“Something to the effect that we were going to read the judgement carefully
before we make any statements. So I said nothing. And my opinion still holds: it’s
the wrong strategy. We come off looking weak with the media. They will run
something on TV this evening.”
Blomkvist looked glum.
“How are you doing?”
Blomkvist shrugged and plopped down in his favourite armchair next to the
window in Erika’s office. The decor was spartan, with a desk and functional
bookcases and cheap office furniture. All of it was from IKEA apart from the two
comfortable and extravagant armchairs and a small end table—a concession to my
upbringing, she liked to say. She would sit reading in one of the armchairs with her
feet tucked underneath her when she wanted to get away from the desk. Blomkvist
looked down on Götgatan, where people were hurrying by in the dark. Christmas
shopping was in full swing.
“I suppose it’ll pass,” he said. “But right now it feels as if I’ve got myself a very raw
deal.”
“Yes, I can imagine. It’s the same for all of us. Janne Dahlman went home early
today.”
“I assume he wasn’t over the moon about the verdict.”
“He’s not the most positive person anyway.”
Mikael shook his head. For the past nine months Dahlman had been managing
editor. He had started there just as the Wennerström affair got going, and he found
himself on an editorial staff in crisis mode. Blomkvist tried to remember what their
reasoning had been when he and Berger decided to hire him. He was competent,
of course, and had worked at the TT news bureau, the evening papers, and Eko on
the radio. But he apparently did not like sailing against the wind. During the past
year Blomkvist had often regretted that they had hired Dahlman, who had an
enervating habit of looking at everything in as negative a light as possible.
“Have you heard from Christer?” Blomkvist asked without taking his eyes off the
street.