She went straight to Christina Furhage’s office and unlocked it. The answer machine was flashing and Helena felt her pulse race. Someone had called, at four o’clock that morning. She hurried to pick up the receiver and entered Christina’s personal code. There were two messages, one from each of the evening papers. She swore and slammed the phone down. Bloody hyenas. They’d both managed to work out Christina’s direct number. She sank down onto the director’s leather chair with a sigh, spinning it gently to and fro. Her hangover was still rough – there was a sour taste in her mouth and her head felt foggy. If only she could remember what Christina had said to her the night before last. Her memory had cleared to the extent that she could remember that Christina had come back to her apartment with her. Christina had been quite angry, hadn’t she? Helena shook herself and stood up.
Someone was coming through the main door. Helena hurriedly tucked the chair in and walked round the desk.
Evert Danielsson stood in the doorway. There were dark rings under his eyes and his jaw looked clenched.
‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.
Helena shrugged. ‘About what? The Bomber is still on the loose, Christina hasn’t been in touch and you’ve managed to unleash a whole load of theories about terrorism in the media. I take it you’ve seen the morning papers?’
Danielsson’s jaw clenched tighter. Aha, Helena thought, he’s worried about his own mistakes. She felt her distaste for the man grow still further. He wasn’t worried about the attack or about the consequences for the Games. No, he was worried about saving his own skin. How egotistical. How pathetic.
‘The committee is meeting at four o’clock this afternoon,’ Helena said, and left the room. ‘You’d better put together some proper information about what’s going on before we decide what action to take next …’
Evert Danielsson followed her out. ‘When did you get to be on the committee?’ he said in an ice-cold voice.
Helena Starke froze and stopped for a moment, then pretended she hadn’t heard.
‘It’s probably time to call in the Honorary Board as well. They have to be kept informed, at the very least. They get very grouchy otherwise, and we need them more than ever right now.’
Evert Danielsson watched her lock the door to Christina’s office. She was right about the Honorary Board. The business leaders, members of the royal family and the Church, and all the others who made up the high-profile Honorary Board would have to be called in as soon as possible. They needed a good deal of lubrication and polishing to make them shine to the outside world. And they really did need them more than ever right now.
‘Can you arrange that?’ Evert Danielsson said.
Helena Starke nodded curtly as she disappeared down the corridor.
Ingvar Johansson was at his desk, talking on the phone, when Annika arrived at work. She was the first reporter to get there; the others would be in at ten o’clock. Ingvar Johansson pointed first at the freshly printed bundles of papers along the wall, then at the sofa by the news desk. Annika dropped her coat over the back of the sofa and sat down to read until Johansson had finished his call. His voice rose and fell like background music as Annika checked what they had put together after she went home. Her own piece about the terrorism angle and the threat against Christina Furhage covered pages six and seven – where the most serious news always ended up. The picture desk had come up with an image of Furhage from the archive where she was leading a group of men dressed in dark suits and coats. She was wearing a white suit and a short pale coat, which made her stand out like a beacon of light against the dark figures of the men. She looked determined, slightly stressed – an excellent picture of an innocent, threatened person. On page seven there was a picture of Evert Danielsson leaving the press conference. A good shot of the chairman under pressure.
The next spread was Berit’s article on the victim and what the police had found at the crime scene. Jansson had picked another of Henriksson’s pictures of the fire to illustrate it. It worked almost as well today as it would have the day before. Then there was the taxi-driver, Arne Brattström, talking about the explosion.
On pages ten and eleven Annika found the most surprising story so far. Patrik must have worked like a demon overnight to pull together two separate stories: SECRET POLICE WITNESS – I SAW THE MYSTERIOUS MAN OUTSIDE THE STADIUM, and NATIONAL ALERT FOR THE TIGER.
Brilliant! Annika thought. He had got hold of someone working at the club: a bartender, who explained how he had arrived at work and had seen someone hurrying across the plaza towards the entrance to the stadium. That was at one o’clock, though, and not immediately before the explosion, as the police had said.
‘It was someone in a dark anorak with the hood up, dark trousers and heavy shoes,’ the bartender said in the article.
So now we have an image of the Bomber, at least until we come up with anything better, Annika thought contentedly.
As expected, the police had pulled out all the stops in their search for the Tiger. The same pages also covered the police’s rather sketchy theories about the murder and the attack so far.
Thirteen and fourteen covered the Olympics, the consequences for the Games and security measures from now on. And this was where they had put the sequence of previous Olympic attacks. The next spread was a big advert for the final days of Christmas shopping; sixteen and seventeen were readers’ reactions to the attack, plus Nils Langeby’s overview of the international response.
After that the pages flew by in a flurry of celebrities talking about their ailments, a child we should all feel sorry for, an unknown rock musician who had been caught drink-driving, and a group of homosexual drag-artists complaining about cuts in the health service.
The centrefold was filled with Patrik’s overview of events, with the facts about the actual attack. Times, places, arrows, concisely and neatly arranged around the shot from the helicopter.
