The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  Annika looked up. The fact that Christina had been born Faltin was news to her. So where did the name Furhage come from?

  She read the entry that followed: Carl Furhage, born in the late nineteenth century into a family of foresters in Härnösand, and a manager within the forestry industry. Third marriage to Dorotea Adelcrona. Left his mark on the world and guaranteed his place in the dictionary by establishing a foundation for young men who wanted to study forestry. Died in the 1960s.

  Annika closed the book with a snap. She hurried over to the nearest computer terminal and typed in Carl Furhage. Seven hits. So he had been written about seven times since the archive was computerized in the early 1990s. Annika clicked up the results and let out a whistle. The foundation was pretty wealthy: a quarter of a million kronor was handed out each year. But there was nothing else about Carl Furhage.

  She logged off the system, collected her pass-card, and went out of the fire-door behind the sports desk. A steep staircase led her down two floors, and she passed through another door that required both pass-card and code. She emerged into a long corridor with a worn, grey linoleum floor and buzzing fluorescent lights in the ceiling. At the end of the corridor lay the paper’s text and picture archive, protected behind double fire-doors. She went in, saying hello to the staff hunched over their computers. The grey filing cabinets containing the archive of everything published in the Evening Post and its sister morning paper since the 1800s filled the whole of the vast room. She wandered slowly through the aisles. She reached the archive for individuals, and read A–Ac, Ad–Af, Ag–Ak. She skipped a few rows until she reached Fu. She pulled open a large drawer with unexpected ease. She soon found Furhage, Christina, but there was nothing for Furhage, Carl. She sighed. A dead end.

  ‘If you’re after cuttings about Christina Furhage, they’re already booked out,’ a voice said behind her.

  It was the archivist, a severely competent little man with very definite opinions about what should be archived, and under what search words.

  Annika smiled.

  ‘No, I’m actually looking for another Furhage, a Director Carl Furhage.’

  ‘Have we written anything about him?’

  ‘Well, he set up a wealthy foundation. He must have been as rich as Croesus.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, he died in the sixties.’

  ‘Then he may no longer be archived under his own name. The cuttings will still be here, of course, but they might be sorted under another category. Do you have any idea what we could look under?’

  ‘No idea. Scholarships, maybe?’

  The archivist looked thoughtful.

  ‘There’ll be a lot there. Do you need it today?’

  Annika sighed and made to leave.

  ‘No, not really. It was just a thought. Thanks anyway—’

  ‘Hang on – is there a chance we might have printed his picture?’

  Annika stopped.

  ‘Maybe, I suppose so, at some awards ceremony or other. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because he’ll be in the picture archive in that case.’

  Annika went over to the far side of the room, past the sport archive and reference section. She found the right drawer and leafed through until she reached Furhage. Christina’s file filled almost the whole drawer, but right at the back was a small brown envelope. It was fairly tatty, but the faded text on the front read: Furhage, Carl. Director. Annika got covered in dust as she pulled it out. She sat on the floor and tipped out the contents. There were four pictures. Two small black-and-white portraits of a stern-looking man with receding hair and a heavy jaw, Carl Furhage at fifty, and Carl Furhage at seventy. The third picture was a wedding photograph of the ageing director and an elderly woman, Dorotea Adelcrona.

  The fourth picture was the biggest. It had landed upside down, and as Annika turned it over she felt her heart skip a beat. The caption was taped to the bottom of the picture: Director Carl Furhage, 60 years old today, with his wife Christina and son Olof. Annika read the words twice before she believed her own eyes. It was definitely Christina Furhage, an incredibly young Christina. She couldn’t be more than twenty. She was very thin, and her hair was cut in an unflattering old-lady style. She was wearing a dark outfit, the skirt reaching her calves. She was looking shyly into the camera and trying to smile. In her lap sat an enchanting fair-haired boy, about two years old. He was wearing a white top with shorts and braces, and was holding an apple in his hands. The director himself was standing behind the sofa, looking authoritative and with a protective hand on his young wife’s shoulder.

  The whole picture was extremely rigid and arranged, and looked much older than the 1950s, which was the earliest it could have been. She hadn’t read anything about Christina having been married to Furhage, still less about her having a young son. So she had two children!

  Annika lowered the picture to her knees. She didn’t know how or why, but this fact suddenly felt very important, she just knew it. A child didn’t just disappear. This child was out there somewhere, and would surely have one or two things to say about his mother Christina.

  She put the pictures back in the envelope, got up and went over to the archivist.

  ‘I’d like to take this up with me,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, just sign it out,’ he said, without looking up.

  Annika scribbled her signature and went back through the corridor and up to her office. She had a feeling it was going to be a long afternoon.

