The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  ‘Well, this was where she did the nuts-and-bolts stuff. She had a smarter office for receiving people in the centre of the city, just behind Rosenbad. She had a third secretary there, and that was where she conducted all her meetings and negotiations, dealt with the press and all manner of guests … Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  ‘No thanks, I thought I might visit a friend over in the old Luma Building,’ Annika said.

  ‘You can’t walk there through this quagmire,’ Evert Danielsson said. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  He had a brand-new company Volvo – of course: Volvo were one of the big sponsors. He unlocked it with the remote key, and stroked the roof as he opened the door. Annika got in the passenger seat, did up the seatbelt, and asked, ‘Who do you think blew her up?’

  Evert Danielsson started the car, testing the throttle a couple of times before putting it in reverse and slowly pulling out.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘one thing’s for sure: there’s no shortage of people with a motive.’

  Annika started.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He didn’t answer, just drove the half kilometre to the old light-bulb factory in silence. He stopped by the main gates.

  ‘I’d like to know if you do ever write anything about me,’ he said.

  Annika gave him her card and told him to call if he wanted to talk. She thanked him for the lift and got out.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said to herself as the Volvo’s rear lights disappeared into the rain, ‘this story’s getting more and more muddled.’

  32

  She went up to the television company where Anne Snapphane worked. Anne was still working in the editing suite, and seemed almost relieved at the interruption.

  ‘I’m almost done,’ she said. ‘Do you want some mulled wine?’

  ‘Only if it’s alcohol-free,’ Annika said. ‘I need to make some calls.’

  ‘Use my desk. I’ve just got to …’

  Annika went over to Anne’s chair and tossed her coat on the desk. She started by phoning Berit.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the chauffeur,’ Berit said. ‘The competition got to him yesterday, but he had a few new things to say. He confirms, for instance, that Christina had her laptop with her, because she left it at the office and they had to go back for it. He hadn’t been working for Christina very long, just two months. Looks like her drivers changed pretty regularly.’

  ‘Really?’

  She heard Berit leaf through her notepad.

  ‘He also said she was very worried about being followed. She never let him take her home the most direct route from the office. He also had to check her car thoroughly every day. Christina was scared of bombs.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘And … what else? … Yes, he had specific orders never to let the daughter, Lena something, go anywhere near the car. Weird or what?’

  Annika sighed.

  ‘Our Christina seems to have developed serious paranoia. But it’ll be a great article: Christina was scared of being blown up. We’ll have to leave out that bit about the daughter, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I’m trying to get a comment from the police now.’

  ‘What’s Patrik doing?’

  ‘He’s not here yet, he was here most of the night. Where are you?’

  ‘With Anne Snapphane. I’ve just been having a little talk with Evert Danielsson. He’s been pushed out in the cold.’

  ‘What, fired?’

  ‘Not quite, but he didn’t seem too sure. There’s hardly anything I can use, but who cares? He doesn’t want to spill his story, and he doesn’t want to go on the attack.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘Not much. He was the one who had the affair in the office, so that was what we talked about most. And he gave the impression that Christina had a lot of enemies.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s all coming out now, is it?’ Berit said. ‘What else are we doing?’

  ‘Christina was married before and had a son. I was thinking of digging away at that for a while.’

  ‘A son? But I wrote her entire life story last night, and there was no son there.’

  ‘She kept him well hidden. I wonder if there are any more secrets in that closet …’

  They hung up and Annika pulled out her pad. On the back she had scribbled the number she took from Helena Starke’s telephone. She recognized the first three numbers, 702, as belonging to the old Ringvägen exchange, and hoped that was still the case.

  Helena Starke had slept badly, waking several times from terrible nightmares. When she finally got up and looked out of the window, she almost went back to bed again.

  It was raining, pissy grey bloody rain that killed any trace of colour on the streets outside. The stink from the cupboard was almost unbearable now. She pulled on a pair of jeans and went down to the communal laundry to book a time. No gaps until after New Year, naturally. So she quickly emptied one of the machines of its wet load and rushed to get the rug. She jammed it into the machine, added loads of washing powder, and hurried away. Then she showered to get the smell of vomit out of her hair, and, finally, scrubbed the wardrobe and hall floor.

  She wondered about going to get the rug, but thought better of it. It would be wiser to leave it until evening, and let the old women work off their rage at her antisocial behaviour first.

  She went into the kitchen for a cigarette. Christina didn’t like the fact that she smoked, but that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered any more.

  She stood in the darkness beside the kitchen table, and had just taken the second drag from the cigarette when the telephone on the window sill rang.

  It was the woman from last night, the one from the Evening Post.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to talk to you,’ Helena Starke said.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to, of course … Are you smoking?’

  ‘Yes, I’m smoking; but why the hell is that any of your business?’

  ‘It’s not. Why did they call you Christina’s Rottweiler?’

  The woman was taken aback.

  ‘What the hell do you want from me?’

  ‘Well, nothing really. It’s Christina I’m interested in. Why didn’t she want anyone to know she had a son? Was she ashamed of him?’