She looked up when she noticed that Ingvar Johansson had stopped talking. He had evidently been watching her for some time.
‘This is bloody good, don’t you think?’ Annika said, waving the paper, then putting it down on the sofa.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ Johansson said, turning round. ‘That’s all history now, though. The main thing now is tomorrow’s paper.’
Ruddy pedant, Annika thought. She had always thought that every editor of the evening papers spent too much time thinking about the future, and too little considering the past. If anything ever went wrong no one cared, because it was already yesterday’s news. And if anything ever went well, they never took time to enjoy the success. It was a shame, because in her opinion careful consideration of successes and failures was vital, for the sake of routine and to give you a chance to reflect on things generally, as well as providing stability and better quality.
‘What have you got for tomorrow?’ he asked with his back to her.
What the hell’s the matter with him? she wondered tiredly. Why’s he being like this? I’ve done something to annoy him. But what? I haven’t done anything to him, have I? Is he annoyed that I took charge of the run-through yesterday?
‘How the hell should I know what’s going on? I’ve only just got here,’ she said, surprising herself with how angry she sounded. She stood up quickly and grabbed her coat and bag. With her arms full she headed off towards her room.
‘The police are holding a press conference at half ten,’ Ingvar Johansson called after her.
She looked at her watch as she pulled open her door, fifty minutes until then. She had time to make a few calls first.
She started with the mobile number that was supposed to be Christina Furhage’s. The Olympic boss hadn’t made any kind of statement anywhere, so presumably the people in her office hadn’t managed to get hold of her yet. There was something really weird about the woman’s continuing silence, Annika was sure something was wrong.
To her great surprise she got a ringing tone rather than the recorded message. The phone was switched on.
She hurriedly cleared her throat as the phone rang. After the fifth ring Telia’s automatic answering service clicked in, but at least she knew that the phone was in use and was switched on. She was careful to store the number for future use.
Patrik and Berit appeared in her doorway together.
‘Are you busy …?’
‘God, no, come in, let’s have a quick run-through.’ She stood up and went round the desk to sit on the old sofa.
‘Brilliant work, both of you,’ she said. ‘We’re the only ones with the details of what was found at the crime scene, and the only ones who tracked down the bartender in the club.’
‘The other paper had a great interview with the President of the Olympic Committee, though,’ Berit said. ‘Have you seen it? He’s evidently furious, and has threatened to cancel the Games unless the Bomber’s caught.’
‘Yes, so I heard,’ Annika said. ‘It’s a shame we didn’t have that as well. Mind you, I wonder if that’s what he really said. If he really wants to cancel the Games, why hasn’t he said so publicly? In everything he’s said to the rest of the media and in the press release, he says the Games have to go ahead, no matter what.’
‘Maybe all the others swallowed the official line, while our esteemed rivals got him to say what he really meant?’ Berit said.
Annika had opened the other paper to look at the interview.
‘It was written by their Rome correspondent – he’s bloody good,’ Annika said. ‘I think it’s genuine, but the President is still bound to deny it this afternoon.’
‘Why this afternoon?’ Patrik said.
‘CNN have picked it up and are running a short piece about it,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘ “The Olympics in Danger”, that sort of thing, with lots of suitably sombre, bombastic music.’
Berit smiled.
‘So they’re having another press conference this morning?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Annika said, ‘probably to give us the name of the victim. I’m starting to wonder if it isn’t the Olympic boss herself.’
‘Furhage?’ Patrik said, eyes wide.
‘Well, think about it,’ Annika said. ‘Either she’s in hiding or there’s something seriously wrong here. No one can get hold of her, not even her closest colleagues. There’s nowhere on this planet where she could be unaware of what’s happened – she can’t not know about the attack. So either she doesn’t want to say anything, which means she’s in hiding, or else she can’t, which means she’s ill, dead or has been kidnapped.’
‘That’s what I’ve been thinking,’ Berit said. ‘I actually asked the police about it yesterday when I was talking to them about what they found at the crime scene, but they categorically denied it.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Annika said thoughtfully. ‘Furhage is a story today, no matter what’s happened. We’ll have to push further on the death threat – what was that really about? And if she is the victim we’ll have to run her whole life-story. Have we got any sort of obit prepared?’
‘Not for her,’ Berit said. ‘Christina Furhage wasn’t exactly expected to kick the bucket just yet.’
‘We can get them to start looking out pictures and cuttings before we head off to the press conference. Did either of you talk to Eva-Britt yesterday?’
Patrik and Berit both shook their heads. Annika went over to the desk and dialled the secretary’s home number. When Eva-Britt Qvist answered Annika gave her a quick outline of the situation.
‘I know it’s the last Sunday before Christmas, but it would be really great if you could come in,’ she said. ‘The rest of us are heading off to a press conference in police headquarters, and it would be brilliant if you could look out everything we’ve got on Christina Furhage by then, pictures and articles—’
‘I’m in the middle of baking buns,’ Eva-Britt Qvist said.
