The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  The police had found no trace of Annika at all. It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air. The car she’d been driving was also gone. The woman they suspected of being the Bomber hadn’t been seen at her home since they began to suspect her, on Tuesday evening. A regional alert had now been issued. The police hadn’t yet named the woman, merely saying that she had been project leader on the construction of the Victoria Stadium in South Hammarby Harbour.

  He wandered aimlessly back and forth across the thick carpet for a while, then forced himself to sit down and watch television. Of course there were seventy channels, plus a whole series of internal film channels, but Thomas couldn’t settle to watch anything. He went out into the hall instead, then into the bathroom where he threw a towel onto the wet floor. He washed his face in ice-cold water and brushed his teeth with a brush provided by the hotel. The thick towelling beneath his feet sucked up the water. He went out, undressing on his way to the bedroom and throwing his clothes in a heap on a chair in the hall, and went in to the children. As usual, they had kicked off the duvet. Thomas looked at them for a while. Kalle had his arms and legs stretched out, taking up most of the double bed. Ellen was curled up among the pillows.

  One of the bodyguards had gone shopping in Åhléns for pyjamas and Gameboys. Thomas tucked Kalle’s limbs in and pulled the duvet up, then went round the bed and crept in next to Ellen. He put his arm carefully under the girl’s head and pulled her to him. She moved in her sleep and put her thumb in her mouth. Thomas let it be. Inhaling his daughter’s sweet scent, he started to cry.

  Work in the newsroom was carrying on under intense concentration and in almost total silence. Everyone was gathered around the formatting table. Jansson was permanently on the phone, as usual, but quieter and more subdued. Anders Schyman had barricaded himself into the place where the editor of the comment pages sat during the day. He was doing very little, mostly staring into space or talking quietly on the phone. Berit and Janet Ullberg’s normal workplaces were deep in the corners of the newsroom, but now they were typing at the night-editors’ desk so they could follow developments. Patrik Nilsson was there too. Ingvar Johansson had called his mobile during the afternoon. The reporter had been sitting in a plane on his way down to Jönköping, but he had still answered.

  ‘You’re not allowed to have your mobile on during a flight,’ Ingvar Johansson had told him.

  ‘I know that!’ Patrik had yelled with evident delight. ‘I just wanted to see if it’s really true that the plane crashes if you leave it switched on.’

  ‘So is it crashing?’ Ingvar Johansson had asked sardonically.

  ‘Not yet, but if it goes down anytime soon you’ll have a great scoop. “Evening Post reporter in Flight Drama – His Final Words”.’

  He had laughed hysterically and Ingvar Johansson had merely raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Maybe we’ll hold back on your flight drama, because we’ve already got one reporter in a leading role in a story about explosions. How soon can you be here?’

  Patrik had stayed on the plane and returned to Stockholm with it. He reached the newsroom at five in the afternoon. Now he was writing the article about the police hunt for the Bomber. Anders Schyman was watching him surreptitiously. He was astonished at the young man’s speed and engagement; there was something almost unreal about him. The only thing he had going against him was his almost ghoulish delight in accidents, murders and other tragedies. But a bit more life experience would probably tone that down. In time he would be an excellent reporter.

  Anders Schyman got up to get more coffee. He felt slightly sick from the amount he had already drunk, but he needed to move about. He turned away from the formatting table and began to walk slowly towards the row of windows beyond the sports desk, where he stopped and looked out at the neighbouring blocks of flats. The lights were on in several windows, even though it was after midnight. People were still up, watching some thriller on television and drinking mulled wine, or wrapping the last of their presents. Some of the balconies had been decorated with trees, and Christmas lights shone in most windows.

  Anders Schyman had spoken to the police several times that evening. He had become the natural link between the newsroom and the investigating team.

  When Annika failed to appear at the nursery by five o’clock, the police began to treat the case as a missing person inquiry. After talking to Thomas, they realized there was no way she would have vanished of her own accord. Her disappearance had been classified as a kidnapping since the middle of the evening.

  Earlier on the police had told them not to call Annika’s mobile. Anders Schyman had asked why, but hadn’t received an answer. But he had passed the order on, and as far as he knew no one had tried to call since then.

  The staff were shaken and upset; Berit and Janet Ullberg had been in tears. It’s strange, Anders Schyman thought. We write about things like this every day, we use suffering to spice things up a bit. Yet we’re still completely unprepared when it happens to us.

  He headed off to get another cup of coffee.

  67

  Annika woke up as a cold draught blew through the tunnel. She knew immediately what that meant: the metal door under the training ground had been opened; the Bomber was on her way back. Fear made her curl into a ball on the mattress again, and she lay there panting for breath as the strip-lights came back on.

  Her subconscious kicked into gear, whispering: Take it easy, listen to the woman, see what she wants, do as she says, try to win her trust.

  The clicking of heels came nearer. Annika sat up.

