The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  ‘Good work, Annika!’ someone called, she couldn’t tell who. She waved a hand above her head in thanks.

  Eva-Britt Qvist was typing at her computer.

  ‘Nils Langeby has taken the day off,’ she said without looking up.

  Still cross, then. Annika hung up her coat and went to get a mug of coffee from the machine, then made her way to her pigeon-hole in the postroom. It was full to bursting. She groaned out loud and looked round for a rubbish bin where she could get rid of the coffee. She’d never make it back to her office with all that post and a full mug of coffee.

  ‘Why the groan?’ Anders Schyman said behind her, and she smiled awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, all this post just gets to me. We get over a hundred press releases and letters every day. It takes for ever to go through it all.’

  ‘But there’s no reason why you should be sitting there opening envelopes,’ Schyman said in surprise. ‘I thought Eva-Britt did that?’

  ‘No, I started doing it when the last head of crime went to New York, and I suppose I’ve just carried on doing it.’

  ‘Eva-Britt used to do it before he went to the States. It would make much more sense for her to do it again, unless you want to keep it under your own control? What do you think? Shall I have a word with her?’

  Annika smiled and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, that would be a great help.’

  Anders Schyman took the bundle of post and stuffed it in Eva-Britt’s pigeon-hole.

  ‘I’ll have a word with her at once.’

  Back in the newsroom, Annika went over to Ingvar Johansson, who was sitting there with his phone glued to his ear, as usual. He was in the same clothes as yesterday, and the day before that. Annika wondered if he got undressed before going to bed.

  ‘The police are bloody unhappy about your article on the alarm codes,’ he said when he’d hung up.

  Annika stiffened, feeling anxiety hit her like a blow to the stomach. Her head was reeling.

  ‘What? Why? Did I get something wrong?’

  ‘No, but you blew their best lead. They say you promised not to write about the alarm codes.’

  She felt panic rising in her veins like a bubbling poison.

  ‘But I didn’t write about the alarm codes! I didn’t even mention the words!’

  She threw down her coffee and grabbed a copy of the paper. BOMBER CLOSE TO CHRISTINA – SUSPECT BEING QUESTIONED was the front-page headline. The big headline inside stood out, heavy and black: ALARM CODES HOLD THE KEY.

  ‘What the fuck?’ she yelled. ‘Who the hell came up with that headline?’

  ‘Calm down, you sound completely hysterical,’ Ingvar Johansson said.

  She felt her field of vision grow red and hot, as her eyes hit the self-important man slouched in his office chair. Behind his nonchalant façade she could tell how pleased he was.

  ‘Who authorized this?’ she said. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘I have nothing to do with the headlines inside the paper; surely you know that?’ he said. He turned away to carry on working, but she wasn’t going to let him get away that easily. She spun his chair round, knocking his legs against the desk.

  ‘Stop behaving like an idiot who likes watching things go wrong for other people,’ she said, and it came out like a snarl. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s me this time, don’t you get it? It hurts the paper. It hurts you, Ingvar Johansson, it hurts Anders Schyman, and it hurts your daughter’s summer cleaning job. I’m going to find out who wrote that headline, and who authorized it. Don’t think I won’t. Who was it who called?’

  The smug look had vanished, to be replaced by a look of distaste.

  ‘Don’t get things out of proportion,’ he said. ‘It was the police press officer.’

  She stood up, surprised. The man had been lying. The police press officer didn’t have a clue about anything she might have promised. He was probably just annoyed that the story had got out, and that headline was completely unnecessary. But Ingvar Johansson would never get the satisfaction of seeing her dragged down for breaking a confidence.

  She turned on her heel and walked away, not noticing that people were staring at her. Scenes like that were fairly common at the paper, and people seemed to find it interesting to listen in to them. So now they were all wondering what the head of the crime section was so angry about. It was always fun when heads of sections argued. They grabbed for copies of the paper to look at Annika’s article on pages six and seven, but couldn’t see anything odd, and the spat was quickly forgotten.

  But Annika didn’t forget. She added Ingvar Johansson’s vindictive attack to the pile of crap that was getting bigger by the day. She was worried that the shit would actually reach the fan one day, and then no one in the office would escape without a splattering.

  ‘Do you want your personal mail, or do you want me to deal with that, too?’

  Eva-Britt Qvist was standing in the doorway holding a couple of letters.

  ‘What? No, leave them here, thanks …’

  The secretary came over to Annika’s desk on noisy stilettos and threw the letters down.

  ‘There you are. And if you want me to start getting coffee for you, you can tell me to my face instead of running to the editor-in-chief!’

  Annika looked up in surprise. The other woman’s face was dark with anger. Before Annika had time to reply she had stormed out.

  Oh, good grief, Annika thought, this can’t be happening! Now she’s furious because she thinks I complained about her behind her back just to get her to open the post. God, give me strength!

  And the pile of crap got a tiny bit higher.

