A newspaper like the
Evening Post
doesn’t need a captain, to use one of your favourite metaphors, who never takes risks. The very essence of this job is precisely that, taking risks, creating disorder, then keeping things balanced when the storm breaks.’
    ‘So why the rush with Josefin?’
    ‘There’s no rush.’
    Annika looked at him without saying anything. He had been looking tired for a while, but the set of his mouth was different today.
    ‘This isn’t official yet,’ he said.
    ‘Okay,’ she said. Her unease was growing.
    He handed her a printout, the minutes of a committee meeting the previous week. ‘Paragraph four,’ he said.
    She read it three times.
‘In consideration of the development of the industry, it was agreed to discontinue the print edition of the
Evening Post
.’
    Discontinue. Print edition.
    ‘The print edition,’ she said. ‘They’re closing it down.’ Her voice was a little hoarse.
    He nodded.
    ‘As soon as possible.’
    She sat completely motionless on the chair, paralysed.
    ‘I’ve been asked to implement the closure before I leave,’ Schyman said.
    She cast an involuntary glance at the newsroom, at the people working and concentrating on the other side of the glass, unaware of the drop that was opening up right in front of them.
    ‘But,’ she said, ‘what’s going to happen to everyone who . . .?’
    ‘We can’t be selective about it,’ Schyman said. ‘All the reporters’ posts will go.’
    She stared at him, open-mouthed. The extent of this was slowly sinking into her head.
All the reporters’ posts will go
. That included her, Berit, Sjölander and everyone else. Their readers would no longer be able to buy the paper and sit down to do the crossword at the coffee-table. It was a whole culture that was disappearing, a whole way of life.
    ‘But I thought the print edition was making a profit!’
    ‘We’ve kept afloat up to now with sponsored supplements and the things we’ve been giving away, books and music and DVDs, but digitalization is taking over in those areas too, Netflix and Spotify and Bokus. This is the only logical conclusion.’
    ‘You can’t mean that.’
    ‘Everyone else will be forced to do the same, sooner or later. We can gain the upper hand if we take the initiative.’
    ‘And you’re going to do it? Wield the axe?’
    ‘There will still be jobs for a few key members of staff,’ he said. ‘We’ll be expanding our digital platform. The journalism won’t just disappear simply because we’re no longer using newsprint to distribute it. But I’d like to see this story about the strip— about Josefin in printed form.’
    Oh, he would, would he? ‘How long have I got?’ She couldn’t hide her sarcasm.
    ‘The distribution contracts need to be renegotiated, all the agreements with the printers, it’s going to take a while . . .’
    Her mouth was dry, but she had to ask. ‘And then what? What’s going to happen to me?’
    ‘Naturally there’ll be a place for you in the new organization. You know I want you on the newsdesk.’
    ‘To spend my days dreaming up imaginary newspapers?’
    ‘Among other things.’
    Tears were pricking her eyes, and she got to her feet. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘I’d rather stack shelves in a supermarket.’
    He sighed. ‘Don’t say anything to the others,’ he said. ‘We’re not going public until early next week.’
    She nodded and walked out of the glass box, closing the door behind her.
    The Underground took her to Södermalm, the