The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  In actual fact, though, the informal management group had no real authority. The committee itself took the actual decisions. Its members were real heavyweights: political representatives like the Minister for Business and the Commissioner of Stockholm City Council, an expert from the IOC, two representatives from the sponsors, and a leading international lawyer. The head of the committee was another politician, the Governor of the Stockholm region, Hans Bjällra. The core management group may have been quick and effective, but it was lightweight in comparison to the committee. The core group was made up of the people responsible for the day-to-day running of the project: the financial director, Christina, him, Helena Starke and the press officer, together with a couple of deputy directors and Doris from accounts.

  This core group had managed to push through practical decisions quickly and efficiently. Then Christina would guide the decisions past the committee afterwards. This applied mainly to financial decisions, but also to matters regarding the environment, infrastructure, construction, legal issues and all manner of publicity campaigns.

  But now there was no Christina to tidy up after them. He realized there was no escape this time.

  He leaned his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. A shiver ran through his whole body. Damn, damn! After all these years of hard work! He really didn’t deserve this.

  Tears started to well up and trickle through his fingers, dripping onto the papers on his desk, forming little transparent blisters and blurring letters and graphs. He didn’t care.

  Annika turned on her computer and sat down to write. She started with the information she had got from the conversation with her police source. She didn’t mention a word about anything she had learned from her unofficial channels. She never recorded conversations of that sort – there was always a risk of the tapes getting left in the machine and someone else hearing them. Instead she made notes, then filled in the gaps as soon as possible to make a complete text on her computer. She saved the files onto USB sticks, which she kept locked in a drawer of her desk, and destroyed the notes. She never mentioned the information gleaned from such sources in handovers or editorial meetings. The only person who ever got to hear any of the confidential material, and only if it was strictly necessary, was the editor-in-chief, Anders Schyman, because he was legally responsible for everything published in the paper.

  She had no illusions about why the information was being shared with her. It wasn’t that she was better or in any way more remarkable than any other journalist. But she was reliable, and this, combined with the influence she had as a member of the Evening Post’s editorial team, made her an ideal channel for the police to spread any information they wanted to make public. Of course, there were any number of reasons why the police might want such information spread, and the police were no different to any other organization: they wanted to present their own version of events in the media. And with particularly dramatic events, both television and the papers had a tendency to rush to conclusions and make mistakes. Leaking just enough accurate information allowed the police to prevent the most misleading reports.

  Some journalists thought it was unethical not to make use of everything you knew at all times. If you were a journalist, then that was what you were, and you were nothing but a journalist. Which meant that you had a duty to reveal anything you knew about your neighbours, your friends’ children, your mother-in-law, and Father Christmas if you found out anything. There was no question of any off-the-record conversations with the police or politicians. Annika, on the other hand, thought this was a ridiculous attitude. She regarded herself first and foremost as a human being, then as a mother, then as a wife, and then, and only then, as an employee of the Evening Post. She didn’t even think of herself as a journalist, at least not in the sense of it being some sort of God-given vocation. Bitter experience had taught her that the journalists with the noblest and loftiest principles were often real bastards. So she was perfectly happy if people wanted to speculate about her sources or laugh at the way she worked. But that didn’t mean that she took her job any less seriously.

  Once the files were locked away in her desk-drawer she wrote a short article about her visit to see Bertil Milander. She kept it fairly concise and straightforward, pointing out that he had personally invited the paper’s attention, and presenting the positive image of his wife that he had been keen to promote. She didn’t mention the daughter at all. She left the article in the shared editorial filestore, commonly known as ‘the can’.

  Then she stood up, restless, stretching her legs in her glass-walled office. The room was between two editorial sections, news and sport, with glass walls facing out onto each of them. There was no natural light, except indirectly from beyond the two expanses of desks. To counteract the feeling of being in a goldfish bowl, one of her predecessors had hung up a set of thick blue curtains. But it had to be at least five years since anyone had paid them any attention at all, let alone washed or shaken them. Maybe they had looked fresh and modern once upon a time, but now they just seemed sad and hopeless. Annika kept hoping that someone would do something about them. But she knew full well that that person wasn’t going to be her.

  She went out to Eva-Britt Qvist’s desk, just outside her office. The secretary had gone home without telling anyone. The research material was arranged in piles on the desk, marked with yellow Post-it notes. Annika sat down and started to look through them, curious, but without knowing exactly what she was hoping to find. Bloody hell, the amount of stuff that had been written about that woman! She picked up a printout from the top of the pile marked ‘overviews’ and started to read. It was a long article from one of the Sunday papers, a positive, intelligent piece that actually managed to give an idea of what sort of person Christina Furhage was. The questions were incisive and concrete, Furhage’s replies smart and focused. The subject-matter wasn’t exactly personal – things like the funding of the Olympics, organization theory, gender-equality in the jobs market, the importance of sport in national consciousness. Annika skimmed the text and realized to her surprise that Christina Furhage had managed to avoid giving away anything that could be considered remotely personal.

