The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  Nils Langeby was listening carefully. He seemed to grow with every word. This was the sort of thing he wanted to hear. The editor-in-chief had faith in him, he could continue to come up with exclusives, he was a force to be reckoned with. When he left the room he had a spring in his step. He was even whistling by the time he got back to the newsroom.

  ‘Hello, Nils, what have you got on the go today?’ he heard someone call behind him.

  It was Ingvar Johansson, the news-chief. Nils Langeby stopped and thought for a moment. He hadn’t actually planned to do any work today, and no one had called him into the office. But the editor-in-chief’s words ringing in his ears made him aware of his responsibilities. So he said, ‘Well, a few different leads. The terrorist attack, the whole terrorism angle. That’s what I’m up to today …’

  ‘Great, it would be good if you could put it together as soon as possible so we’ve got it ready when the layout guys get in. The rest of the gang are going to be up to their necks with Furhage.’

  ‘Furhage?’ Nils Langeby said. ‘What about her?’

  Ingvar Johansson looked up at the reporter.

  ‘You haven’t heard? The bits and pieces they found at the stadium – that was the head of the Olympics.’

  ‘Oh that, yes, of course. Well, I’ve got sources saying it was a terrorist act, pure and simple.’

  ‘Police sources?’

  ‘Cast-iron police sources,’ Nils Langeby said, puffing out his chest. He pulled off his leather jacket and started rolling up his shirtsleeves as he headed off down the corridor towards his office with its view of the car park.

  ‘Right, you bitch, now I’m really going to show you!’

  20

  Anders Schyman hardly had time to take the first piece of paper off the biggest pile when there was another knock on the door. This time it was the new photographer, Ulf Olsson, who wanted a word. He had just arrived from the press conference in police headquarters, and wanted to talk in confidence to the editor-in-chief about the way the head of crime, Annika Bengtzon, had treated him the day before.

  ‘I’m not used to being shouted at because of the way I dress,’ the photographer said, explaining that he had been wearing an Armani suit the previous day.

  ‘Is that what happened, then?’ Anders Schyman wondered.

  ‘Yes, Annika Bengtzon expressed her disapproval of the fact that I was wearing a designer label. I don’t think I should have to put up with that. I certainly didn’t have to in any of my previous positions.’

  Anders Schyman looked at the man for several seconds before replying.

  ‘I don’t know what was said between you and Annika Bengtzon,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know where you worked before and what the dress-code was like there. As far as I’m concerned, and I know the same goes for Annika, you’re more than welcome to wear Armani everywhere, down coal-mines, at crime scenes, wherever. But don’t blame anyone but yourself if you’re not dressed appropriately for a job. I, and the rest of the senior staff here, expect you and every other journalist working here to be at least moderately well-informed about what’s going on before you come to work. If there has been some spectacular murder, or a serious bomb attack, you have to presume that you will be covering it. I suggest that you get hold of a large bag and keep a pair of long-johns and maybe a tracksuit handy in your car …’

  ‘I’ve already got a bag,’ the photographer said sourly. ‘From Annika Bengtzon.’

  Anders Schyman looked blankly at the young man.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he said, and the photographer got up and left.

  The editor-in-chief gave a deep sigh as the door closed. Sometimes the playground politics went way beyond his tolerance levels. He just wanted to get home to his wife, and a large glass of Scotch.

  Annika and Johan Henriksson stopped at the McDonald’s on Sveavägen for a couple of Big Mac meals. They ate them in the car on the way back to the office.

  ‘That sort of thing’s terrible,’ Henriksson said, chewing on the last fry.

  ‘Visiting relatives? Yes, it’s probably the worst part of the job.’ Annika wiped the ketchup from her fingers.

  ‘I can’t help it, but I always feel like a real low-life sitting there like that,’ Henriksson said. ‘As if we’re sniffing about in their tragedy, making the most of their own little hell, just because it looks good in the paper.’

  Annika wiped her mouth and thought for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s easy to think that. But sometimes people actually want to talk. We mustn’t make the mistake of thinking people are stupid just because they’re in shock. Obviously you have to be careful. And we don’t always write about the relatives just because we’ve listened to them and talked to them.’

  ‘But people who’ve just lost a loved one don’t always know what they’re doing,’ Henriksson said.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Annika said. ‘Who are you or I to decide if someone should be allowed to talk or not? Who should judge what’s best for anyone in a particular situation? You, me, or the person themselves? There’s been a huge debate about this in the media in recent years, and sometimes the debate has hurt people more than the interviews with them have.’

  ‘I still think it’s crap,’ Henriksson said lamely.

  Annika smiled.

  ‘Well, yes. Talking to someone who’s just had the very worst thing imaginable happen to them is terrible, of course it is. You can’t handle too many of them in a month. But you do get used to it, after a while. After all, people working in hospitals, or the Church, have to deal with tragedies every single day.’

  ‘Yeah, but they don’t splash them all over a newspaper,’ Henriksson said.

