The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  Annika raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Wow! She agreed?’

  ‘Yes, she had nothing against seeing me. We’ll have to see if it gets us anything. She could well be too muddled and grief-stricken for us to write anything.’

  ‘Well, it’s still a great start. Anything else?’

  Berit looked back at her notes.

  ‘They’re almost finished with the preliminary analysis of the explosive used in the first attack. They’ll be distributing a press release right after lunch today, they reckon. They had thought it would be ready for the press conference, but there was some sort of delay in London.’

  ‘So why was it sent to London in the first place?’ Annika said.

  Berit smiled.

  ‘The equipment in the labs in Linköping was broken. As simple as that.’

  ‘But why are they rejecting the sabotage theory so aggressively?’

  ‘Maybe they just want some peace and quiet to work in?’ Berit said.

  ‘I don’t know; I can’t believe there’s nothing more to it than that,’ Annika said. ‘I reckon they’re on the brink of solving the murders.’

  Berit stood up.

  ‘I’m hungry. Are you?’

  42

  They went to the canteen, where Berit picked lasagne and Annika chicken salad. They had just got their food when Patrik came in. His hair was a mess and it looked like he’d slept in his clothes.

  ‘Good morning,’ Annika said. ‘You did a damn good job last night. How did you manage to get hold of all his workmates?’

  The young man grinned, embarrassed at the praise, then said, ‘I just called and woke them up.’

  Annika smiled.

  They chatted a bit about Christmas, all the worry and presents and stress. Berit had finished her Christmas shopping before the start of Advent, Patrik hadn’t started yet. And neither had Annika.

  ‘I was thinking of doing some today,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get a box of chocolates for Mum on the plane,’ Patrik said.

  He was heading down to spend Christmas with his parents in Småland. Berit’s grown-up children were coming to stay. She had a daughter in the USA and a son in Malmö.

  ‘We’ve been working like hell recently. How about sorting out some time off amongst ourselves for the next few days?’ Annika said.

  ‘I’d like Thursday off, if possible,’ Patrik said. ‘Then I can get an earlier flight.’

  ‘I could do with getting some cleaning done tomorrow, because Yvonne and her family are arriving on Thursday.’

  ‘That works well. I’ll leave early today, and as early as I can on Thursday.’

  They left the canteen, agreeing to meet up again shortly in Annika’s room for a run-through of what they had.

  Patrik went off to get his own copy of the other evening paper.

  Annika and Berit settled into their usual places, Berit in the armchair and Annika with her feet up on her desk. The next moment Patrik came rushing in.

  ‘They know what made mincemeat of Furhage!’

  He was waving the press release from Stockholm police headquarters.

  ‘Great,’ Berit said. ‘So what does it say?’

  Patrik read to himself for a few seconds.

  ‘Normal dynamite,’ he said, sounding disappointed.

  ‘What do you mean, normal dynamite?’ Annika said, reaching for the press release.

  Patrik pulled it out of her reach.

  ‘Calm down! It says: “The analysis of the explosive material used in the detonation at the Victoria Stadium in Stockholm at three seventeen, blah, blah … when the managing director of SOCOG, Christina Furhage, was killed is now complete. The substance was a gelatinous mixed explosive containing nitro-glycerine instead of just nitro-glycol. It is sold under the brand name MINEX, and is available in various different weights and shapes. The detonation in question is estimated to have contained approximately twenty-four kilos, divided into fifteen plastic casings measuring 50 by 550 millimetres—” ’

  ‘Twenty-four kilos? Isn’t that a hell of a lot?’ Annika said.

  ‘Especially if you’re using it above ground,’ Berit said. ‘No wonder it set off a shockwave that reached all the way to Södermalm.’

  Patrik read on: ‘ “The substance in question has been manufactured in Poland for the past three years. It is characterized by a high weight-to-strength ratio, high density, and speed of detonation. The consistency is soft and the smell relatively mild. The substance has a high degree of flegmentation …” What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Something to do with stability,’ Berit said. ‘It means it’s a stable substance.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ Annika said, impressed.

