The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  She sat down on a narrow bench in the lobby of the police station, breathing deeply as she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on sending a telepathic message: Please, someone answer! Three rings, four, and then a click. Someone was taking the call! Good God, who on earth could it be?

  Annika screwed her eyes shut even more tightly and spoke softly and slowly.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name is Annika Bengtzon, from the Evening Post newspaper. Who am I talking to, please?’

  ‘My name is Bertil Milander,’ a voice replied quietly.

  Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, that was Christina Furhage’s husband, wasn’t it? Was that his name? Annika decided to play it safe, and asked in the same slow voice as before: ‘Am I talking to Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage’s husband?’

  The man on the mobile sighed.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he said.

  Annika could feel her heart in her throat.

  This was the most uncomfortable call a reporter could ever make, to a person who has just lost a family member. There was a lot of debate in the journalists’ association about whether it was ever right to make calls like this, but Annika believed that it was better to call than not to, if only to explain what the newspapers were doing.

  ‘I’d like to start by saying that I’m very sorry for the tragedy that’s hit your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife, Christina, who died in the explosion at the Victoria Stadium,’ she explained.

  The man didn’t reply.

  ‘By the way, is this Christina’s mobile phone?’ she heard herself ask.

  ‘No, it’s the family’s,’ the man said, surprised.

  ‘I’m calling to tell you that we’ll be writing about your wife’s death in tomorrow’s paper …’

  ‘But you’ve already done that,’ the man said.

  ‘Well, we’ve covered the explosion itself, the actual events.’

  ‘The Evening Post … Weren’t you the ones who had that picture? The one where—’ His voice broke up into sobs.

  Annika clamped her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. Of course, he had seen Henriksson’s picture of the stand where the medics were picking up the remnants of his wife. Oh shit, oh shit … She took a few deep, silent breaths.

  ‘Yes, that was us,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you about that picture, but your wife has only just been identified. I had no way of calling you beforehand. I’m very sorry if the picture came as a shock. That’s one reason why I’d really like to talk to you now. We’ll be covering the story again tomorrow.’

  The man was crying at the other end.

  ‘If there’s anything you’d like to say, I’d be happy to listen,’ Annika said. ‘If you want to express any criticism or ask us to write anything particular, or not to write about something, please, just tell me. Mr Milander?’

  He snorted.

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said.

  Annika looked up and saw through the glass of the main doors that the horde of journalists was heading out of the building towards her. Quickly she opened the door and stood at the side of the steps. There were two insistent bleeps in her ear that told her that someone else was trying to get through on her mobile.

  ‘I understand that this is absolutely awful for you,’ she said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like. But this is a global event, one of the worst crimes ever seen in this country. Your wife was a leading figure, a role model for women around the world. That’s why we have a duty to report this event. And that’s why I’m begging you to talk to us, to give us the chance to show respect, to say what you want us to. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but we might make things even worse by writing the wrong thing and unintentionally causing you more pain.’

  The ‘call waiting’ signal came again. The man hesitated.

  ‘I’ll give you my direct line, and the editor-in-chief’s, so you can call whenever you like—’

  ‘Come over here,’ he interrupted. ‘I want to tell you.’

  Annika closed her eyes, ashamed that she felt so jubilant. She was going to get an interview with the victim’s husband! He told her the family’s secret address, and she wrote it on the back of a supermarket receipt she had in her pocket. Before she even thought about whether it was unethical, she quickly said, ‘Your mobile’s going to be ringing non-stop from now on. If you can’t handle it, you’d be entirely justified in switching it off.’

  She’d got through now, after all. It would be best if no other journalist did. She pushed her way back into the police station to find her colleagues. The first person she found was Berit.

  ‘I’ve got hold of the family,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m heading out there with Henriksson. If you could get started on Furhage’s final hours, Patrik can take the hunt for the killer. Does that sound okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Berit said. ‘Henriksson is round the back somewhere, he dragged Kjell Lindström out for some pictures. It’s probably quicker if you go round …’

  Annika rushed out and sure enough found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, standing on a container for recycled paper with Lindström below him and the tunnel leading below police headquarters in the background. She said hello to Lindström as she pulled the young photographer aside.

  ‘Come on, Henriksson, you can have the centrefold again tomorrow,’ she said.

  18

  Helena Starke wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She realized it was sticky, but couldn’t smell any vomit. Her whole perceptual apparatus had shut down, been disconnected, blown away. Smell, sight, hearing, taste – there was nothing left. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here, or had she gone blind? Her brain didn’t work, she couldn’t think, there were no thoughts left, everything she had once been had gone up in smoke. She felt salt water trickling down her face, hadn’t realized she was crying. All that remained was an echo in her body; her body was an empty space filled with one single roaring phrase: Christina’s dead, Christina’s dead, Christina’s dead …

  Someone was hammering on the door.

  ‘Helena! Are you all right? Do you need help?’

  She groaned and sank to the floor, curling up under the basin. Christina’s dead, Christina’s dead, Christina’s—

  ‘Open the door, Helena! Are you ill?’

