The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  Evert Danielsson laughed.

  ‘Good grief, that’s just what you have to say about the dead!’

  ‘But was there any connection between him and Christina Furhage?’ Annika repeated.

  He pursed his lips, thinking. He caught sight of a group of people coming in and seemed to tense up, then relaxed again. It obviously wasn’t anyone he knew.

  ‘Yes, there was, come to think of it,’ he said.

  Annika waited, careful not to change the expression on her face.

  ‘Christina was sitting next to Stefan at the big Christmas party last week. They sat and talked long after we’d finished the meal.’

  ‘The party at the Basque restaurant?’ Annika asked.

  ‘No, no, that was the office party. This was the big Olympic party, with all the delegates and volunteers, all the people employed by the subcontractors … We won’t be doing anything on that scale again until after the Games are over.’

  ‘So Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling knew each other?’ Annika said in astonishment.

  Evert Danielsson’s face clouded over. It had suddenly dawned on him that he could no longer talk about ‘we’, and that he probably wouldn’t be invited to any more Olympics parties.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if they really knew each other, but they sat and talked to each other that night. Look, I think I’m going to have to—’

  ‘How come Stefan Bjurling ended up sitting next to the managing director?’ Annika said quickly. ‘Why wasn’t she sitting next to the chairman of the Board or some other big name?’

  Evert Danielsson looked at her in irritation.

  ‘Well, they weren’t there, were they? This was a party for the troops. Mind you, it was still a pretty smart affair. Christina had chosen the venue, the Blue Hall of the City Hall, where they have the Nobel dinner.’

  He stood up, pushing his chair back with his knees.

  ‘What do you think they talked about?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve really got to go now.’

  Annika stood up as well, gathering up her things and shaking the former chairman by the hand.

  ‘Call if there’s anything you want to tell me,’ she said.

  The man nodded and hurried out of the restaurant.

  Instead of leaving the building, Annika went down one floor to where Anne Snapphane worked. She was told that Anne had started her Christmas break early, which was obviously nice for her. The receptionist called a taxi for Annika.

  She thought about what she had been told as the taxi drove through the slush back to the paper. She couldn’t tell any of this to the police, because the confidentiality of her sources was protected by law, but she could use what Evert Danielsson had told her to ask questions, including questions that involved him.

  48

  Lena Milander could hear Sigrid, the home-help, humming in the kitchen as she put yesterday’s dishes in the dishwasher. Sigrid was a little under fifty, and her husband had left her when their daughters had grown up and Sigrid had grown too large. She cleaned, washed up, did the shopping and laundry, and prepared meals – practically a full-time job – for the Furhage-Milander family. She’d been doing it for almost two years now.

  Mum had been happy about the recession, because they used to have trouble finding and keeping decent help, but in recent years people knew better than to give up a job. To be honest, the various secrecy clauses and threats of legal action that Mum made them sign may have had a certain negative effect on their willingness to take the job in the first place. But Sigrid seemed happy enough, and she had never been happier than in recent days. She seemed to enjoy being at the centre of things, being able to move unhindered through the world-famous murder victim’s home. She was probably bitterly regretting the confidentiality agreement she had signed, and would doubtless have sold her story to the press if she could. She had cried decorously to start with, the sort of tears people let fall for Princess Diana. Lena recognized the sort. Sigrid had hardly met Mum since she signed the confidentiality agreement, although she had wiped up her toothpaste stains and washed her dirty underwear for almost two years. Maybe that led to a certain level of intimacy.

  Sigrid had brought in the first editions of both evening papers, putting them on the little mirrored table out in the hall. Lena took the papers with her into the library, where her poor father was lying asleep on the sofa, mouth open. She sat in an armchair and put her feet up on the antique table in front of her. The two rags were of course full of the new bombing, but there was a bit of new information about Mum’s death as well. She couldn’t help reading the details about the explosives now that the analysis was complete. Maybe the psychologist at Huddinge Hospital had been wrong after all when he decided she wasn’t a pyromaniac. She was fully aware that she took pleasure in fires, and anything to do with explosions, and so on. And fire engines, extinguishers, hydrants, and gas masks all made her happy, sending a little quiver through her body. Well, they had decided she was better now, and she had no intention of telling the doctors that their diagnosis might be wrong.

  She leafed through the paper, then moved on to the other one. When she reached the centrefold it was like a punch to her stomach. Mum was staring out at her from the paper, her eyes smiling, and beneath the picture it said in large letters, THE IDEAL WOMAN. Lena cast the paper aside and screamed, a howl that echoed through the peace and quiet of the apartment. Poor Dad woke up and looked around, bewildered, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She stood up, overturning the table and grabbing hold of the nearest bookcase. The whole thing came crashing down, shelves and books hitting the floor with a terrible noise, smashing the television and stereo on their way down.

  ‘Lena!’

  She heard her father’s despairing cry through a fog of hate, and came to her senses.

  ‘Lena, Lena, what are you doing?’

  Bertil Milander held out his arms to his daughter, the look of pain on his face making the young woman’s own despair burst from her chest.

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ she said, throwing herself into his arms.