  Berit shrugged. ‘I’m good at crosswords.’

  ‘ “The energy content is high, gas volume slightly higher than normal, force 115 per cent of Anfo, and density approximately 1.45 kilos per cubic decimetre. The detonation speed can reach 5,500–6,000 metres per second.” ’

  ‘Okay, and what does all that mean?’ Annika wondered.

  ‘Calm down, I’m getting to that. “Minex is one of the most common brands of dynamite in Sweden. The substance has been sold by an agent in Nora to over one hundred projects in the past three years. It has not proved possible to identify who the explosives in question were purchased by.” ’

  ‘So, normal construction-use dynamite,’ Berit said.

  ‘What do you construct with dynamite?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Everything between heaven and earth. You use it to build roads, or down mines, in quarries, you make grit using dynamite, you level ground for building … We used dynamite when we were putting a sewage treatment unit in at our summer cottage. People use it every day.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Annika conceded. ‘They used a hell of a lot of explosives when they were building all that housing around St Erik’s Hospital near me on Kungsholmen.’

  ‘Listen, there’s more: “The explosive was set off with the use of electronic detonators. These were linked to a delay mechanism in the form of a timer and connected to a car battery …” ’

  Patrik put the press release down and looked at his colleagues.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Pretty well thought out, then.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking through this new information. Annika pulled her feet off the desk and shook herself.

  ‘God, what a job,’ she said. ‘So, who’s doing what? Berit, you take the victim’s family, and Patrik, will you do the analysis and the police investigation?’

  The two reporters nodded, and Annika went on: ‘I’ve written fifteen centimetres about the construction workers arriving at their workplace and having a minute’s silence for their dead colleague. How much they miss their friend, and so on.’

  ‘How bad was it out there?’ Berit said.

  ‘Oh, there was a woman in tears, completely inconsolable. She wasn’t making much sense, going on about guilt and punishment and evil, it was a bit weird. I left her out of the article. It didn’t feel right to expose her like that.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the right thing to do,’ Berit said.

  ‘Have we missed anything? Is there anything else right now?’

  The reporters shook their heads and went out to their phones and computers.

  Annika moved her text onto the central filestore, put on her coat, and left. It was only half past one, but she had no intention of hanging around any longer.

  43

  It was still snowing when Annika walked out to the 56 bus-stop on Fyrverkarbacken. Because the temperature was only around zero, the flakes were transformed into a grey-brown sludge the moment they hit the ground. But for the time being they were settling on the grass near the Russian Embassy, forming a vaguely white covering.

  She sat down heavily on the bench at the bus-stop. She was the only person there, which made her think she must have just missed a bus. She quickly realized that she was sitting on somethi
ng wet, a puddle of water or a patch of snow. She put one of her gloves under her backside.

  They would be spending Christmas in Stockholm – Thomas’s parents were coming for Christmas Eve. She had very little contact with her own family. Her father was dead, and her mother still lived in Hälleforsnäs in Södermanland, where Annika had grown up. Her sister lived nearby, in Flen, doing some part-time work in Right Price. She hardly ever saw them. It didn’t seem to matter. They had nothing in common any more, apart from the time they had spent together in a dying small industrial town. Sometimes Annika wondered if they had even been living in the same place, because their experiences of the little community were so utterly different.

  The bus was almost empty. Annika sat at the back and went as far as Hötorget in the city centre. She went into the PUB department store and bought toys worth 3,218 kronor on her Visa card, consoling herself with the fact that she would get a lot of bonus points. She bought the New Book of Sauces and a designer shirt for Thomas, and a woollen shawl for his mother. Thomas would have to sort out his father. He usually only wanted cognac anyway.

  She was back in the flat on Hantverkargatan by half past two. After a moment’s hesitation she put everything at the back of her wardrobe. Kalle had actually found his presents there last year, but she couldn’t be bothered to think of anywhere else to hide them right now.