  ‘Aw, how lovely, you’re awake,’ Beata said, going over to the camping table. She began unpacking various groceries from a 7-Eleven bag, lining them up around the torch battery and the timer. Annika caught sight of several cans of Coca-Cola, a bottle of Evian, some sandwiches and a bar of chocolate.

  ‘Do you like Fazer’s Blue chocolate? It’s my favourite,’ Beata said.

  ‘Mine too,’ Annika said, trying to keep her voice steady. She didn’t like chocolate, and had never even tasted Fazer’s Blue.

  Beata folded the bag and put it in her pocket.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a lot to do,’ she said, sitting down on one of the folding chairs.

  Annika tried to smile.

  ‘Oh? What are we going to do?’

  Beata looked at her for several seconds.

  ‘We’re going to get to the truth at last,’ she said.

  Annika tried to follow the woman’s train of thought, but failed. Fear was making her mouth completely dry.

  ‘What do you mean, the truth?’

  Beata walked round the table to fetch something. When she straightened up Annika could see that she was holding a noose, the one she had put round Annika’s neck earlier. Annika felt her pulse increase, but she forced herself to look calmly at Beata.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the Bomber said, smiling. She came over to the mattress with the long rope in her hands. Annika could hear herself breathing faster, and couldn’t quite suppress a feeling of panic.

  ‘Calm down, I’m just going to put this back around your neck,’ Beata said with a little laugh. ‘Goodness, aren’t you the nervous one!’

  Annika strained to produce a smile. The noose was round her neck, the rope dangling in front of her like a tie. Beata was holding the end of it.

  ‘Good. Now, I’m going to go behind you, just stay calm. Relax, I said!’

  Annika watched the woman disappear behind her from the corner of her eye, still holding the rope.

  ‘I’m going to untie your hands, but don’t try anything. If you mess me about I’ll yank hard on this rope one last time.’

  Annika was breathing hard, thinking furiously. She quickly came to the conclusion that there was nothing she could do. Her feet were still chained to the wall, she had a noose around her neck, and dynamite strapped to her back. Beata started to untie the rope holding her hands together; it took her almost five minutes to untangle the knot.

&nbs
p; ‘Goodness, that was tight!’ she exclaimed when she was finished. Annika got a sudden itching sensation in her fingers as the blood started to flow properly again. Carefully she brought her hands forward, starting when she saw what a mess they were. The skin on her wrists had worn away, chafed by the rope, the wall, or the floor. Two of the knuckles on her left hand were bleeding.

  ‘Stand up,’ Beata said. Leaning against the wall for support, Annika did as she was told.

  ‘Kick the mattress away,’ Beata said, and Annika obeyed.

  The dried-up vomit vanished beneath the mattress. Then Annika caught sight of her bag. It was six, maybe seven metres away back down the tunnel.

  The Bomber walked backwards towards the table, still holding the rope. She put the battery and timer on the floor without taking her eyes off Annika. Then she pulled the table closer to Annika.

  The noise of the table-legs scraping along the linoleum floor echoed down the tunnel. When the table was in front of Annika, Beata retreated once again and fetched a folding chair.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Annika put the chair behind her and carefully sat down. Her stomach rumbled when she saw the food on the table.

  ‘Try to eat something,’ Beata said.

  Annika started by peeling the plastic seal from the bottle of water.

  ‘Would you like some?’ she asked Beata.

  ‘I’ll have a Coke later. You go ahead,’ Beata said, and Annika drank. Then she picked out a small cheese and ham baguette, and forced herself to chew properly. She could only manage half of it.

  ‘Enough?’ Beata said, and Annika smiled.

  ‘Yes, thank you, that was lovely.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ Beata said happily. She sat down on the other chair. On one side she had the box of Minex, and on the other an open brown cardboard box.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s time,’ she said with a smile.

  Annika smiled back.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Beata said.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  Beata’s smile faded at once.

  ‘Do you really not understand?’

  Annika took a deep breath.

  ‘No. But I can see that I must have made you very angry. I really didn’t mean to. I’m very sorry about that,’ she said.

  Beata was biting her upper lip.

  ‘You didn’t just lie. You wrote in the paper that I was devastated by that bastard’s death. And you humiliated me in public, twisting my words to make it a better story. You didn’t want to listen to me and my truth, but you listened to the workmen.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I misjudged your emotional response,’ Annika said as calmly as she could. ‘I didn’t want to quote you in a way that you might come to regret later. You were very upset – you were in tears.’

  ‘Yes, I was upset that people can be so evil. That a pig like Stefan Bjurling should be allowed to live. Why did fate have to use me to put a stop to this misery? Why is everything up to me, eh?’

  Annika made up her mind to wait and listen. Beata went on chewing her lip.

  ‘You lied, you spread a false picture of that bastard,’ she said after a while. ‘You wrote that he was nice and funny and well-liked by his workmates. You let them talk, but not me. Why didn’t you write what I said?’

  Annika felt confusion growing, but made an effort to sound calm and friendly.