  Helena Starke’s head started to spin. She sat down and put out the cigarette. How did this woman know about Christina’s son?

  ‘He died,’ she said. ‘The boy died.’

  ‘Died? When?’

  ‘When he was … five, I think?’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s terrible. Five years old, the same as Kalle.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My son, he’s five. That’s just awful. What did he die of?’

  ‘Malignant melanoma, skin cancer. Christina never got over it. She didn’t like to talk about him.’

  ‘Sorry, I … sorry. I didn’t know …’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Helena Starke said, trying to sound as cold as possible.

  ‘Well, yes, there is actually. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a time booked for the laundry.’

  ‘The laundry?’

  ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  ‘Nothing, I just … I mean, you knew Christina so well, you were so close to her, I didn’t think you’d be doing anything like that so soon after—’

  ‘Yes, I knew her well!’ Helena Starke yelled, as the tears started to fall. ‘I knew her better than anyone!’

  ‘Apart from her family, I suppose.’

  ‘Ha! The bloody family! That senile old man and the idiot daughter. Did you know she’s a pyromaniac? Yep, completely fucking mad; spent her teens locked away in a psychiatric hospital. Set fire to anything she could. The children’s home in Botkyrka that burned down six years ago, you remember that one? That was her; that was Lena. Talk about crazy – she couldn’t even be left at home on her own.’

  She was sobbing straight into the receiver, loud and uncontrollably
, she was aware of how awful she must sound, like some animal caught in a trap. She put the phone down and let her arms fall to the kitchen table, her head landing among the crumbs on the tabletop, and she cried and cried and cried until it was completely black outside and there was nothing left inside her.

  33

  Annika could hardly believe her ears. She sat for a long time, the phone a little way from her ear, listening to the silence that followed Helena Starke’s unbearable wailing.

  ‘What is it? Why are you sitting like that?’ Anne Snapphane said, putting a coffee-cup full of mulled wine and a couple of biscuits in front of Annika.

  ‘Wow,’ Annika said, gently putting the receiver down.

  Anne Snapphane stopped chewing.

  ‘You look really shaken. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve just been talking to a woman who knew Christina Furhage. It got a bit messy.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘She started howling, really howling. It always feels terrible when you push too hard.’

  Anne Snapphane nodded sympathetically, and gestured towards the wine and biscuits.

  ‘Come over to the editing suite with me and I’ll show you the start of our New Year’s Eve programme. It’s called Things We Remember – and Things They’d Rather Forget. All about celebrity scandals.’

  Annika left her coat on the desk but hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off after Anne, balancing the biscuits on the cup. The office was fairly empty, the Christmas programming was all done and the next round of production wasn’t due to start until after the holiday.

  ‘Do you know what you’ve got for next season?’ Annika asked as they went down the spiral stairs to the technical department.

  Anne Snapphane made a face. ‘What do you think? I just hope I don’t have to do Sofa Talk again. I’ve been round the block with that one so many times now. He cheated on me with my best friend, my best friend seduced my son, my son slept with my dog … Fucking hell!’

  ‘So what would you rather do?’

  ‘Anything. I might be going to Malaysia to report for a new project we’ve got coming up next spring. Two teams living on a desert island, trying to stay as long as possible before getting voted off. Good, eh?’

  ‘Sounds boring as hell,’ Annika said.

  Anne Snapphane looked at her sympathetically as they turned into another corridor.

  ‘It’s a good job you’re not in charge. I reckon it’s got a good chance of getting a big audience if there’s enough fighting. Here we are.’

  They went into a room full of television monitors, recording equipment, control panels and cables. The room was much bigger than the little cupboards used for editing on the television news that Annika had been in. They even had a sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table in one corner. An editor was sitting on an office chair in front of the biggest control desk, a young man who was piecing together the programme, staring at a television screen as images flickered past. Annika said hello and sat down in one of the armchairs.

  ‘Run the clip,’ Anne said, lying back in the sofa.

  The man reached over and flicked a switch. An image appeared on the largest monitor, a clock counting down. Then the New Year’s Eve programme began, and the famous presenter walked onto the set to thunderous applause from the audience. He outlined the highlights of the programme: a politician throwing up in a fashionable restaurant, the most famous divorces of the year, various mistakes on live television, and other equally vital clips.

  ‘Okay, turn the sound down,’ Anne said. ‘What do you think? Good, isn’t it?’

  Annika nodded and took a sip from the mug. The mulled wine was pretty strong.

  ‘Do you know a Helena Starke?’

  Anne put her biscuit down and thought for a moment.

  ‘Starke … the name sounds very familiar. Who is she?’

  ‘Works at Olympic headquarters with Christina Furhage. Lives on Södermalm, around forty, short dark hair …’

  ‘Helena Starke. Yes, now I know! She’s that macho-lesbian activist.’

  Annika looked sceptically at her friend.

  ‘What do you mean, macho-lesbian?’