  She stepped out into the slush again, and was seized by a sudden impulse to go into the second-hand shop in the next block. It held Stockholm’s largest assortment of fake jewellery, necklaces and earrings, the sort of things film stars wore in the forties. She went in and bought a gold-plated brooch with garnets for Anne Snapphane. The neat little man behind the counter wrapped it in shiny gold paper with shiny blue ribbons.

  The children rushed towards her, delirious with joy, as she entered the nursery. Her guilty conscience stabbed at her heart. This was the sort of thing a proper mother would do every day, wasn’t it …?

  They went into the supermarket on the corner of Scheelegatan and Kungsholmsgatan and bought marzipan, cream, syrup, chopped almonds, cookie dough and cooking chocolate. The children were chattering madly.

  ‘What are we going to make, Mummy? Can we have sweets today, Mummy?’

  Annika laughed and hugged them as they queued at the till.

  ‘Yes, you can have sweets today. We’re going to make our own sweets, that’ll be fun, won’t it?’

  ‘I like Salty Cat liquorice,’ Kalle said.

  When they got home she put big aprons on the children, making up her mind not to care about the results and just let the children have fun. She started by melting the chocolate in the microwave, then let the children roll small pieces of marzipan in it. They didn’t end up with many marzipan balls, and they weren’t exactly beautiful. Annika’s mother-in-law would probably turn her nose up at them, but the children enjoyed it, especially Kalle. She had planned to make toffee as well, but realized that she couldn’t do that with the children, the mixture would be far too hot. Instead she put the oven on and got out the cookie dough. Ellen was beside herself. She rolled out the dough, cut out the biscuits and ate up the pieces between the shapes. In the end she was so full she could hardly move. But they ended up with a couple of trays of decent-looking biscuits.

  ‘Aren’t you clever!’ she said to the children. ‘Look what lovely Christmas biscuits you’ve made!’

  Kalle was glowing with pride, and helped himself to a biscuit and a glass of milk, even though he really didn’t have room for it.

  She put the children in front of the television to watch a film while she tidied up in the kitchen. It took forty-five minutes. She sat between them on the sofa at the sad part when Simba’s dad died. There was still part of The Lion King left when she had finished cleaning the kitchen, so she took the chance to call Anne Snapphane. Anne lived alone with her young daughter out on Lidingö, where they had the upper floor of a detached house. The girl, Miranda, lived with her dad every other week. They were both home when Annika called.

  ‘I haven’t done anything about Christmas yet,’ Anne groaned. ‘How come you always manage somehow and I never do?’

  In the background Annika could hear the music to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. So Disney films were just as popular out on lovely posh Lidingö.

  ‘I’m the one who never has any time,’ she said. ‘Your place is always so spotless. I always feel guilty when I’m round yours.’

  ‘Three little words: Tonya from Poland,’ Anne said. ‘Is everything okay with you?’

  Annika sighed. ‘Things at work are a bit tough right now. There’s a little gang who are constantly trying to undermine me.’

  ‘It’s a right arse when you’re first put in charge, isn’t it? When they made me a producer I spent six months thinking I was going to die, I was so miserable. There’s always some bitter little bastard trying to ruin things.’

  Annika bit her lip.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. This sort of thing is what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it, baking with the kids and being there for them when there’s something horrid on television …’

  ‘You’d go mad in a week,’ Anne said.

  ‘Oh, you’re probably right. But the children are still the most important thing; you can’t get away from that. That woman who was killed, Christina Furhage, had a son who died when he was five. She never got over it. Do you suppose her job and all that success ever managed to blot out the memory?’

  ‘God, that’s awful,’ Anne said. ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Malignant melanoma, skin cancer. Terrible.’

  ‘No, Miranda, get down from there … How old did you say he was?’

  ‘Five, the same age as Kalle.’

  ‘And he died of malignant melanoma? Rubbish!’