  30

  The press release about Evert Danielsson’s departure was sent to the news agencies at 11.30. Then it was faxed to all the other news organizations by the Olympic office’s press department – first to the morning papers and television, then radio, the evening papers and the larger local papers, in a gradually diminishing order of importance. Danielsson hadn’t been a prominent figure within the Olympics, so editors up and down the country didn’t exactly throw themselves at the news. Roughly forty minutes after the press release reached the main news agency in Kungsholmstorg, a short telegram was sent out, saying that the chair of the Olympic committee was moving from his current responsibilities to work instead with the direct consequences of Christina Furhage’s death.

  Evert Danielsson sat in his room as the fax machines whirred. He had the use of the office until his new responsibilities had been worked out. Anxiety was thumping just below his temples. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a whole sentence in a report or paper. He was waiting for the wolves to attack, for the hunt to begin. He would be fair game now, and the mob would soon pick up his scent. But to his surprise his phone hadn’t yet rung.

  To some extent he had convinced himself that it would be the same as after Christina’s death; that all the telephones in the office would start ringing at once, and would go on ringing. But they didn’t. An hour after the press release had gone out one of the morning papers got in touch for a comment. He was surprised that his voice sounded quite normal as he said that he preferred to see this as promotion, and that someone had to sort out the chaos caused by Christina Furhage’s death. And the journalist seemed to be satisfied with that. His secretary came in and wept for a few minutes, then asked if there was anything she could get for him. Coffee? Some cake? A salad, perhaps? He thanked her, but said no, he couldn’t eat anything. His fingers gripped the edge of his desk as he waited for the next call.

  Annika was on her way down to the canteen to get something to eat when Ingvar Johansson approached, holding a sheet of paper.

  ‘Isn’t this one of your boys?’ he said, holding out a press release from the Olympic office to her. She took it and read the start.

  ‘Well, my boys is pushing it a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to him on the phone. Why, do you think we should do something with this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought you might like to know.’

  Annika folded the sheet of paper.

  ‘Thanks. Is anything else going on?’

  ‘Not in your a
rea,’ he said, and walked away.

  Bastard, Annika thought, as she made her way to the canteen instead. She didn’t feel particularly hungry. She bought a pasta salad and a bottle of Christmas cola and took them back to her room, where she ate the salad in four minutes flat. Then she went back to the cafeteria and bought three more bottles of Christmas cola. She was on her second bottle by the time she dialled the Olympic office and asked to speak to Evert Danielsson. He sounded strangely distant. He said he preferred to think of this change of role as a promotion.

  ‘What are you going to be doing?’ Annika asked.

  ‘The details aren’t quite sorted out yet,’ Evert Danielsson replied.

  ‘So how can you regard it as a promotion?’

  The man on the other end was silent.

  ‘Er, well, I certainly don’t think of it as being dismissed.’

  ‘So have you been?’ Annika said.

  Evert Danielsson thought for a moment.

  ‘That depends on how you look at it,’ he said.

  ‘I see. So did you resign?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘So who decided about the change of job? The Board?’

  ‘Well, they need someone to sort out the muddle after—’

  ‘But surely you could have done that in your role as head of the committee?’

  ‘Well, that’s true.’

  ‘By the way, did you know that Christina Furhage has a son?’

  ‘A son?’ he said, confused. ‘No, she’s got a daughter, Lena.’

  ‘No, she’s got a son as well. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea. A son? I’ve never heard of him.’

  Annika thought for a moment.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do you know which Olympic official had an affair that led to a woman being dismissed from the office seven years ago?’

  Evert Danielsson felt his jaw drop.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ he said when he had composed himself.

  ‘A note in the paper. Do you know who it was?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Why?’

  ‘What happened?’

  He thought for a moment, then said, ‘What exactly do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Annika said, and Evert Danielsson believed her. ‘I just want to know how it all hangs together.’

  To say that Annika was surprised when Evert Danielsson invited her up to the office for a chat would be an understatement.

  31

  Berit and Patrik still hadn’t shown up in the office by the time Annika set off for Hammarby Harbour.

  ‘I’ll have my mobile,’ she said to Ingvar Johansson, who nodded in acknowledgement.

  She took a taxi and paid by card. The weather was still atrocious. All the snow had vanished in the rain, leaving the ground heavy and muddy. South Hammarby Harbour was a desolate part of town now, with its empty and half-built Olympic village, dull Olympic offices and now the ruined stadium. There was mud everywhere, because the beds planted up the previous summer hadn’t had time to anchor the soil yet. She jumped across the worst of the puddles, but still got mud all over her trousers.

  The SOCOG reception was spacious, but the offices within seemed surprisingly small and basic. Annika compared them with the only other official building she knew well: the Association of Local Councils where Thomas worked. Those offices were both more attractive and better suited to their purpose. The Olympic offices were fairly spartan: white walls, plastic flooring, fluorescent lighting, plain white bookcases, desks that looked like they came from IKEA.

  Evert Danielsson’s office was halfway along a long corridor. His room wasn’t much bigger than the secretaries’, which struck Annika as a bit unusual. A tired sofa, desk, and bookcase, that was all. She thought chairmen had mahogany furniture and lovely views.