  Evert Danielsson was staring at his bookcase, his head empty of thought, his heart echoing. He had a peculiar feeling that he was hollow. He was holding tight to the top of his desk with both hands. Trying to hold on to it. Trying to attach himself more firmly to it. It wasn’t going to work, he was sure of that. It was just a matter of time before the Board published the press release. They weren’t going to wait until his new responsibilities were sorted out, they just wanted to make a show of strength, and prove that they could take tough decisions without Christina. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he hadn’t always handled every aspect of his job well, but with Christina in charge he had had a measure of protection. But she was no longer there to shield him, and there was nothing he could cling on to. He was finished, and he knew it.

  He had learned a fair amount over the years, about what happened to people who were no longer wanted, for instance. Often there was no need for any formal decision to move people, they left voluntarily.

  There were any number of ways of freezing a person out, and he was familiar with most of them, even if he personally hadn’t used them much. Once the decision was taken, by whoever it might be, human resources were informed. The internal reaction was generally positive: people who were forced to leave had usually lost any popularity they may once have had.

  Then the rest of the office was told, and if the person in question was even remotely a public figure, the media were set loose. At which point things developed in one of two ways. The media either paraded the expelled individual in tears or wallowed in the tragedy and shrieked, ‘Serves you right!’ The first category consisted largely of women, as long as they weren’t in very senior positions. The second was mainly made up of businessmen with large parachute payments.

  He guessed he would be in the second category. One thing in his favour was that he had got the sack, and had been made the scapegoat for the fallout from Christina Furhage’s death. There would be ways of spinning that, he knew that much, without actually formulating the thought in his echoing head.

  There was a knock at the door and his secretary popped her head in. She looked like she had been crying, and her hair was a mess.

  ‘I’ve prepared the press release, and Hans Bjällra is here to go through it with you. Can he come in?’

  Evert Danielsson looked at his f
aithful assistant of many years. She was close to sixty and would never get another job. That was what happened when someone left: the people who had worked most closely with them had to go as well. No one wanted to inherit someone else’s staff.

  It would never work. There’d never be any real loyalty that way.

  ‘Of course, yes. Show him in.’

  The head of the committee came in, a towering figure in a dark suit. He was in mourning for Christina, the hypocrite, even though everyone knew he couldn’t stand her.

  ‘Let’s make this process as quick and as bearable as possible,’ he said, sitting down on the sofa without being invited.

  Evert Danielsson nodded eagerly.

  ‘Yes, I’m also keen that this should be done in a neat and tidy way …’

  ‘I’m glad we agree. The press release will say that you are leaving your post as chair of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games. The reason is that after Christina Furhage’s tragic death you will have other responsibilities. What these are is as yet unclear, but we will be working this out with you. Nothing about dismissal, nothing about scapegoating, nothing about your parachute. The entire Board agrees that that should remain confidential. What do you think?’

  Evert Danielsson let the words sink in. This was much better than he had dared hope. It was almost a promotion. His hands let go of the desk.

  ‘Yes, I think that sounds good,’ he said.

  29

  ‘I want to talk to you about a couple of things,’ Annika said to Eva-Britt. ‘Can you come into my office for a moment?’

  ‘Why? We can talk here. I’ve got a lot to do.’

  ‘No, right now,’ Annika said, and walked into her office, leaving the door open. She heard Eva-Britt typing demonstratively for a few seconds, then she appeared in the doorway with her arms folded. Annika sat down behind her desk and gestured at the chair opposite her.

  ‘Sit down and close the door.’

  Eva-Britt sat down without closing the door. Annika sighed, got up and went over to close the door. She noticed that she was trembling slightly: confrontations were always unpleasant.

  ‘Eva-Britt, what’s the matter?’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘You seem so … angry and sad. Has anything happened?’

  Annika was forcing herself to sound calm and gentle, as the woman twisted on her chair.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Annika leaned forward, noting that Eva-Britt had crossed both her arms and legs in an unconsciously defensive posture.

  ‘You’ve been a bit off with me over the past week or so. And yesterday we had a proper argument …’

  ‘So this is some sort of telling-off because I’m not being nice enough to you?’

  Annika felt her anger bubble over.

  ‘No, this is about you not doing what you’re supposed to. You didn’t arrange the material yesterday in any order of significance, you left no notes, and you went home without telling anyone. I wasn’t aware that opening the post was one of your duties, and it was Schyman, not me, who suggested that you start doing it again. You have to learn to work together with us, otherwise this office won’t work properly.’

  The woman looked at her coldly.

  ‘This office worked perfectly well long before you arrived.’

  The conversation was going nowhere. Annika stood up.

  ‘Okay, there’s no point in carrying on with this now. I’ve got a call to make. Are you sure you’ve been through everything we’ve got on Christina Furhage? Archive, books, pictures, articles, databases …?’

  ‘Absolutely everything,’ Eva-Britt said, and walked out.

  Annika was left with the bitter taste of failure in her mouth. She was no good as a boss; she was a hopeless team-leader who couldn’t get her staff to follow her lead. She sat down and hit her head against the keyboard. What to do next? Well, she could start with the police press officer. She raised her head, picked up the phone and dialled his direct line.

  ‘You have to see that if you write about pretty much everything we know, then that makes our work that much harder?’ the press officer said. ‘There are certain things we can’t put into the public domain, because they spoil our investigation.’

