The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  He knew perfectly well that the sales figures for individual days were extremely important; he spent hours each week with the sales analyst. But that didn’t mean that the number cruncher should try to teach him his job.

  Any analysis of sales of an evening paper is a highly sensitive mechanism based upon an almost infinite number of factors. Every morning, at around four o’clock, an analyst arrived at the paper to present the sales figures from the thousands of outlets around the country. Variables such as seasons, weekends, holidays, were already programmed into the computer.

  If it was raining, you shifted distribution from seaside resorts to IKEA stores.

  People did most of their shopping on Thursdays, and often bought papers out of habit. So, more papers to supermarkets on Thursdays. And if it was Christmas and a lot of people were travelling round the country, you shifted distribution to the motorways.

  A large occurrence in a small place usually generated local billboards, and they lifted sales considerably. The analysts had to take factors like this into consideration, and not just add ten per cent to sales without understanding why. In a small kiosk that usually only sold ten copies, that only meant one extra copy. But local factors could lift sales by four hundred per cent.

  The last factor that the sales analyst should be looking at was the strap-line itself. That was of fairly limited importance, unless the King had got married or a plane had crashed.

  There were other variables apart from the basic sales analysis. If something big happened in Norrland, the analyst could quickly arrange for an extra flight to take papers up there.

  There was naturally a financial balance to be struck: the cost of the extra flight against the value of the extra sales. But you also had to take into account how much a disappointed customer buying the competition was worth. In cases like that, the extra flight often won.

  Anders Schyman sat down at his computer and logged on to the main news agency. He scanned all the bulletins from the past twenty-four hours. There were a couple of hundred, covering sport, domestic and international news. Together they constituted the bedrock on which pretty much every paper in Sweden was built. A lot of papers selected their domestic and international stories from this agency. This was the source of a lot of the information that reached their readers.

  Anders Schyman reflected on the number cruncher’s last presentation. He had described the standardized average reader of the Evening Post: a man in his fifties, wears a cap, had been buying the paper since his twenties.

  All the evening papers have their own loyal readers, the ones who would go through hell and high water for their paper. They were known as the ‘elephant hides’, and, as far as Anders Schyman could see, they were a dying breed for the Evening Post.

  The next category of readers was the ‘faithful readers’, those who bought the paper several times a week. If these faithful readers bought the paper one day less a week, it would have disastrous consequences for the future. And that was what had happened a couple of years ago. So the hunt was on for new target groups, and Anders Schyman was sure they were succeeding, but the new groups hadn’t overtaken man-in-cap yet. It was just a matter of time, but he needed people in charge who could see things in different ways. There was no way they could continue to run the paper just with men over forty-five. Anders Schyman was utterly convinced of this, and he was quite sure what he needed to do to bring it about.

  34

  Annika was a little befuddled from the mulled wine when she got back to the office, and it wasn’t a nice feeling. She concentrated on walking straight and purposefully, not talking to anyone on the way to her room. Eva-Britt’s chair was empty. She had gone home already, even though she was supposed to stay until five.

  Annika tossed her outdoor clothes on the sofa and fetched two mugs of coffee. Why on earth had she drunk that wretched wine?

  She started by phoning her source, but the line was engaged. She hung up and started to type up what she had found out about Christina’s children, the son dying and the daughter being a pyromaniac. She emptied the first mug and started on the second as she did a computer search of the archive. True enough, a children’s home in Botkyrka had burned down six years ago. A fourteen-year-old girl was responsible, no one had been injured, but the building had been completely destroyed. So Helena Starke’s outburst checked out so far.

  She tried phoning her source again. This time the phone rang.

  ‘I know you’ve every right to be annoyed about the alarm codes,’ was the first thing she said when he answered.

  The man on the other end sighed. ‘What do you mean, annoyed? Annoyed? Huh? You ruined our best line of inquiry, but why on earth would I be annoyed? No, I’m pissed off, mostly with myself for telling you.’

  Annika shut her eyes, feeling her heart sink. There was no point making excuses about editors adding headlines they shouldn’t. No, attack was the only option here.

  ‘Oh, please!’ Annika said, as critically as she could. ‘Who told who anything? I had the whole story and held on to it for twenty-four hours, for your sake. I think this is bloody unfair.’

  ‘Unfair? This is a murder inquiry, for fuck’s sake! Do you think that’s fair?’

  ‘Well, I pray to God that it is,’ Annika said wryly.

  The man sighed again. ‘Okay, get the excuses out of the way and we can move on.’

  Annika took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m really sorry the headline mentioned alarm codes. You might have noticed that those words didn’t appear anywhere in the actual article. The editor added the headline sometime early in the morning, he was just trying to make it look as good as possible.’

  ‘These editors,’ the policeman said. ‘They seem to creep out at night like the shoemaker’s elves. Okay, what do you want?’

  Annika smiled.

  ‘Have you spoken to Christina’s daughter, Lena Milander?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what she was doing on Friday night?’

  ‘Why are you wondering about that?’