  Sigrid carefully closed the door on the father and daughter and went to fetch bin-bags, a brush and the vacuum cleaner.

  When Annika arrived back at the office she ran straight into Patrik and Eva-Britt Qvist. They were on their way down to the canteen, and Annika decided to go with them. She could see the secretary wasn’t happy, presumably because she had been hoping to talk about her. The staff canteen was called ‘The Three Crowns’, but was usually known as ‘The Seven Rats’ after a rumoured health and safety inspection. It was so full when they got there that there was hardly room for even a very small rat.

  ‘Yesterday’s work turned out really well,’ Annika said to Patrik as she picked up an orange plastic tray from the end of the self-service counter.

  ‘Do you think? Great!’ the reporter said, lighting up.

  ‘You made the analysis interesting, even though it was so technical. Where on earth did you find that explosives expert, the one who gave you all that stuff about different types of dynamite?’

  ‘Yellow Pages, under “explosives”. He was great! Do you know what he did? He let off three different charges while I was on the phone so I could hear the difference between different brands.’

  Annika laughed. Eva-Britt Qvist didn’t.

  Dish of the day was herring salad with ham and stockfish, traditional Christmas fare. Annika got a cheeseburger and French fries. The only spare table was at the far end of the canteen, in the smokers’ section. So they ate quickly without talking, then went up to the newsroom to talk about today’s work over coffee.

  On the way up they bumped into Nils Langeby. He was back at work after taking the time in lieu that he had accumulated over the weekend. He straightened when he caught sight of Annika and the others.

  ‘Are we going to have a run-through today, or what?’ he challenged.

  ‘Yes, in quarter of an hour. My office,’ Annika said.


  She wanted to go to the toilet and work out her thoughts first.

  ‘Right, good. We’ve been far too sloppy with run-throughs recently,’ Nils Langeby said. Annika pretended she hadn’t heard and carried on towards the ladies’ bathroom. She really had to make an effort not to say something crushing to the older reporter. In Annika’s opinion, he was incredibly fucking bitter, mean and mad. But he was part of the team she was responsible for, so she had to find a way of working with him. She was aware that he was trying to provoke her into making a mistake, and she had no intention of providing him with one.

  Nils Langeby had already made himself comfortable on the sofa in Annika’s office when she got back from the toilet. The fact that he had gone into her room while she wasn’t there annoyed her, but she decided not to show it.

  ‘Where are Patrik and Eva-Britt?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Surely you should know that. I thought you were in charge here, not me?’ Nils Langeby said.

  She went out and asked Patrik and Eva-Britt to come to her room, then went over to Ingvar Johansson, the editor, and asked him to come along as well. On the way back she picked up a cup of coffee.

  ‘Didn’t you get me a cup?’ Nils Langeby teased as she entered the room.

  Deep breaths, she thought, sitting down behind her desk.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know you wanted coffee. But you’ve got time to get some if you hurry.’

  He didn’t move. The others came in and sat down.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘Four pieces. The hunt for the Bomber: the police have to have some new ideas by now. We need to try to crack that today. Has anyone got anything good on that?’

  She left the question open, looking round at her colleagues: Patrik, thinking so hard you could almost hear it; Ingvar Johansson, sceptical but detached, and Eva-Britt Qvist and Nils Langeby, who were just waiting for her to mess up.

  ‘I can do a bit of digging,’ Patrik said.

  ‘What were the police saying last night?’ Annika wondered. ‘Did you get the impression that they’re looking for a connection between the two victims?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Patrik said. ‘It could be anything, maybe just the Games alone, but something makes me think the police have got more than they’re saying. They seem really focused, and they’re not saying much, which might mean they’re about to arrest someone.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep a close eye on that,’ Annika said. ‘It’s not enough to listen to police radio and rely on tipoffs, we’ve got to try to work out if they’re about to arrest someone. Pictures of the Bomber being led to a police car in handcuffs would be a worldwide scoop.’

  ‘I’ll try to find something out,’ Patrik said.

  ‘Good. I’ll make some calls as well. Number two: I know there’s a link – the victims knew each other. They sat next to each other at a Christmas party last week, and evidently had a good chat.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Patrik said. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  Ingvar Johansson came to life as well.

  ‘What if there are pictures!’ he said. ‘Stunning! Imagine the picture, bomb victims embracing beneath the mistletoe, and the headline: NOW THEY’RE BOTH DEAD!’

  ‘I’ll try to find out if there are any pictures,’ Annika said. ‘There may be more than one link between the victims. I met Evert Danielsson this morning, and when I described Stefan Bjurling he knew exactly who he was. He even called him “Steffe”. So Christina Furhage may have known him as well, even before the Christmas party.’

  ‘Why did you meet Danielsson?’ Ingvar Johansson wondered.

  ‘He wanted to talk,’ Annika said.

  ‘What about?’ Johansson said, and Annika realized that she’d walked into a trap. She would have to say something, otherwise she would be in the same position as at the editorial meeting on Monday evening, and she certainly didn’t want that, especially not when Nils Langeby and Eva-Britt Qvist were here. So she said, ‘He thought Christina Furhage was a lesbian. He thought she was having an affair with a woman in the office, Helena Starke, but he had no proof. It was just a feeling, he said.’