  ‘She’s active in the campaign for gay rights, writes articles, and so on. Doesn’t like the cutesy image lesbians have; often writes dismissively about vanilla sex, and so on.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Now it was Anne Snapphane’s turn to look sceptical.

  ‘Come on, what do you think I spend my days doing? There isn’t a single freak in this country whose phone number I haven’t got. How do you think we put our programmes together?’

  Annika raised her eyebrows apologetically and drank the last of the wine.

  ‘Did you get Starke on the Sofa?’

  ‘Nope, we never got her to come on. But come to think of it, we did try several times. She was happy to stand up for her sexuality, she said, but she had no intention of being exploited.’

  ‘Wise woman,’ Annika said.

  Anne Snapphane sighed. ‘It’s a good job that not everyone thinks like her; otherwise we’d have no Sofa Talk. More mulled wine?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get back to the snake-pit. They’ll all be wondering where their rabbit has got to.’

  Anders Schyman had been having an interesting afternoon. He had had a meeting with two men from the marketing department, the sales analyst and a number cruncher. Two economists whose task it was to stick their noses into everything that really shouldn’t concern them. They had both attacked his focus on responsible, investigative, socially engaged journalism. The analyst had come armed with graphs showing the sales percentages of the three biggest evening papers, showing the differences day by day.

  ‘Here, for instance, our main competitor sold exactly 43,512 more copies than the Evening Post,’ he said, pointing at a date in early December. ‘That day we ran the sort of front-page headline that doesn’t stand a chance in a competitive market.’

  The number cruncher joined in.

  ‘The focus on serious stories at the start of December really didn’t work. Our like-for-like sales haven’t increased much on last year. And you used money that was earmarked for other posts.’

  Anders Schyman had been playing with a pen as the economists talked, and once they had finished he said thoughtfully, ‘Well, there’s a lot in what you say, of course. As far as that particular date is concerned, the headline probably wasn’t that successful, but we have to ask ourselves: what was the alternative? The revelations that defence spending was over budget wasn’t likely to be a big draw, but it was our own story and we got a lot of credit for it in other media. And our main competition was running a special supplement about cheap Christmas presents, and had a television celebrity talking about her eating disorder. So it’s difficult to draw conclusions from one individual day’s sales.’

  The editor-in-chief stood up and walked over to the window that overlooked the Russian Embassy. It really was very grey out there.

  ‘Last year the beginning of December was extremely dramatic, if you recall,’ he went on. ‘A passenger plane crashed on landing at Bromma, one of our top footballers was caught drink-driving and thrown out of his club, and a TV star was found guilty of rape. We put on a lot of extra sales last December. So the fact that we exceeded those sales at all this year is hardly a failure, but the very opposite. In spite of serious, investigative effort on our own stories, we’ve met and surpassed last year’s results. The fact that we lost out against the competition on one particular day doesn’t mean that our investigation into the uses and abuses of power is wrong. I think it’s far too early to draw that conclusion.’

  ‘Our finances are based on sales of the paper on many individual days,’ the number cruncher said drily.

  ‘Superficially, yes, but not in the long term.’ Anders Schyman turned to face the two men again. ‘What we’re in the process of doing at the moment is building up our credibility capital. We’ve ignored that for far too long. Of
course we can sell the paper with busty blondes and car crashes, but we have to continue to focus on long-term quality.’

  ‘Well,’ the number cruncher said, ‘we have to deal with the available resources.’

  ‘But there are different ways of using them. As far as the budget is concerned, within certain fixed parameters the board has given me the authority to allocate funds as I see fit.’

  ‘That’s an issue that would probably be worth putting on the agenda again,’ the number cruncher said.

  ‘I think it’s a shame that we have to have this discussion yet again. I don’t find it very illuminating.’

  ‘You should,’ the other man said, waving his folders. ‘Our calculations contain the formula for a really successful evening paper.’

  Anders Schyman went over to him, put his hand on the armrest and leaned over him. ‘No, my friend,’ he said, ‘I can promise you that they don’t. Why do you think I’m here? Why don’t we put a big calculator in this room and save on my salary, if it’s just a matter of balancing plus and minus? You can’t produce an evening paper by looking at sales figures; it has to come from the heart. Instead of the sort of ill-thought-out editorial criticism that you’ve just presented, I’d much rather you concentrated on purely marketing issues. Where do we sell best? How come? Can we improve our distribution? Should we change our print times? Can we save time if we print in different locations via satellite? You know, all that.’

  ‘All that has already been worked out,’ the number cruncher said flatly.

  ‘So do it again, better,’ Schyman said.

  He had let out a sigh when the door closed behind the two men. Maybe that sort of discussion was worthwhile after all. It wouldn’t have happened ten years ago. In those days the bulkheads between the marketing department and the newsroom were watertight.

  The crisis a couple of years ago had torn down all those barriers, and he saw it as one of his many tasks to try to rebuild some sort of wall between Numbers and Letters. The marketing team must never get the idea that they could dictate editorial content, but their skills were vital to his chances of success, he was in no doubt about that.