  Annika didn’t follow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He couldn’t have died of a malignant melanoma if he was only five. That’s impossible.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Annika said, astonished.

  ‘Do you think I’ve got a single mole left on my entire body? Well, do you? Or do you suppose I had every single last one removed before I was twenty? What do you think? Do you imagine that I of all people would be wrong about something like this? Oh, Annika …’

  Annika was used to her friend’s hypochondria, but could still feel her confusion growing. Could she have misunderstood Helena Starke?

  ‘Why couldn’t he have had malignant melanoma?’ she asked, feeling foolish.

  ‘Because the malignant bit, the fatal form of melanoma, never develops before puberty. He may have had a bloody early puberty, I suppose, some kids do. It’s called …’

  Annika was thinking so hard it hurt. Anne Snapphane was bound to be right. She was a total hypochondriac, there wasn’t a disease on the planet that she hadn’t at some time imagined that she had got, and there was no medical examination she hadn’t been through. She’d been taken to Accident and Emergency at Danderyd Hospital by ambulance innumerable times, not to mention the number of times she had walked into the various emergency departments around the city, public and private alike. She knew everything about every form of cancer, and could list the differences between the symptoms of MS and primary amyloidosis in her sleep. There was no way she was wrong. So either Helena Starke was wrong or she was lying.

  ‘… Annika?’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’

  She hung up, and felt a shiver down her spine. This was vitally important, she was sure of that. If Christina Furhage’s son didn’t die of malignant melanoma, maybe he had died of something else? Some other disease, or could he even have been murdered? Or maybe he hadn’t died at all. Maybe he was still alive.

  She got up, suddenly restless, and started to walk up and down the kitchen, adrenalin pumping. Bloody hell, she knew she was on to something here. She suddenly stopped. Her source! He knew that Christina had a son, he said so just before he hung up. Yes, that was it!

  ‘Mummy, The L
ion King’s over now.’

  They came into the kitchen in a little procession, first Kalle, then Ellen a step behind. Annika forced her thoughts about Christina Furhage to the back of her mind.

  ‘Was it good? Are you hungry? No, no more biscuits now. Spaghetti? Or how about a pizza?’

  She called La Solo on the other side of the street and ordered one Capriccosa, one mince and garlic, and one folded pizza with steak. Thomas wouldn’t be happy, but she couldn’t help that. If he wanted something extravagant and time-consuming like elk stew, then he would have to come home at two o’clock to start browning the meat.

  44

  Evert Danielsson turned off the Sollentuna road into the petrol station at Helenelund. There was a large DIY carwash hall that he came to most weeks to take care of his car. His secretary had booked a three-hour slot from 7 p.m., although it wasn’t strictly necessary – but he didn’t want to take any chances. It could be difficult getting a slot as long as that if you didn’t book.

  He began by buying everything he needed from the shop: a bottle of stain remover spray, a bottle of wax-free carwash liquid, two bottles of original Turtle wax, and a pack of cloths. It cost him 31.50 kronor for the stain remover, 29.50 for the shampoo, and 188 kronor for the two bottles of wax. The three-hour slot cost 64 kronor an hour, so in total it cost him less than 500 kronor for a whole evening. Evert Danielsson smiled at the girl behind the counter and paid with the company card.

  He went out and drove into the space he usually used and closed the door behind him, then took out his camping chair and put his small portable stereo on the bench in the corner. He picked out a CD of famous arias, from Aida, The Magic Flute, Carmen and Madame Butterfly.

  As the Queen of the Night’s powerful voice soared into action he started to hose down the car. Small tides of mud, grit and ice ran down towards the drain. Then he sprayed the whole car in stain remover to get rid of any oil. While the spray was doing its work he sat on the camping chair and listened to Verdi’s La Traviata. He didn’t necessarily insist on listening to opera while he was washing the car: sometimes he played old R&B, like Muddy Waters, or some rockabilly, like Hank Williams. Every now and then he tried something more modern, such as Rebecka Törnqvist, or certain songs by Eva Dahlgren.