  Mind you, the article was from one of the morning papers, and they really weren’t interested in anything private or personal. Their policy could be summed up fairly simply: deal only with masculine, politically correct and respectable subjects; avoid anything emotional, interesting and feminine. She put the printout down and rifled through the piles to find something from one of the evening papers’ supplements. There were several of them, each with its obligatory little box of facts about Furhage. Name: Ingrid Christina Furhage. Family: husband and one child. Home: a detached house in Tyresö. Income: high. Smoke: no. Drink: yes, water, wine and coffee. Best characteristic: that’s for others to decide. Worst characteristic: that’s for others to decide … Annika carried on through the articles: the answers had been the same for the past few years, since her details became confidential. Husband and child not named, home given as a detached house in Tyresö. She found one article from six years ago from the Sunday supplement where her family was named as Bertil and Lena. So that was the daughter’s name. Presumably her surname was Milander.

  She abandoned the pile of general articles and moved on to the smallest pile, marked ‘disputes’. Evidently there hadn’t been many of those. The first piece was about the fuss when one of the sponsors pulled out. It had nothing to do with Christina Furhage; she was only mentioned once at the end of the article, which was why the article had come up in the search of the database. The next article was about a protest against the environmental impact of the Victoria Stadium. Annika could feel herself starting to get irritated. This sort of dispute had nothing to do with Christina Furhage! Eva-Britt had done a useless job. She should have weeded out stuff like this. That was the whole point of having a researcher on the crime desk. Eva-Britt was supposed to compile background information that saved time for journalists working
to deadlines.

  Annika picked up the whole pile marked ‘disputes’ and leafed through the articles: demonstrations, protests, one op-ed piece … Annika stopped. What was this? She put the rest of the pile down, holding on to one small cutting from near the bottom of the pile. OLYMPICS SECRETARY SACKED AFTER AFFAIR. Annika didn’t need to check which paper it had appeared in, it was obviously from the Evening Post. Dated seven years ago. A young woman had been forced to leave the newly established Olympic headquarters because of a relationship with one of her superiors.

  ‘It feels degrading and ridiculously old-fashioned,’ the woman had told the paper’s reporter.

  Christina Furhage had explained that the woman hadn’t been fired, but had left because her temporary contract had expired. It had nothing to do with the affair. End of story. There was no indication of who the woman or her superior were. No one else had picked up the story, but that wasn’t in itself remarkable. It was extremely thin – and this was the only conflict involving Christina Furhage that had appeared in the media. Annika could only conclude that she must have been a bloody good manager.

  Her thoughts drifted to the vast number of articles covering conflict in her own workplace over the years, and even so, this wasn’t a particularly bad set-up.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Berit said behind her.

  Annika got up from the edge of the desk.

  ‘You’re back, great! No, nothing much, just one possibility. Furhage got rid of a young woman for having an affair with a superior. Might be worth bearing in mind … What have you got?’

  ‘Quite a lot. Do you want a quick run-through?’

  ‘We’d better wait for Patrik,’ Annika said.

  ‘I’m here!’ came a shout from the other side of the picture desk. ‘I’m just—’

  ‘My office!’ Annika said.

  23

  Berit hung her outdoor clothes at her desk, then went into Annika’s office and settled into the old sofa with her notes and a styrofoam cup of coffee from the machine.

  ‘I’ve been trying to piece together Christina Furhage’s final hours. The Olympics headquarters had an office Christmas party at a bar on Kungsholmen on Friday night. Christina was there until midnight. I’ve been out there and spoken to the staff, and I also had a private chat with Evert Danielsson, the chairman.’

  ‘Great!’ Annika said. ‘So what did she do after that?’

  Berit picked up her pad.

  ‘She arrived at the bar late, after ten. The others had already eaten. They had a Basque Christmas dinner, apparently. She left with another woman, Helena Starke, just before midnight. And no one’s seen her since then.’

  ‘The bomb went off at three seventeen, so we’ve got a three-hour gap,’ Annika said. ‘What does this Helena Starke say?’

  ‘Don’t know. Her number’s ex-directory. She’s registered on Södermalm, but I haven’t had time to get out to see her yet.’

  ‘Starke sounds promising; we need to get hold of her,’ Annika said. ‘Anything else? What was Furhage doing before she got to the bar?’

  ‘Danielsson thinks she was working late in the office, but he’s not sure. Apparently she used to work really long days – fourteen, fifteen hours was nothing unusual.’

  ‘Superwoman,’ Annika muttered, thinking about Christina’s husband’s tribute to her work back in the apartment.

  ‘Who’s doing The Furhage Story?’ Berit wondered.

  ‘One of the writers out in general news. I met the family, but that didn’t really give anything useful. They’re a bit tricky …’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Annika thought for a moment.

