The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

Now, looking back, I can see that the happiest moments in my life were spent in that little shack. Every now and then I return to the peace of the lake. Its surface, its reflection, change with the seasons, and human progress has left its marks. The trees along the track leading to the lake have been cut, but the ones by the water have been left. I light a fire in the stove and look out over the water, and feel a sense of perfect harmony.

  Maybe this way of thinking seems provocative, and could be interpreted as ingratitude or nonchalance, but nothing could be further from the truth. I’m very happy with the success I have enjoyed, and the things I’ve achieved, but you mustn’t confuse that with happiness. Society’s fixation with success and ecstatic joy are the polar opposite of real happiness. We have all become happiness junkies. Constantly striving for more – aiming higher – will never make us happy with our lives.

  Success and well-being are actually far less interesting than failure and misery. Real success gives you a feeling that borders on the erotic, an obvious, well-trodden path to the stars. But real failure has many more nuances and depth. It forces you to analyse and reflect, to focus inwards instead of upwards, and eventually leads to a more worthy life. At best, well-being breeds tolerance and generosity, but more often just jealousy and a lack of engagement.

  The secret of a happy life is being content with what you have. To stop scrambling higher, and find peace instead.

  Sadly I have seldom managed this myself. Apart from in that cabin by the lake.

  Tuesday 21 December

  39

  The smell of newly baked ham was still hanging in the air when she woke up, one of the few advantages of having an extractor fan that didn’t work properly. She loved freshly baked Christmas ham, but it had to be properly hot, just out of the oven, still running with salty juices. She took a deep breath and threw the duvet aside. Ellen moved in her sleep beside her. Annika kissed her daughter on the forehead and stroked her chubby little legs. She would have to make an effort to get to work on time, so she could get everything done and be back to pick the children up at three.

  She got into the shower, and let go of her morning urine down the plughole. The strong smell mixed with the steam hit her in the face, making her turn away instinctively. She washed her hair with dandruff shampoo, and swore when she discovered the bottle of conditioner was empty. Now her hair would look like straw until she next washed it.

  She got out of the shower, dried herself and wiped the floor where the water had leaked out. She sprayed a hefty dose of deodorant under her arms, and smeared skin-cream on her cheeks. The blotches were still there, so she added some cortisone cream just to be sure. Mascara, eye-shadow; finished.

  She crept into the bedroom and opened the door to her wardrobe. The noise made Thomas shift in his sleep. He had sat up reading work reports long after she had gone to bed. The main report into the regional issue, which Thomas had overall responsibility for, was supposed to be finished in January. But Thomas’s assistants hadn’t yet finished the smaller reports upon which the main one would be based, and Thomas was getting more and more stressed. She realized that he could get at least as stressed as her, even if his deadlines tended to be longer than hers.

  She was feeling festive, and put on a red top, red jacket and black trousers. She had just finished getting dressed when the first television news of the day started.

  The pictures from Sätra Hall weren’t very dramatic: the camera crew evidently hadn’t got through the cordon; they only had pictures of the usual blue and white tape fluttering in the night wind. The voiceover said that the explosion had taken place in one of the changing-rooms in the older part of the building. The fire brigade had found the remains of a dead man inside.

  There was currently a dispute between the police and the fire brigade about whose responsibility it was to deal with dead bodies. The fire service had said that it wasn’t their responsibility. The police said the same. The news spent some time on this point of procedure, and announced that it would be a subject for discussion in the following programme.

  Then there were shots of a reporter wandering about in an empty stadium in one of the suburbs, shouting ‘Hello?’ No answer, which the reporter thought was scandalous.

  ‘What exactly are the police doing about security?’ was the final rhetorical question. The police spokesman, looking ridiculously tired, appeared, and explained that it was completely impossible to guard every single part of every single venue all of the time.

  ‘So how will you manage it during the Olympics?’ the reporter asked in an insinuating tone of voice.

  The spokesman sighed and Annika realized that the police had been lumbered with the very debate they’d been trying to avoid. The debate about security during the Olympic Games would get louder and louder until the Bomber was caught. The President of the International Olympic Committee appeared on screen, telling Reuters that the Games were not under threat.

  The bulletin concluded with a long item about the National Bank meeting later that day, and the likelihood of a change in the interest rate. The reporter seemed to think it would remain the same, which Annika took as a sure sign that it would rise or fall.

  She turned off the television and fetched the morning papers from the door. They had nothing beyond what she had already seen on the news. The dead man’s name was not being released, a reporter had gone round another venue in another suburb shouting ‘Hello?’, the President of the International Olympic Committee and the police spokesman said exactly the same things they said on television. None of the papers had put together any graphics to show where the bomb had gone off, so she would have to wait until she got to work to see what the evening papers had come up with.

  She ate some strawberry yogurt and cornflakes, dried her hair and piled on her outdoor clothes. The weather had changed during the night, and it was now snowing in squally showers. She had planned to take the 56 bus to the paper, but changed her mind when the first flurry of snow hit her face and messed up her mascara. She took a taxi instead.