‘Ah,’ Annika said. ‘That’s a shame. But some really big things might be happening here today, and the rest of us are shattered. Patrik was here till half four this morning, I worked from quarter past three yesterday morning till eleven at night, and Berit pretty much the same. And what we really need help with is your area: checking databases and pulling together material and—’
‘Look, I told you I can’t,’ Eva-Britt Qvist said. ‘I’ve got a family.’
Annika suppressed the first reply that came into her head, and said instead, ‘Yes, I know what it’s like to have to change your plans. It’s awful to have to let your children and husband down. Obviously you’ll get overtime and time in lieu whenever you want it, either before the New Year or during next half term, if you like. But it would be brilliant if you could pull the material together before we get back from the press conference—’
‘I told you, I’m in the middle of baking! I can’t do it! Aren’t you listening?’
Annika paused and took a deep breath.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll do it this way, if that’s what you want. I’m ordering you to put in the extra hours, starting right now. I expect you to be here in fifteen minutes.’
‘But my baking!’
‘Your family can finish that,’ Annika said, and hung up. Much to her annoyance, she noticed her hand was shaking.
She hated this sort of thing. She would never dream of behaving like Eva-Britt if her boss called and asked her to work extra hours. If you worked at a paper and something big happened, you had to be prepared to do your bit; that was just the way things were. If you wanted a nine-to-five job, Monday to Friday, there were plenty of other places you could work. Of course there were others who could check the databases, she herself, or Berit, or one of the reporters out in the newsroom. But in a situation like this everyone was under a lot of pressure. Everyone was stressed about Christmas. So it seemed fairest to divide the work as evenly as possible, with each person doing what they were best at, even if it was Sunday. She could hardly give Eva-Britt special treatment this time, because she’d end up with a nightmare next time something happened, that much she was sure of. Showing the lack of respect that the secretary had just demonstrated couldn’t be rewarded with days off.
‘Eva-Britt’s on her way,’ she said to the others, and thought she caught a hint of a smile on Berit’s face.
17
They took two cars to the press conference. Annika and Berit went with Johan Henriksson, the photographer, while Patrik went with Ulf Olsson.
The media scrum was, if anything, even more hysterical today. Henriksson had to park way down by Kungsholmstorg, because the streets around police headquarters were blocked by outside-broadcast trucks and Volvos plastered with media logos.
Annika enjoyed the short walk. The air was bright and clear after the previous day’s snow, and sun was lighting up the top floors of the buildings. The snow crunched under their feet.
‘That’s where I live,’ she said, pointing to the newly renovated block from the 1880s a little further up Hantverkargatan.
‘Bought or rented?’ Berit asked.
‘Rented,’ Annika said.
‘How the hell did you get a flat there?’ Henriksson said, thinking of his own sub-let single-room flat out in Brandbergen.
‘Stubbornness,’ Annika said. ‘I got a short-term demolition contract in the block eight years ago. A little three-room flat in the courtyard with no hot water. The bathroom was in the basement of the next building. It was due for complete renovation and I was only supposed to be there six months. Then the property crash came and the owner went bankrupt. No one was interested in buying a wreck like that, and once I’d been there five years the contract became permanent. By then there were very nearly four of us in there, me and Thomas and Kalle, and I was pregnant with Ellen. So when the building was finally renovated, we got a five-room flat facing the street. Not bad, eh?’
‘Jackpot,’ Berit said.
‘What’s the rent?’ Henriksson asked.
‘That’s the only thing wrong with the story,’ Annika said. ‘Ask me something else, like how much wo
od-panelling there is, or what height the ceilings are!’
‘Capitalist, upper-class snob!’ Henriksson said, and Annika burst out laughing.
The Evening Post team were late and only just made it before the press conference started. Annika got no further than the doorway and could hardly see anything. She stood on tiptoe, and could see how each of the journalists was trying to show all the others how important and focused they were. Henriksson and Olsson elbowed their way through to the podium, and got there just as the participants marched in. There were fewer of them than yesterday. Annika could only see Chief Prosecutor Kjell Lindström and the press spokesman. Evert Danielsson wasn’t there, nor anyone from the investigating team. Over the head of a woman from one of the morning papers she watched the press spokesman clear his throat and start talking. He summarized the situation, repeating what was already known, like the fact that the Tiger was the subject of an extensive search, and the forensic investigation was continuing. He spoke for less than ten minutes. Then Kjell Lindström leaned forward, and everyone else in the room followed suit. They all had an idea of what was coming next.
‘The work of identifying the deceased victim at the stadium has largely been concluded,’ the Chief Prosecutor said, and the room was tense with expectation.
‘The victim’s family has been informed, which is why we have chosen to make public the person’s identity, even though some of the final work still needs to be concluded … The victim is Christina Furhage, managing director for the Olympic Games in Stockholm.’
Annika’s reaction was almost physical: Yes! I knew it! Just what I thought! As the tumult of voices in the press conference reached a crescendo, she was already on her way out of police headquarters.
As she walked she pushed in her earpiece and dialled the mobile number she had memorized earlier. She got the ringing tone.
The Bomber Page 8