  ‘I found out about her pyromania.’

  ‘Pyrophilia,’ he corrected. ‘Pyromania is a very unusual condition. A pyromaniac has to fulfil at least five special criteria, which basically show that the individual has an unhealthy fascination with and response to fires and anything connected to fires: firemen, extinguishers, and so on …’

  ‘Okay, pyrophilia, then. Well?’

  ‘We’ve checked her out, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can’t say more than that.’

  Annika fell silent. She was wondering if she should say anything about the son, but decided against it. A dead five-year-old was nothing to do with this.

  ‘So what’s happened with the alarm codes?’

  ‘Am I safe to talk about those, then?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Annika said.

  ‘We’re still looking into that,’ the man said simply.

  ‘Any suspect yet?’

  ‘No, not so far.’

  ‘Any lines of inquiry?’

  ‘Of course there are! What the hell do you think we do up here?’

  ‘Okay.’ Annika looked down at her notes. ‘So is it safe to say that you’re still working on the alarm codes – that’s okay now, seeing as the information’s out there? – and that you’ve questioned a number of people but don’t yet have a definite suspect, and that you’re following various lines of inquiry?’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ her source said.

  Annika hung up, the bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth. The idiot who came up with the headline about the alarm codes had ruined several years of hard work for her. The trust was gone, so the Evening Post would no longer get information first. What she had just got was nothing, nada, rien, the usual bullshit. She would have to rely on her colleagues and their contacts.

  At that moment Berit and Patrik both appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘No, come in.
Sit down. Chuck my clothes on the floor – they’re already filthy.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Berit said, hanging Annika’s dirty coat up on a hook.

  ‘Playing in the mud outside Olympic headquarters. Hope you’ve had a better day than I have,’ she said morosely.

  She gave a quick summary of the conversation with her source.

  ‘It’s one of the pitfalls of the job,’ Berit said. ‘Things like that happen.’

  Annika sighed. ‘Okay, what have we got? What are you working on, Berit?’

  ‘Well, I’ve spoken to Christina’s driver – he’s actually pretty good. And I checked out the lead about the taxi, but that one’s a bit odd. No one wants to say where Christina went after the Christmas party. That gap between midnight and three seventeen is getting more and more mysterious.’

  ‘Okay, so you’ve got two articles: “Christina Scared of Being Blown Up – Her Driver Speaks” and “Her Missing Hours – the Mystery Grows”. Patrik?’

  ‘Well, I’ve only just got here, but I’ve made a few calls. Interpol are putting out an alert for the Tiger this evening.’

  ‘Wow,’ Annika said. ‘Worldwide?’

  ‘I think so. Zone two, they said.’

  ‘That’s Europe,’ Berit and Annika said at the same time, and burst out laughing.

  ‘Any country in particular?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Patrik said.

  ‘Good. Well, you can pick up anything that happens this evening,’ Annika said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got much we can use, but I’ve found out a few peculiar things. See what you make of this!’

  She told them about Christina Furhage’s first husband, the rich old director, her dead son and pyromaniac daughter; about Evert Danielsson’s fateful affair at work and his uncertain future, and about Helena Starke’s unexpected outburst and the fact that she was a militant lesbian.

  ‘Why are you digging about in stuff like that?’ Patrik said sceptically.

  Annika looked at him with gentle condescension.

  ‘Because, my dear, this sort of background research eventually leads you to the holy grail of journalism: cause and effect. An understanding of individuals and their impact on society. You’ll learn that when you get a bit older.’

  Patrik looked like he didn’t quite believe her.

  ‘I just want to do headline articles,’ he said.

  Annika smiled.

  ‘Good. Shall we get going?’

  Berit and Patrik left. She listened to the news on the radio before she went off to the six o’clock handover. Radio news were running with that morning’s story about the legal technicality, and then moved on to parliamentary elections in Pakistan. Annika switched it off.

  She went past the kitchen and drank a large glass of water on her way to the meeting. The effects of the wine had faded, thank goodness.

  35

  The editor-in-chief was alone in his room when she arrived. He seemed to be in a good mood.

  ‘Good news?’ Annika said.

  ‘Bloody hell, no. We’re not selling enough. I’ve just had a run-in with the marketing department, and that always livens me up. How are things going for you?’

  ‘The headline about the alarm codes was uncalled for; I was going to raise that at the meeting. It’s caused huge problems. But I’ve found a number of skeletons in Christina Furhage’s closet, maybe I could tell you later if you’ve got time …?’

  Ingvar Johansson, Pelle Oscarsson, and Spike, the other night-editor, came in together. They were talking loudly, laughing the way men do with their peers. Annika sat in silence and waited for them to sit down.

  ‘There’s one thing I just want to start with,’ Anders Schyman said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘I know no one in this room has anything to do with this, but I want to talk about it as a basic principle. It’s about the headline on pages six and seven today, the one that reads “Alarm Codes Hold the Key”. The phrase alarm codes should never have been used, and no one could have been in any doubt about that after yesterday’s discussions. But the headline still appeared in the paper, and that was a serious fuck-up. I’m going to call Jansson as soon as we’re finished here to find out how the hell it happened.’