  The seven o’clock news came on the radio just as she settled into the back seat. They too had been out to another deserted venue during the night, the police spokesman was still tired and stressed, and the Olympic Committee President was starting to get really repetitive.

  She tried not to listen and stared at the buildings along Norr Mälarstrand, one of the most expensive addresses in Sweden. She couldn’t understand why. The buildings were in no way remarkable. They were side on to the water, a few had balconies, but that was all. But the heavy traffic below must make it impossible to sit and enjoy the view. She paid with her credit card, hoping she could claim it back on expenses.

  Most days Annika picked up a copy of that day’s paper from the large pile in reception. She usually managed to leaf through to the middle by the time the lift reached the fourth floor, but not today. The paper was so full of adverts that it was almost impossible to get through at all.

  Spike had gone home, which was a relief. Ingvar Johansson had just arrived, and was sitting with his first mug of coffee, deeply immersed in the morning papers. She picked up a copy of the other evening paper and fetched a cup of coffee from the machine, then went into her room without talking to anyone.

  Both papers identified the new victim, and had a picture. He was a thirty-nine-year-old builder from Farsta called Stefan Bjurling, married with three children. He had worked for one of the hundreds of small companies employed by SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games, for the past fifteen years. Patrik had spoken to his boss.

  ‘Stefan was the most competent foreman you could ask for,’ the boss said. ‘He was responsible, he kept to deadlines, and he would work as long as it took to get the job done. There was never any slacking in Stefan’s team.’

  And of course Stefan Bjurling was incredibly popular and had a great sense of humour and was always in a good mood.

  ‘He was a great colleague, really good to work with, always happy,�
� another workmate had said.

  Annika felt rage bubbling up inside her. What bastard had killed this man and ruined his family’s lives? Three small kids had lost their father. She could only imagine how Kalle and Ellen would react if Thomas died suddenly. And how on earth would she react? How did people ever get over tragedies like this?

  And what a way to die, she thought, feeling sick as she read the police’s preliminary report about what had happened.

  They believed that a bomb had been strapped to the man’s back, roughly at kidney-height. The man’s hands and feet had been tied to a chair before the explosion. It wasn’t yet clear what sort of explosive had been used, or how it had been detonated, but the killer had probably used some sort of timer or delayed charge.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Annika said out loud, wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to spare the readers some of the detail.

  She could see the man sitting there, with the bomb ticking on his back, struggling to get free. What would go through your mind in a situation like that? Would your whole life flash before you? Did you think of your children? Your wife? Or just the rope holding you down? The Bomber wasn’t only completely mad; he seemed to be a real sadist as well. She shivered, in spite of the heat of the office.

  She went on through the paper, past Janet Ullberg’s evocative description of yet another echoing, empty venue in the middle of the night, and started reading the adverts. One thing was certain: there was no shortage of toys in the world.

  She went and got another fix of coffee, and took a detour past the picture desk on the way back. Johan Henriksson was on duty, and was sitting there reading one of the morning papers, Svenska Dagbladet.

  ‘A pretty disgusting way to kill someone, isn’t it?’ Annika said, sitting down opposite him.

  The photographer shook his head. ‘Yep, it’s pretty deranged. I’ve never heard of anything like it.’

  ‘Do you feel like taking a trip out to get a look?’ Annika said hopefully.

  ‘It’s still too dark,’ Henriksson said. ‘We wouldn’t see anything.’

  ‘Not yet, no, but it might be possible to get inside now. They might have removed the cordon.’

  ‘Not very likely; they’re probably still picking up the pieces.’

  ‘The other builders are probably turning up now, his workmates …’

  ‘We’ve already spoken to them.’

  Annika stood up, irritated.

  ‘Fine, I’ll wait until another photographer turns up who can be bothered to get off his arse.’

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ Henriksson said. ‘I’m happy to go. I’m not trying to duck out of it.’

  Annika stopped and tried to smile.

  ‘Okay, sorry, that was out of order. I’m just trying to show a bit of enthusiasm.’

  ‘No problem,’ Henriksson said, and went to get his camera bag.

  Annika gulped down her coffee and went over to Ingvar Johansson.

  ‘Do you know if the morning crew need Henriksson, or can we go and see if we can get into Sätra Hall?’

  ‘The morning crew won’t be getting a word in unless World War Three breaks out, the paper’s already huge,’ Ingvar Johansson said, putting down the other evening paper. ‘We’ve got sixteen more pages than usual for the next edition, adverts all over the place. They’ve got a team out covering traffic problems caused by the snow, but they can’t seriously think we’re going to have room for that.’

  ‘You know how to reach us,’ Annika said, and went to her room to fetch her outdoor clothes.

  They took one of the paper’s cars, with Annika driving. The roads really were terrible; the traffic on the Essinge motorway was crawling along.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising that you get pile-ups in this sort of weather,’ Henriksson said.

  It was starting to get brighter, which was something. Annika headed south and the traffic thinned out a bit. She speeded up, turning off at the Segeltorp junction and driving along the Skärholmen road, past Bredäng. To their right were row after row of identical yellow brick blocks of flats, and to their left low warehouses and industrial units.