  ‘So why tell us everything then?’ Annika said innocently.

  The press officer sighed. ‘Well, it’s a question of balance. There are some things we have to get out, but they don’t necessarily have to make it into the paper.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Annika said, putting her feet up on her desk. ‘Who could possibly know what you want to get out, and what you want kept quiet? Surely you don’t expect me or my colleagues to work out what’s best for your investigation? We’d be guilty of a dereliction of duty if we even tried.’

  ‘Of course, but that wasn’t what I meant. This business with the alarm codes – it’s a great shame that that got out.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry. You probably noticed that there’s no mention of the codes anywhere in the text. The wrong wording just got used in the headline. I really am sorry if it’s damaged your work in any way. That’s one reason why I think we need to have an even closer dialogue from now on.’

  The press officer started to laugh.

  ‘Brilliant, Bengtzon, that’s a magnificent way of turning it round. If we got any closer to you, you’d end up in the office next to the chief of police!’

  ‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ Annika said, smiling. ‘What’s happening today?’

  The policeman grew serious.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything at the moment.’

  ‘Come on, there are still seventeen hours to our deadline, nothing will get out until tomorrow morning. There must be something you want to get out?’

  ‘Well, seeing as it’s already out, I may as well tell you that we’re working on the list of people who had access to the alarm codes. We’re pretty sure the killer is on that list.’

  ‘So the alarms at the stadium were active that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many people are on the list?’

  ‘Enough to give us a whole lot of work. I have to take another call—’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Annika said quickly. ‘Did Christina Furhage go anywhere by taxi after midnight the night she died?’

  She could hear the police press officer breathing down the line, and another phone ringing in the background.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he said.

  ‘Just something I’ve been told. Is it true?’

  ‘Christina Furhage had her own chauffeur. The chauffeur drove her to the bar for the Christmas party. After that he had the night off, he was actually at the party. Christina Furhage had a business account with Taxi Stockholm, but as far as we are aware, it wasn’t used that night.’

  ‘So where did she go after the Christmas party, then?’

  The press officer was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘That’s the sort of thing that shouldn’t get out, both for the sake of the investigation and for Christina Furhage herself.’

  They hung up and Annika felt more confused than ever. There were several things that didn’t make sense. First the alarm codes. If there really were so many people who had access to them, then why was it such a big deal if the information got out? And what sort of murky secret was lurking behind perfect Christina Furhage’s private life? Why was Helena Starke lying? She phoned her source, but got no answer. If anyone had a right to be angry with her, it was him.

  She called reception and asked if Berit or Patrik had said when they would be coming in today. Two o’clock, they had both said as they left last night.

  She put her feet up on the desk and started to go through the bundle of newspapers. One of the morning papers had uncovered an interesting passage in the legal protocols regulating the franchise agreement between SOCOG – the Stockholm Olympic Committee – and the IOC, the International Olympic Committee. There had been a mass of legal agreements between S
OCOG and the IOC, not only governing the right to hold the Games themselves, but also things like the definition of international, national and local sponsorship. The morning paper had dug out a clause that gave the main sponsor the right to pull out of the Games if the Victoria Stadium wasn’t ready for use by 1 January of the year the Games were to be held. Annika didn’t bother to read the whole article. If she remembered rightly, there were several thousand different clauses, and in her opinion their contents were fairly uninteresting as long as none of the parties decided to invoke them. And the author of the article hadn’t managed to get any comment from the main sponsors. End of story.

  The other evening paper had spoken to a lot of people who worked with Christina, including the chauffeur, but not Helena Starke. The chauffeur told the paper that he had driven Christina to the bar, that she had been her usual cheerful self, not at all anxious or worried, just focused, as usual. He missed her hugely, because she had been a wonderful boss and a really friendly person.

  ‘Soon she’ll have wings,’ Annika muttered.

  But mostly the papers had nothing new. It took ages to go through them, they were all padded with loads of adverts. November and December were the most important months financially for the Swedish press, with January and July the worst.

  She went out to the women’s toilet to get rid of the coffee and wash the print from her fingers. She encountered her own reflection in the mirror, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. She hadn’t bothered to wash her hair that morning, just tied it up with a clip. Now it was hanging greasily over her scalp in brown clumps. There were dark rings under her eyes and a red blush from stress on her cheeks. She searched her pockets for some foundation to hide the worst of it, but couldn’t find any.

  Eva-Britt Qvist had gone to lunch, and her computer was switched off. Eva-Britt logged off whenever she left her desk; she was terrified that someone might send false emails from her account. Annika went into her office and smeared some face-cream over the blotches, then went out into the newsroom again. What was it she needed to know? What was she going to check next? She went out into the corridor where they kept their reference library, and idly looked up the Olympics boss in the Dictionary of National Biography: Christina Furhage, née Faltin, only child of a poor but respectable family, partly raised by relatives in upper Norrland, career in banking, the driving force behind Stockholm’s Olympic bid, managing director of SOCOG. Married to businessman Bertil Milander. Nothing more than that.