  ‘God, you’re really milking this!’ Annika said, suddenly annoyed. ‘Ending up in the paper doesn’t have to be a punishment, you know! It proves that you’re important, that you matter. Or should we ignore the victims of crime, all the relatives? Think about what happened with the relatives of the people who died when the Estonia sank. They thought they got far too little attention in the media. They said the papers were only interested in bow doors failing, and they were right. For a while it was practically taboo to talk to any of the Estonia families – if you did, all the self-righteous media and consumer rights programmes came down on you like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘No need to get so angry,’ Henriksson said.

  ‘I’ll get as fucking angry as I like, thank you,’ Annika snapped.

  They sat in silence the rest of the way back to the office. As they stood in the lift on the way up to the newsroom Henriksson gave Annika a disarming smile and said, ‘I reckon that shot of Milander by the window is going to be pretty good.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Annika said. ‘We’ll have to see if we can publish it.’

  She pushed open the lift door and hurried away without bothering to wait for a reply.

  21

  Eva-Britt Qvist was busy pulling out background material on Christina Furhage when Annika passed her on her way to her room. The secretary was surrounded by files of old cuttings and reams of computer printouts.

  ‘There’s an incredible amount of stuff about this woman,’ she said, trying to sound annoyed. ‘But I think I’ve dug out most of it now.’

  ‘Can you do a preliminary sort-through so that someone else can take over later?’ Annika said.

  ‘You have such a lovely way of making orders sound like questions,’ Eva-Britt said.

  Annika couldn’t be bothered to reply, so just went into her office and hung up her coat. She picked up a mug of coffee, then headed over to Pelle Oscarsson, the picture editor, and pulled up a chair so that she could look at his computer screen. It was covered in thumbnail pictures from the paper’s archive, all of them representing Christina Furhage.

  ‘We’ve printed over six hundred of our own pictures of that woman,’ Pelle Oscarsson said. ‘We must have taken an average of one shot a week for the last eight years. More than the
King.’

  Annika gave a wry smile. Yes, that could well be true. Everything Christina Furhage had done in recent years had got a lot of attention. Annika studied the screen: Christina Furhage opens the Victoria Stadium, Christina Furhage meeting the Prime Minister, Christina Furhage meets famous singers, Christina Furhage hugging the President of the International Olympic Committee, Christina Furhage showing off her new autumn wardrobe in the Sunday supplement …

  Pelle Oscarsson clicked on to a new screen of thumbnails: Christina Furhage at the White House, at the premiere of some play at the National Theatre, drinking tea with the Queen, speaking at a conference on female leadership …

  ‘Have we got a single picture of her home, or of her family?’ Annika asked.

  The picture editor thought for a moment.

  ‘I don’t think we have,’ he said in surprise. ‘Now that you come to mention it, I don’t think we’ve got any shots of her in any sort of private context.’

  ‘Oh well, I dare say we’ll manage,’ Annika said, as the pictures flew past.

  ‘I think we’ll have this one on the front,’ Pelle said, clicking on a picture taken in the paper’s own studio.

  After a second or so the picture covered the whole of the screen, and Annika knew the picture editor was right. It was an excellent portrait of Christina Furhage.

  The woman was professionally made up, her hair styled and glossy, the lighting warm and subdued, softening the wrinkles on her face; she was wearing an expensive, close-fitting dress and was seated in a relaxed pose on an antique chair.

  ‘How old was she, anyway?’ Annika said.

  ‘Sixty-two,’ Pelle said. ‘We did a feature on her last birthday.’

  ‘Wow,’ Annika said. ‘She looks at least fifteen years younger.’

  ‘Surgery, healthy living or good genes?’ Pelle said.

  ‘Or all of them,’ Annika said.

  Anders Schyman was on his way to the canteen, holding an empty and very dirty coffee mug. He looked tired, his hair was a mess and he had loosened his tie. He stopped beside them.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We’ve been to see Furhage’s family.’

  ‘Anything we can use?’

  Annika hesitated. ‘Well, I think so. Something, anyway. Henriksson took some pictures of her husband, but he was pretty confused.’

  ‘We’ll have to go through it carefully before we decide,’ Schyman said, heading off to the canteen.

  ‘What pictures have we got for the news?’ Pelle Oscarsson asked, closing the file of photographs.

  Annika swallowed the last of her coffee.

  ‘We’ll have a run-through as soon as the others get in,’ she said.

  She threw the plastic cup in Eva-Britt Qvist’s bin, went into her room and closed the door firmly behind her.

  It was time for some phone-calls. She started with her source: he was on the day shift today. She dialled a direct number inside police headquarters and struck lucky: he was in his room and answered straight away.

  ‘How did you find out about her personal details being withheld?’ he wondered.

  ‘When did you realize it was Furhage?’ she countered.

  The man sighed.

  ‘Almost at once. We found her things in the stadium. Although the actual process of identification took a bit longer. You don’t want to make a mistake in a case like this …’

  Annika waited without saying anything, but he didn’t go on. So she said, ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Checking, checking, checking. It wasn’t the Tiger, we know that much at least.’

  ‘Why not?’ Annika said in surprise.

  ‘I can’t tell you, but it wasn’t him. It was an inside job, just as you guessed yesterday.’

  ‘I have to write about the story today. You appreciate that, don’t you?’