  ‘The husband, Bertil, was old and grey. Pretty bewildered. It was like he admired his wife more than he actually loved her. The daughter came in screaming and crying, said she was glad her mother was dead.’

  ‘Happy families,’ Berit said.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Patrik said as he came in.

  ‘Fine. How about you?’ Annika said.

  ‘This is going to be bloody good,’ he said, sitting down next to Berit. ‘So far the police have found one hundred and twenty-seven pieces of Christina Furhage.’

  Berit and Annika both recoiled in revulsion.

  ‘That’s disgusting! You can’t use that!’ Annika said.

  The young reporter smiled nonchalantly.

  ‘They’ve found blood and teeth as far away as the main entrance. That’s several hundred metres away.’

  ‘You’re terrible. Surely even you can’t come up with anything worse than that?’ Annika said.

  ‘They still don’t know what the Bomber used to shred her. Or else they’re not saying.’

  ‘So what’s your story going to be?’

  ‘I spoke to a good source in the police about the hunt for the killer. I can do that one.’

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said. ‘I can fill in what I know. So what have you got?’

  Patrik leaned forward, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘The police are looking for Christina Furhage’s powerbook. They know she had a laptop with her on Friday evening, a girl from the office saw it. But the computer’s gone; it wasn’t among the stuff they found in the stadium. They think the killer took it.’

  ‘Surely it could have been blown to smithereens in the explosion?’ Berit said.

  ‘No, they’ve ruled that out, at least according to my source,’ Patrik said. ‘The computer’s missing, and that’s their best lead right now.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Annika said.

  ‘They’re thinking about getting Interpol involved in tracing the Tiger.’

  ‘It wasn’t the Tiger,’ Annika said. ‘It was an inside job, the police are sure of it.’

  ‘How can they be sure?’ Patrik said, surprised.

  Annika remembered her promise not to say anything about the alarm codes.

  ‘Believe me, my source is reliable. Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the staff at Olympic headquarters. Christina Furhage seems to have been some sort of messiah for them. They’re all in tears, even Evert Danielsson. I heard him through a door. They have no idea how to cope without her. She seems to have embodied every good quality a person could possibly have.’

  ‘Why do you sound so surprised?’ Berit said. ‘Why shouldn’t a middle-aged woman be liked and respected?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. It’s just that they’re pretty extreme …’

  ‘Christina Furhage had a remarkable career, and she was doing a damn good job with these Olympics. If a woman can manage to steer a huge project like this from start to finish, you can put money on the fact that she’s pretty extraordinary. The Olympic Games is like organizing twenty-eight World Cups simultaneously,’ Berit said.

  ‘Okay, but does the fact that she was a woman make her achievements any more remarkable?’ Patrik countered, making Berit properly cross.

  ‘Oh grow up!’

  Patrik stretched to his full height, one metre ninety in his socks.

  ‘And what the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Okay, okay, that’s enough now,’ Annika said, trying to sound calm and collected. ‘Sit down, Patrik. We’ll forgive you for not knowing about the oppression of women, seeing as you’re a man. Obviously it’s harder for a woman to do a job like head of the Olympics than a man, just as it would be harder for a deaf-mute than an able-bodied person. Being a woman is like being a walking bundle of disabilities. Have you got anything else?’

  Patrik had sat down, but was clearly still upset.

  ‘Walking bundle of disabilities, what sort of feminist crap is that?’

  ‘Have you got anything else?’

  He looked through his notes.

  ‘The hunt for the Bomber, Olympic headquarters in shock … that’s it from me.’

  ‘Right, Berit, you do Christina Furhage’s last day, I’ll do the family and fill in any gaps on the hunt for the killer. Okay?’

  The meeting broke up without any more
talk. We’re starting to run out of steam, Annika thought as she switched on the radio to hear the 5.45 news. The lead story was of course the fact that one of the most powerful and well-known women in Sweden, Christina Furhage, was dead. They began with a short run-through of her life and achievements, before looking at the impact her death would have on the Olympics and sport generally. The President of the International Olympic Committee, as expected, had withdrawn his statement to the other evening paper.

  Only after eleven minutes came the fact that Furhage had been murdered. That was the way the radio news handled things: first you got the impersonal, general information, and only then – in so far as you got it at all – anything uncomfortable and unsettling. Any time radio news covered a murder, they almost always focused on judicial process and never on the victim, the victim’s family or the perpetrator. But they were perfectly happy to include umpteen different items on the equipment used to scan the murderer’s brain, because that was regarded as research, and therefore an appropriate subject.

  Annika sighed. They also mentioned her own piece in today’s paper, about the threat that led to Furhage’s personal details being withheld from public view, but only in passing. She switched off the radio and gathered the material she needed for the editorial meeting in the editor-in-chief’s room. On her way there she had felt strangely ill at ease. Ingvar Johansson had been behaving very oddly all day, touchy and short with her. She knew that she must have done something wrong, but had no idea what. And now there was no sign of him.