Nordic Credit had gone bankrupt during the First World War, but its emblem was still engraved above one of the side entrances, Anders Schyman had forgotten which. He paid for the taxi with the newspaper’s credit card, then glanced at the reporter beside him. She looked like an unmade bed. At the time of the Crown Princess’s wedding a year or so ago, he had introduced a new dress-code at the paper. Torn jeans, micro-skirts, washed-out college shirts and tops cut down to the navel were banned, and a certain degree of style expected. Annika hadn’t had to change much of her wardrobe. She usually wore fairly good labels, but still managed to look as if she’d fallen into them by accident. He often got the impression she’d put on one of her husband’s shirts without noticing. Today was worse than usual. She was wearing a shirt with a tanktop, a style that had been fashionable when he was still at junior school. Most people put on weight in the USA, but not her. She was, if possible, even more angular and sharp-boned now.