  ‘So what makes you think Christina had a son?’ Evert Danielsson said, gesturing to the sofa.

  ‘Thanks,’ Annika said, sitting down. ‘I’ve got a picture of him.’

  She took off her coat but decided against taking out her notepad and pen. Instead, she studied the man before her. He had sat down behind his desk, gripping onto the desk with one hand. It looked a bit odd. He was about fifty, with thick, steel-grey hair and a friendly face. But his eyes were tired, and his mouth looked sad.

  ‘I have to say that I’m fairly sceptical about this,’ he said.

  Annika pulled a photocopy of the Furhage family portrait from her bag. She had returned the original to the archive, no one was allowed to take archive pictures out of the building, but it was easy enough to scan and copy them these days. She passed the picture to Evert Danielsson, who looked at it with growing surprise.

  ‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘About what? Husband or child?’

  ‘Both of them, actually. Christina never really spoke about her personal life.’

  Annika waited in silence, hoping he would go on. She didn’t really understand why he’d asked her to come out here. He shuffled in his chair, then said, ‘You were asking about the secretary who lost her job.’

  ‘Yes, I found a short piece about it in the archive. But there was no indication that she was a secretary, or that she had been dismissed, just that she worked here, then had to leave.’

  Evert Danielsson nodded.

  ‘That was the way Christina wanted it. To keep up appearances. But Sara was an excellent secretary, and would undoubtedly have been allowed to stay if …’ He fell silent.

  ‘There’s a rule forbidding romantic relationships between any two people working within the Olympic organization,’ he continued. ‘Christina was very strict about that. She said it got in the way of work, made people lose their focus, led to a loss of loyalty, and caused other colleagues extra stress and forced them to make allowances.’

  ‘Who was the man?’ Annika asked.

  Evert Danielsson hesitated.

  ‘Me.’

  Annika raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Who set the rule?’

  ‘Christina. It was applied without discrimination.’

  ‘And still is?’

  Evert Danielsson let go of the desk.

  ‘I don’t actually know. But as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t really matter.’

  He covered his face with his hands, and a sob racked his body. Annika waited in silence for a moment as he composed himself.

  ‘I really loved Sara, but I was married at the time,’ he said eventually, and dropped one hand to his lap, as the other took hold of the desk again. His eyes were dry but red.

  ‘You’re no longer married?’

  He laughed. ‘No. Someone told my wife about Sara, and Sara kept her distance once she realized I couldn’t arrange for her to keep her job. So there I was – no wife, no children, and without the love of my life.’

  He fell silent for a moment, then went on, almost to himself: ‘Sometimes I wonder if she seduced me because she thought I could help her career. Certainly, when the opposite happened she dumped me at once.’ He laughed again: a short, bitter laugh.

  ‘Then maybe she wasn’t much of a loss after all,’ Annika said.

  He looked up.

  ‘No, you’re right there. But what are you going to do with this? Are you going to write about it?’

  ‘Not now, at least,’ Annika said. ‘Maybe never. Would it matter to you if I did?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? It depends what you write. What exactly are you after?’

  ‘Why did you ask me to come out here?’

  He sighed. ‘A day like this stirs up a lot of things, a lot of thoughts and feelings, it all feels very muddled. I’ve worked here since the start, there’s a lot I could tell you …’

  Annika waited. The man was staring at the floor, lost in his own silence.

  ‘Was Christina a good boss?’ Annika said eventually.

  ‘She was the reason I got this job,’ Evert Danielsson said, letting go of the desk. ‘And now she’
s not here, and I’m on my way out. Well, I think I shall go home now.’

  He stood up, and Annika followed his lead.

  She pulled her coat on again, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, then shook his hand and thanked him for seeing her.

  ‘Just out of interest, where was Christina’s office?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it? Just by the entrance, I’ll show you on the way out.’

  He pulled on a coat, wrapped a scarf round his neck, picked up his briefcase and gazed thoughtfully at his desk.

  ‘Well, I don’t have to take a single document home with me today.’

  He turned off the light and left the room with his empty briefcase, locking the door carefully behind him. He put his head into the office next door and said, ‘I’m going now. If anyone calls, refer them to the press release.’

  They walked together down the white corridor.

  ‘Christina had several offices,’ he said. ‘This was her day-to-day office, you could say. She had two secretaries here.’

  ‘And Helena Starke?’ Annika said.

  ‘Christina’s Rottweiler? Her office was next to Christina’s,’ Evert Danielsson said, turning a corner. ‘Here it is.’

  The door was locked. The man sighed.

  ‘I haven’t got the key,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s nothing special, a corner room with windows facing both ways, a large desk, two computers, a corner sofa and coffee table …’

  ‘I would have expected something a bit more flash,’ Annika said, recalling an old picture of a magnificent office in a palace somewhere, with an English desk, dark wood panelling and crystal chandeliers.