  He sighed again.

  ‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ he said. ‘Thanks for keeping quiet for twenty-four hours, anyway.’

  ‘Give and take,’ Annika said.

  ‘So what do you want?’ he said.

  ‘Why were her personal details protected?’

  ‘There was a threat, a written threat, two or three years ago. A bit of violence, too, but that wasn’t so serious.’

  ‘What sort of violence?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into details. The person in question was never charged. Christina didn’t want to cause that person any trouble, as she apparently put it. The file says that she also said everyone deserves a second chance. She moved house instead, and asked to have her personal details, and those of her family, hidden.’

  ‘Very magnanimous of her,’ Annika said.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Were the threats anything to do with the Olympics?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Was it someone she knew, a relative, maybe?’

  The policeman hesitated.

  ‘You could say that. The motive was purely private. Which is why we can’t make it public, it was too close to her. But there’s absolutely nothing to suggest that the bomb at the stadium was an act of terrorism. We believe it was aimed at Christina personally, not that that necessarily means that the culprit was particularly close to her.’

  ‘Are you questioning the person who made those threats against her?’

  ‘We already have.’

  Annika blinked.

  ‘Wow, quick work,’ she said. ‘Any results?’

  ‘We can’t comment on that. But I can say that at the moment no single person is under any more suspicion than anyone else.’

  ‘And who might this “anyone else” be?’

  ‘You can work that out for yourself. Anyone who ever had any contact with her. So four, maybe five thousand people. We can rule some of them out, but I don’t intend to tell you which ones.’

  ‘There must be a hell of a lot of people with entry-cards to the stadium,’ Annika teased.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘The Olympic office here, the members of the IOC, caretakers, the people building the facilities, electricians, builders, welders, transport companies, architects, advertising agencies, the security company, television sport …’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Am I wrong?’ she said.

  ‘No, not really. All the people you mention have had, currently have or will have entry-cards – that much is true.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You can’t get in in the middle of the night with just an entry-card.’

  Annika’s brain was whirring.

  ‘The alarm codes! That’s a much smaller group!’

  ‘Yep, but you have to keep quiet about that for the time being.’

  ‘Okay. How long? Who had access to the codes?’

  The man laughed.

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ he said. ‘We’re going through that right now.’

  ‘But couldn’t the alarms have been switched off?’

  ‘And the doors unlocked? Really, Bengtzon!’

  She heard two new voices in the background, and the man on the other end put his hand over the receiver to say something to them. Then he took his hand away and said, ‘Look, I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘One more thing!’ Annika said.

  ‘Make it short …’

  ‘What was Christina Furhage doing at the Victoria Stadium in the middle of the night?’

  ‘That, my dear, is a fucking good question. We’ll speak soon.’

  They hung up and Annika tried to phone home. No answer. She dialled Anne Snapphane’s number, but only got the fax instead. She called Berit’s mobile and got voicemail. Patrik the mobile-geek answered, though, he always did. It was a weakness of his. Once when Annika had called he was in the shower.

  ‘I’m at Olympics headquarters,’ he yelled down the phone, another little peculiarity of his. In spite of his affection for his mobile, he didn’t really trust it, so always shouted to make sure he would be heard.

  ‘Where’s Berit?’
Annika asked, noticing that she too was talking louder.

  ‘She’s here with me, she’s doing Furhage’s last evening,’ Patrik roared. ‘I’m doing the Olympic headquarters in shock.’

  ‘Where are you right now?’ Annika said, forcing herself to lower her voice.

  ‘In some corridor. People are really upset,’ he bellowed.

  Annika practically blushed on his behalf, imagining all the office-workers listening to the reporter shouting in the corridor outside their doors.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘We’ll have to cook something up about the police hunt for the Bomber. When will you be back?’

  ‘An hour or so?’ he roared.

  ‘Good, see you then,’ Annika said, and hung up. She couldn’t help smiling.

  22

  Evert Danielsson closed the door to shut out the noise of a journalist bellowing into his mobile out in the corridor. In an hour the committee was due to meet, the operational, active, expert committee that Christina called her ‘orchestra’. The committee was made up of doers, unlike the Honorary Board, which was mostly for show. Officially, all important decisions were supposed to be taken by the Board, but that was really only a formality. The people on the Honorary Board were like members of parliament, whereas the committee consisted of the people who actually came up with policy in the governing party.

  The chair of the committee was nervous. He was aware that he had made a number of mistakes since the explosion went off. He should have called the committee together yesterday, for instance. But now someone else had called the meeting, one day late, which was a serious slip-up. Instead of gathering the committee, he had appeared in public, telling the world’s media a lot of things that it wasn’t his job to tell them – mainly the unfortunate speculation about terrorism, but also those details about rebuilding the stand. He knew perfectly well that it should have been discussed by the committee first. But the informal, core management group had met yesterday morning – a meeting that seemed more and more panicky with the benefit of hindsight – and decided to take the initiative in the debate, and not attempt any sort of cover-up. The idea was to show they were meeting the problem head on. In Christina’s absence, he had been chosen to act as their representative, as chairman of the committee, rather than the usual press experts, in an effort to add more weight to their response.