  Christina’s dead, Christina’s dead—

  ‘Break the door in!’

  Something hit her, something that hurt. Suddenly there was light from the corridor.

  ‘Good God, help her up. What happened?’

  They would never understand, she thought, then realized that she could still think. They would never understand. Never ever.

  She felt someone pick her up. She heard the sound of someone screaming, then realized it was her.

  The art nouveau building was plastered a bright ochre colour. It lay in the upper reaches of Östermalm, on one of those sober streets where all the cars gleamed and all the old ladies had little white dogs on leads. The entrance hall was magnificent, of course: marble floor, engraved mirrors on the doors, lifts all beechwood and brass, warm yellow marbled walls, a large stained-glass window of flowers and leaves facing the courtyard. There was a thick green carpet running from the door to the staircase, reminding Annika of the Grand Hotel.

  The Furhage/Milander family apartment was at the top of the building.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to take this really carefully,’ Annika whispered to Henriksson before she rang the doorbell. A series of chimes echoed behind the door.

  It was opened immediately, as if the man had been standing waiting for them. Annika didn’t recognize him; she’d never even seen a picture of him. Christina didn’t usually drag her husband around with her. Bertil Milander’s face was grey and he had dark rings under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved.

  ‘Come in,’ he said simply.

  He turned and walked into what seemed to be an enormous drawing room. His back was bowed, and Annika was str
uck by how old he looked as he walked ahead of them in his brown jacket. They took off their coats and boots; the photographer hung a Leica over his shoulder and left the rest of his equipment by the shoe-rack. Annika’s stockinged feet sank into the thick rugs. This sort of home must cost a fortune to insure.

  The man had sat down on a sofa, and Annika and the photographer ended up sitting opposite him. Annika had her notepad and pen ready.

  ‘We’re really here to listen,’ Annika began gently. ‘If there’s anything you want to tell us, anything you’d like us to write, we’re happy to consider it.’

  Bertil Milander looked down at his clasped hands. Then he started to cry silently. Henriksson ran his tongue over his lips.

  ‘Tell me about Christina,’ Annika said encouragingly.

  The man pulled an embroidered handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. He carefully polished his nose before putting the handkerchief away again. He gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Christina was the most amazing person I’ve ever met. She was just astonishing. There was nothing she couldn’t do. Living with a woman like that was …’

  He took out the handkerchief and blew his nose again.

  ‘… an adventure, every single day. She did everything at home. Food, cleaning, parties, washing, bills, looked after our daughter – she did everything …’

  He stopped, thinking about what he had said. It looked like he suddenly realized the meaning of his words. From now on, he would have to do all of those things.

  He looked down at the handkerchief.

  ‘How did you meet?’ Annika asked, mainly for the sake of saying something. The man didn’t seem to hear her.

  ‘Stockholm would never have been awarded the Olympics if it hadn’t been for her. She had the President of the International Olympic Committee wrapped around her little finger. She built up the whole organization and drove it towards her goal. They wanted to move her out once she’d got the Games and put someone else in as head of the Games, but that was never going to happen. No one but her could hold it all together, and they were forced to recognize that.’

  Annika made notes as the man spoke, but could feel herself getting more and more perplexed. She had met plenty of people in shock after traffic accidents and murders, and was well aware that they sometimes reacted oddly, irrationally, but Bertil Milander didn’t sound like a husband in mourning. He sounded like an employee.

  ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘She was picked as Woman of the Year by that American magazine, whatever it’s called …? Woman of the Year. She was the whole of Sweden’s Woman of the Year. The whole world’s …’

  Bertil Milander blew his nose again. Annika put down her pen and stared at her notepad. This didn’t feel right. Milander didn’t know what he was saying or doing. He didn’t seem to realize what she and the photographer were doing there.

  ‘When did you find out that Christina was dead?’ Annika asked gently.

  Bertil Milander looked up.

  ‘She didn’t come home,’ he said. ‘She went to the Christmas party with the rest of her team and didn’t come home again.’

  ‘Were you worried when she didn’t come home? Had it happened before? She travelled a lot, didn’t she?’

  The man straightened his back and looked at Annika as though he’d only just noticed her.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Annika thought for a moment. This really didn’t feel right. The man was in too great a state of shock. His reactions were confused and incoherent; he didn’t know what he was doing.

  There was just one more question that she had to ask.

  ‘Someone had made a threat against your family, hadn’t they?’ she said. ‘What kind of threat?’

  The man stared at her open-mouthed. It looked like he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘The threat,’ Annika repeated. ‘Could you say something about the threat against your family?’

  The man looked at her reproachfully.

  ‘Christina did all she could,’ he said. ‘She’s not a bad person. It wasn’t her fault.’

  Annika could feel a shiver go down her spine. This really wasn’t going well. She gathered up her pen and notepad.

  ‘Thank you so much for seeing us under such difficult circumstances,’ she said, getting ready to stand up. ‘We’ll—’

  A door slammed, making her jump and spin round. A painfully thin young woman with a suspicious look on her face and messy hair was standing behind the sofa.