  No one said anything.

  ‘Three: had any threats been made against Stefan Bjurling? Has anyone heard anything? No? Okay, I’ll check up on that. And finally, four: what happens next? Security, the Games, will everything be ready in time, terrorist groups under observation, etc, etc. Are you covering all that out in the newsroom?’

  Ingvar Johansson sighed. ‘No, there’s hardly a single reporter in today. They’ve all taken time off before Christmas.’

  ‘Nils, can you look into that?’ Annika said.

  It was framed as a question, but was actually an order.

  ‘Well,’ Nils Langeby said, ‘I’m just wondering how much longer the rest of us are going to have to sit and listen to this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Annika said, straightening up.

  ‘Are we really supposed to sit here like schoolchildren while you ram jobs down our throats? Where the hell is our analysis? What about reflection, afterthought? That used to be the hallmark of the Evening Post, didn’t it?’

  Annika wondered how best to react for a moment. She could take hold of the situation, ask Nils Langeby to be more specific, then nail him when he failed, and force him into a corner like a scared animal. But that would take at least an hour, and every bone in her body told her she didn’t have the energy for that.

  ‘Okay, you can take care of that, can’t you?’ she said instead, and stood up. ‘Was there anything else?’

  Ingvar Johansson and Patrik left first, followed by Eva-Britt Qvist and Nils Langeby. But Nils Langeby stopped and turned round in the doorway.

  ‘I think it’s a real shame how the crime section has deteriorated,’ he said. ‘All we do is crap these days. Haven’t you noticed how we’re being overtaken by all the other media?’

  Annika went up to him and took hold of the door.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this right now,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I think it’s rather pathetic when the head of department can’t handle a simple discussion,’ Nils Langeby said.

  He walked away, provocatively slowly.

  ‘I swear I’m going to do that man some serious damage one day,’ Annika said. ‘The next time he starts whining I’ll kick his teeth in.’

  She shut the door so she could think, and went back to her desk. She looked up Bygg & Rör, the building company that Stefan Bjurling worked for, in the phone book and found a mobile number in the list. It turned out to be the managing director’s number, a man in early middle-age, who was evidently out at a site somewhere.

  ‘Yes, I was at the Christmas party,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose you happened to have a camera with you?’ Annika asked.

  The man said something to someone standing next to him.

  ‘A camera? No, I didn’t. Why?’

  ‘Do you know if anyone else did? Anyone who took pictures at the Christmas party?’

  ‘What? It’s over there, behind the scaffolding! Pictures. Hmm … There must have been someone. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You don’t know if Stefan Bjurling had a camera with him?’

  The man was quiet for a moment, she could hear nothing but the noise of a truck in the background. When he spoke again his voice had changed tone.

  ‘Listen, young lady, where did you say you were calling from?’

  ‘The Evening Post, my name’s Annika Bengt—’

  He hung up.

  Annika put down the phone and thought for a minute. Who was most likely to have taken a picture of Stefan Bjurling together with the world-famous head of the Games?

  49

  She took several deep breaths and then dialled Eva Bjurling’s number out in Farsta. The woman sounded tired but composed when she answered. Annika said all the usual sympathetic phrases, but the woman interrupted her.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was wondering if ei
ther you or your husband knew the head of SOCOG, Christina Furhage, personally?’ Annika said.

  The woman thought.

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘But Stefan must have met her; he used to mention her occasionally.’

  Annika started her tape-recorder.

  ‘What did he say about her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the woman said with a sigh. ‘He just talked about her, said she was a tough cookie, stuff like that. I don’t really remember …’

  ‘But you got the impression they knew each other personally?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t really say that. Why, do you think they might have?’

  ‘I was just wondering. They sat next to each other at the Christmas party last week.’

  ‘Did they? Steffe didn’t mention that. He said it was a pretty dull event.’

  ‘Did he happen to have a camera with him at the party?’

  ‘Steffe? No, definitely not. He thought cameras were a bit stupid.’

  Annika hesitated a few seconds, then decided to ask what she was actually thinking.

  ‘I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I’m just wondering how you’re managing to sound so together?’

  The woman sighed again.

  ‘Well, obviously I’m sad, but Steffe wasn’t exactly an angel,’ she said. ‘Being married to him was pretty hard work. I was on the point of divorcing him twice, but changed my mind. I couldn’t get rid of him. He always came back, and he never gave up.’

  It sounded like a very familiar situation. Annika knew what her next question had to be.

  ‘Did he abuse you?’

  The woman hesitated a moment, then evidently made up her mind to be honest.

  ‘He was found guilty of actual bodily harm and making unlawful threats once. The judge issued a restraining order, but he just kept breaking it. In the end I couldn’t be bothered to fight any more, and took him back,’ the woman said calmly.

  ‘Did you think he’d get better?’

  ‘He’d stopped promising to change; we were way past that stage. But it did actually get better. This past year hasn’t been too bad.’