  ‘I think you’ve missed the turning,’ Henriksson said, just as Sätra Hall sailed past through the snow on their right.

  ‘Shit,’ Annika said. ‘We’ll have to go into the centre of Sätra and turn back.’

  She shivered as she saw the enormous blocks of flats, their upper floors hidden in the snow. She had only been out there once, when Thomas was buying Kalle’s first bicycle. Thomas said they should get a second-hand one, because it was cheaper, and was also a form of recycling. So they had got hold of a copy of the Advertiser and scoured the small ads. When Thomas found a bike that sounded suitable, he started to get nervous that it might have been stolen. He wouldn’t hand over any money until he had seen the receipt and the child who had outgrown it. And that family lived in one of these blocks.

  The big blocks of social housing disappeared behind them as they headed along the Eksätra road. She turned left into Björksätravägen. The explosion had happened in changing-room number six, the referees’ room, which was at the back of the building, between the sports hall and the old skating rink.

  ‘Blocked off,’ Henriksson said.

  Annika didn’t reply, just turned the car round. She drove back and parked between the snowdrifts in a desolate car park on the other side of the Eksätra road.

  She got out and looked at the building, which was covered in dark red wooden panelling. From the end it looked like a weird UFO, with a low sloping roof giving way to a fairly steep section in the middle, reaching an oddly crooked peak.

  ‘Have you been out here before?’ she asked Henriksson.

  ‘Never,’ he said.

  ‘Bring your cameras, we’ll see if we can’t find another way in,’ she said.

  They tramped through the snow until they reached the back of the building. If Annika was right, they were now as far away from the entrance as possible, diagonally across from it.

  ‘This looks like the deliveries entrance,’ she said, and set off towards it. The door was locked. They went on through the snow, going round the corner and carrying on along the length of the building. At its centre were two small doors: emergency exits, Annika assumed. The first was firmly shut, but the second one was unlocked. There was no sign of any cordon or barrier. Annika felt almost giddy with joy.

  ‘After you,’ she muttered, pulling the door open.

  ‘Do you think we can just go in like this?’ Henriksson said.

  ‘Of course we can,’ Annika said. ‘You put one foot in front of the other, and carry on repeating the process.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but aren’t we breaking and entering, or something?’ Henriksson said.

  ‘We’ll find out, but I doubt it. This is a public sports hall, owned by Stockholm City Council. It’s open to the public and the door isn’t locked. There shouldn’t be any problems.’

  Henriksson went in, a sceptical look on his face, and Annika pulled the door shut behind them.

  40

  They were at the top of the hall’s small stand. Annika looked round; it was an attractive building. Seven wooden arches held the roof up. The weird top of the building turned out to be a row of skylights up in the roof. The hall was dominated by a banked running track, and off to the right were the longjump pit and high-jump and pole-vault frames. On the far side of the track was a row of what looked like offices.

  ‘There’s a light on over there,’ Henriksson said, pointing to the far left of the row of offices.

  ‘So that’s where we go,’ Annika said.

  They followed the wall until they reached what looked like the main entrance to the hall. In a nearby room they could hear the sound of someone crying. Henriksson stopped.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to do this.’

  Annika took no notice of him, just headed towards the source of the noise. The door was ajar, and she knocked gently and waited for a reply. When none came, she
pushed the door open and looked in. The room looked like a building site, electric cables were hanging from the walls, there was a large hole in the floor, and there were planks of wood and a drill on a small bench. A young blonde woman was sitting on a plastic chair in the middle of the mess, crying.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Annika said. ‘I’m from the Evening Post. Can I help you at all?’

  The woman carried on crying, as if she hadn’t heard.

  ‘Can I go and get someone for you?’ Annika asked.

  The woman didn’t look up, just carried on sobbing with her hands over her face. Annika waited quietly for a while in the doorway, then turned back, and was about to shut the door behind her.

  ‘Can you understand how anyone can be so evil?’ the woman said.

  Annika stopped and turned to face the woman again.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s completely unbelievable.’

  ‘My name’s Beata Ekesjö,’ the woman said, blowing her nose on a piece of toilet paper. She wiped both her hands, then held out her right hand to Annika. Annika took it with no hesitation. Handshakes were important. She remembered the first time she had shaken hands with someone with HIV, a young woman who had been infected when she gave birth to her second child. She had been given a blood transfusion in a Swedish hospital, and had got the virus into the bargain. Her soft, warm handshake had burned in Annika’s hand all the way back to the office. Another time she had been introduced to the leader of an offshoot of the Hell’s Angels. Annika had held out her hand to him, and he had peered into her eyes as he slowly licked his hand, from wrist to fingertips.

  ‘People are really fucked up,’ he had said, holding out his saliva-smeared hand. Annika had taken it without a moment’s hesitation. The memory floated past as she held the crying woman’s hand, feeling the remnants of her tears and snot between her fingers.

  ‘I’m Annika Bengtzon,’ she said.

  ‘You wrote about Christina Furhage,’ Beata Ekesjö said. ‘You wrote about Christina Furhage in the Evening Post.’