  ‘What was it you said that you think I should have written?’

  ‘The truth. That it was a shame Christina and Stefan had to die. That it was their own fault, and that it was wrong that I should have to do it. I don’t think this is fun, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Annika steeled herself to play along.

  ‘No, of course I don’t think that. I know what it’s like to be forced to do things you don’t want to do sometimes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Beata said.

  Annika lowered her head, hesitating before saying anything.

  ‘I had to get rid of someone once; I know what it’s like.’

  She looked up.

  ‘But we’re not talking about me at the moment; this is about you and your truth.’

  Beata looked at her in silence for a while.

  ‘Maybe you’re wondering why you’re not dead yet? You’re going to write my story first. It’s going to be published in the Evening Post, with as much fanfare as Christina Furhage’s death got.’

  Annika nodded and smiled mechanically.

  ‘Here, look what I found,’ Beata said, pulling something out of the cardboard box beside her. It was a small laptop computer.

  ‘Christina’s powerbook,’ Annika gasped.

  ‘Yes, she was very fond of it. I’ve charged it up properly.’

  Beata stood up and went over to Annika, holding the laptop in her right hand. It looked heavy, Beata’s hand was shaking.

  ‘There you are. Turn it on.’

  Annika took the computer. It was a fairly basic Mac.

  She lifted the screen and turned it on. It whirred into action and began loading programs. It only had a few, one of them Word. After a few seconds the desktop appeared. The background picture was a pink, blue and purple sunset.

  There were only three icons on the desktop: the hard drive itself, Word and a folder marked ‘Me’. Annika double-clicked the Word icon, and the program started up.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready to start,’ Annika said. Her fingers were frozen and ached badly, and she rubbed them discreetly under the table.

  Beata settled herself on her chair a couple of metres away. In one hand she held the battery, and in the other the yellow-green detonator wire. She leaned against the wall and crossed her legs; it looked like she was making herself nice and comfortable.

  ‘Good. I want this to be as good as possible.’

  ‘Okay, of course,’ Annika said, and started to type.

  ‘I want you to write down what I say, in my words, so this is my story.’

  ‘Of course,’ Annika said, and typed.

  ‘Mind you, I want you to adjust it so it’s good, and easy to read, and in the right style as well.’

  Annika stopped typing and looked at the other woman.

  ‘Beata, trust me. This is what I do every day. Shall we start?’

  The Bomber straightened up.

  ‘There is evil everywhere. It is eating people up from the inside. Its apostles on earth are finding their way to the heart of humanity and stoning it to death. The battle leaves bloody remnants in space, because Fate is fighting against Evil. But at its side, the Truth has a warrior, a person of flesh and blood—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Annika said, ‘but this feels a little confused. Readers won’t be able to follow your train of thought.’

  Beata looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Why not?’

  Annika thought for a moment. She had to choose her words very carefully now.

  ‘A lot of people haven’t done as much thinking as you, they haven’t reached the same level of insight,’ she said. ‘They won’t understand you, which would make the whole article meaningless. The purpose is to help people to get closer to the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Beata said, and now it was her turn to be confused.

  ‘Maybe we should hold back a little about Fate and Evil, and take things in a slightly more chronological order instead? That would make it easier for the reader to find the truth. Does that sound okay?’

  Beata nodded eagerly.

  ‘I was thinking, maybe I could ask you some questions, then you can answer whatever you want.’

  ‘Okay,’ Beata said.

  ‘Can you tell me about your childhood?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It lets readers picture you as a child and means they can identify with you.’

  ‘Oh. What shall I say?’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ Annika said. ‘Where you grew up, who your parents were, if you had brothers an
d sisters, pets, any special toys, what you thought of school, anything like that …’

  Beata gave her a long look. Annika could see in the woman’s eyes that her thoughts were far away. She started to talk, and Annika shaped her words into a readable story.

  ‘I grew up in Djursholm; my parents were doctors. Are doctors, actually, they haven’t retired yet, and they still live in their detached house with the iron gates. I have an older brother and a younger sister. My childhood was a fairly happy one. Mother worked part time as a child psychologist, Father has his own private practice. We had nannies who looked after us, some of them male. This was during the seventies, and my parents believed in equality and were open to new ideas.

  ‘I developed an early interest in buildings. We had a little wooden house to play in, and my sister and her friends used to lock me inside.

  ‘During our long afternoons together, we started to talk to each other, my little wooden house and me. The nannies knew I used to get shut in there, so they would always come and unlock the catch after a while. Sometimes they told my sister off, but it really didn’t bother me.’

  Beata fell silent and Annika stopped typing. She blew on her hands, it was really cold now.

  ‘Can you tell me about your childhood hopes and dreams?’ Annika said. ‘What happened to your brother and sister?’

  The Bomber went on. ‘My brother became a doctor, just like our parents, and my sister trained to be a physiotherapist. She married Nasse, a childhood friend, and didn’t need to work. They live with their children out in Täby.