  ‘Who are you?’ the young woman asked.

  Christina’s daughter, Annika thought, pulling herself together. She explained that they were from the Evening Post.

  ‘Vultures,’ the young woman said scornfully. ‘You got the scent of blood, did you? Ready to fight over the rest of the corpse? Get the best bits for yourselves?’

  She walked slowly round the sofa towards Annika. Annika forced herself to remain seated and keep calm.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother—’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ the daughter yelled. ‘I’m glad she’s dead!’ She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Bertil Milander showed no sign of reaction, just sat there on his sofa, looking down and twisting the handkerchief between his fingers.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a few pictures?’ Henriksson asked. Bertil Milander came to life.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, standing up. ‘Is this okay?’

  ‘Maybe closer to the window, so we get better light.’

  Bertil Milander posed next to the beautiful high windows. The pictures would be good. The thin daylight seeping through the glass, the blue curtains from Svensk Tenn framing the shot.

  As Henriksson took a series of shots, Annika hurried into the next room in search of the young woman. It was a library, tastefully decorated with expensive English furniture and thousands of books.

  Christina Furhage’s daughter was sitting in a maroon leather armchair.

  ‘I’m sorry you think we’re intruding,’ Annika said. ‘We really don’t mean to cause you any pain. Quite the opposite. We just wanted to explain what we’re doing.’

  The young woman didn’t answer; it was as if she hadn’t registered Annika’s presence.

  ‘You and your dad are welcome to phone if there’s anything you want to tell us, if you think we’ve got something wrong, or if there’s anything you want to add.’

  No reaction.

  ‘I’ll leave my phone number with your dad,’ Annika said, and left the room. She closed the ornate double doors carefully behind her.

  Henriksson and Bertil Milander had gone out into the hall. Annika followed them, pulling a business card from her wallet and adding the editor-in-chief’s direct number alongside her own.

  ‘Call if there’s anything we can do,’ she said. ‘My mobile’s always on. Thank you for letting us take up your time.’

  Bertil Milander took the card without looking at it. He put it on a little gilded table next to the front door.

  ‘I miss her so much,’ he said, and Annika knew she had her headline for the centrefold.

  19

  The editor-in-chief sighed as he heard the knock on the door. He had been planning to get through at least one of the piles on his desk, but since he arrived in his office an hour or so ago he hadn’t had a moment’s peace from phone-calls or people at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. He tried to relax – after all, he took pride in the fact that any of his staff could come and see him whenever they wanted.

  It was Nils Langeby, and Anders Schyman felt his heart sink even more.

  ‘What’s on your mind today, then?’ he said without getting up from behind the desk.

  Nils Langeby stood in the middle of the floor of the corner room and knotted his hands theatrically.

  ‘I’m very worried about the crime desk,’ he began. ‘There’s no real organization any more.’

  Anders Schyman looked up at the reporter and suppressed a
sigh.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We’re going to miss important stories. It doesn’t feel reliable any more. Everyone’s unsettled after the changes, we aren’t comfortable with the way we’re covering crime.’

  The editor-in-chief gestured towards a chair on the other side of the desk and Nils Langeby sat down.

  ‘All changes, even changes for the better, involve a certain amount of turbulence and anxiety,’ Schyman said. ‘It’s entirely natural that the crime desk feels unsettled, you haven’t had anyone in charge for a while, and now you have a new boss.’

  ‘That’s just it, I think that’s where the problem lies,’ Nils Langeby said. ‘I don’t think Annika Bengtzon is up to the job.’

  Anders Schyman thought for a moment.

  ‘Really? I have to say I think the exact opposite. I think she’s a formidable reporter with good organizational skills. She can prioritize and delegate. And she never hesitates to tackle unpleasant jobs. She’s smart and knowledgeable; today’s paper is proof of that if proof were needed. What makes you doubt her?’

  Nils Langeby leaned forward conspiratorially.

  ‘People don’t trust her. She thinks she’s something special. She treads on people’s toes and doesn’t know how to handle people.’

  ‘How has this affected you?’

  The reporter held out his hands.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I’ve been affected, but I’ve heard …’

  ‘So you’re here out of a sort of general anxiety on behalf of your colleagues?’

  ‘Yes, and we’re losing sight of our coverage of crime in schools, and environmental crime.’

  ‘But aren’t those your areas of responsibility?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Has Annika tried to take those areas away from you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘So if we’re failing to develop our stories within those specific areas, that would be down to you, wouldn’t it? Surely that doesn’t have anything to do with Annika Bengtzon?’

  Nils Langeby suddenly looked confused.

  ‘I think you’re a good reporter, Nils,’ the editor-in-chief went on calmly. ‘Men like you, with weight and experience, are just what this paper needs. I hope you can continue to come up with exclusives and exposés for a long time yet. I have every confidence in you, just as I have every confidence in Annika Bengtzon as head of the crime section. That’s what makes my job better and better with each passing day, the fact that people grow and learn to work together for the good of the paper.’