She had clearly reached a decision. She turned on her heel and started to retrace her steps, going past the wooden door she had come out of and carrying on to the junction. As she waited for a night-bus to pass she looked up, her eyes following the line of the street to the square, Vintertullstorget, and beyond to the Sickla Canal. High above loomed the main Olympic arena, Victoria Stadium, where the summer games were due to start in seven months’ time.
The bus went past, the woman crossed the broad sweep of Ringvägen and started to walk down Katarina Bangata. Though her face was expressionless, her fast pace let on that she was freezing. She crossed the pedestrian bridge over Hammarby Canal to reach the media village of the Olympic Park. With quick, slightly jerky movements she hurried on towards the Olympic Stadium. She decided to take the path beside the water although it was further, and colder. The wind from the Baltic was ice-cold, but she didn’t want to be seen. The darkness was dense, and she stumbled a few times.
She turned off by the post office and pharmacy towards the training area and jogged the last hundred metres towards the stadium. When she reached the main entrance she was out of breath and angry. She pulled the door open and stepped into the darkness.
‘Say what you want to say, and be quick about it,’ she said, looking coolly at the figure emerging from the shadows.
She saw the raised hammer but didn’t have time to feel any fear.
The first blow hit her left eye.
Saturday 18 December
The sound reached her in the middle of a bizarre sexual dream. She was lying on a bed of glass on a spaceship, Thomas was on top of her. Three presenters from the radio programme Studio Six were standing alongside them, watching expressionlessly. She was desperate for a pee.
‘You can’t go to the toilet now, we’re on our way into space,’ Thomas said, and, looking through the big panoramic window, she saw he was right.
The second ring tore the cosmos to shreds, leaving her sweaty and thirsty in the darkness. The ceiling loomed above her in the gloom.
‘Answer the bloody thing before it wakes the whole house,’ Thomas grumbled from the mess of pillows.
She twisted her head to see the time: 03.22. The excitement of the dream vanished in a single breath. Her arm, heavy as lead, reached for the phone on the floor. It was Jansson, the night-editor.
‘The Victoria Stadium’s gone up. Burning like fuck. Our reporter’s out there for the night edition, but we need you for the next edition. How soon can you get there?’
She took several breaths, letting the information sink in, feeling adrenalin rolling like a wave through her body and up into her brain. The Olympic Stadium, she thought. Fire, chaos. Bloody hell. South of the city centre. Should she take the southern bypass or the Skanstull bridge?
‘How are things looking in town, are the roads okay?’
Her voice sounded rougher than she would have liked.
‘The southern bypass is blocked. The exit by the stadium has collapsed, but that’s all we know. The Södermalm tunnel is shut off, so you’ll have to go above ground.’
‘Who’s doing pictures?’
‘Henriksson’s on his way, and the freelancers are already there.’
Jansson hung up without waiting for a reply. Annika listened to the dead crackle on the line for a few seconds before letting the phone fall to the floor.
‘So what is it this time?’
She sighed silently before replying.
‘Some sort of explosion at the Olympic Stadium. I’ve got to go. It’ll probably take all day.’
She paused before adding:
‘And all evening.’
He muttered something inaudible.
Carefully she extricated herself from Ellen’s slightly damp pyjamas. She breathed in her daughter’s scent, her skin sweet, her mouth sour, her thumb firmly lodged between her lips, then she kissed the child’s soft hair. The girl stretched happily, then rolled up into a ball, three years old and utterly content, even in her sleep. She dialled for a taxi with a heavy hand, climbing out of the numbing warmth of the bed and sitting on the floor.
‘A car to Hantverkargatan 32 please. Bengtzon. It’s urgent. To the Olympic Stadium. Yes, I know it’s on fire.’
Read the complete book –
available December 2011
THE BOMBER
LIZA MARKLUND
SEVEN DAYS. THREE KILLINGS.
ONE WOMAN WHO KNOWS
TOO MUCH …
Crime reporter Annika Bengtzon is woken by a phone-call in the early hours of a wintry morning. An explosion has ripped apart the Olympic Stadium. And a victim has been blown to pieces.
As Annika delves into the details of the bombing and the background of the victim, there is a second explosion.
When her police source reveals they are hot on the heels of the bomber, Annika is guaranteed an exclusive with her name on it. But it soon becomes clear that she has uncovered too much, as she finds herself the target of a deranged serial killer …
‘Edge-of-your-seat suspense.’
Harlan Coben
‘Nail-biting action and excitement.’
Daily Express
The #1 international bestseller
AVAILABLE DECEMBER 2011
Exposed Page 40