  Annika could feel herself blushing as he spoke. She tried to look unconcerned, but wasn’t very successful. It was obvious to everyone in the room who was involved in the conflict, and whose side he was on.

  ‘I think it’s pretty remarkable that I should have to explain things like this. I thought it was obvious that the decisions taken in these meetings and the directives that I give are to be followed. There are certain occasions when we know things that we don’t print, and it is up to me when that happens. Annika’s deal with her source was not to mention the alarm codes, and she didn’t. Yet this still happened. So how the fuck did it happen?’

  Silence. Annika stared at the table. To her annoyance, she could feel tears rising, but she swallowed and forced them down again.

  ‘Okay,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘Seeing as no one has anything to say, we’ll learn from this and never let it happen again, ever. Is that understood?’

  The men muttered inarticulately, and Annika swallowed again.

  ‘Right, let’s move on,’ the editor-in-chief said. ‘Annika, what have we got from crime?’

  Ingvar Johansson’s lips narrowed as Annika straightened up and cleared her throat.

  ‘Berit’s writing two pieces: she met the driver, who told her that Christina was afraid of being blown up, and she’s been looking into Christina’s final hours. Patrik has found out that Interpol are putting out an alert for the Tiger this evening. And he’ll be writing about police progress tonight. My source has gone quiet. I’ve spoken to Evert Danielsson, Furhage’s number two, who got the push today …’ She fell silent and looked down at the table.

  ‘That sounds promising, but I don’t think we’ll lead with the bombing tomorrow,’ Schyman said, thinking of the number cruncher. Their calculations said that no story sold for more than two days – three at most – no matter how big it was. ‘We’re into the fourth day and we have to have a change. What have we got instead?’

  ‘Are we really dropping the terrorism angle already?’ Spike said. ‘It strikes me that we’ve dropped that thread completely.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ the editor-in-chief said.

  ‘Everyone else has run overviews of various terrorist attacks on the Olympics over the years, and looked at the terrorist groups that might be responsible for this attack. We never even got onto the track with that.’

  ‘I know you’ve been off the past few days, but surely you can get a copy of the paper from the kiosk out in Järfälla?’ Anders Schyman said sweetly.

  Spike stopped abruptly.

  ‘We ran the list of previous attacks on the Olympics on both Saturday and Sunday, but we have consciously resisted indulging in unethical speculation about various bomb-throwing terrorist groups. We have our own information, which has been considerably better than that, and we can only hope that today’s idiotic headline hasn’t ruined our chances of getting more of the same in the future. Instead of barking about terrorists, we have been leading the news, and we should be proud of that. Our sources say this wasn’t aimed at the Olympics, neither the organization nor the stadium. Our sources indicate that it was a personal attack against Christina Furhage, and that is what we happen to believe as well. So we won’t be listing any terrorist groups tomorrow either. But what are we going to lead with?’

  Ingvar Johansson puffed himself up and started to run through his long list. Annika had to admit that he was effective, and usually showed good judgement. But as he was talking she could feel Spike looking daggers at her. It came as a relief when the meeting broke up and the men left the room.

  ‘So what have you found out today?’ Schyman said.

  Annika told him what she knew, and showed him the photograph of the young Christina and her son.

  ‘The more I dig into her backgroun
d, the murkier it gets,’ she said.

  ‘Where do you think it’s taking us?’ the editor-inchief said.

  She hesitated.

  ‘What we’ve got so far is unpublishable. But somewhere in her closet lies the explanation to all of this, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What makes you think that the truth is publishable?’

  She blushed.

  ‘I don’t know. I just want to know how it all fits together … I want to be one step ahead. Then I can ask the police the right questions, which means that we get the answers first.’

  The editor-in-chief smiled.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m very happy with your work these past few days. You don’t give up, it’s a good characteristic, and you’re not afraid to fight if you have to. That’s even better.’

  Annika looked down and blushed even more.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right, now I’m going to call Jansson and find out what happened last night with that bloody headline.’

  She headed back to her office, suddenly aware of how hungry she was. She went over to Berit and asked if she wanted to go to the canteen. Berit agreed willingly, so they dug out their luncheon vouchers and set off. The canteen was serving Christmas ham with potatoes and apple sauce.

  ‘Good grief,’ Berit said. ‘It’s starting already. They won’t change the menu until New Year now.’

  They skipped the ham and went to the salad bar instead. The large room was almost empty. They settled down in one corner.

  ‘So what do you think Christina was doing after midnight?’ said Berit, biting a piece of carrot.

  Annika thought for a moment as she chewed a forkful of sweetcorn.

  ‘She left the bar, in the middle of the night, with a well-known macho-lesbian. Maybe they went somewhere together?’

  ‘Helena Starke was really drunk. Maybe Christina helped her home?’

  ‘How? Night-bus?’

  Annika shook her head, thinking through the scenario.

  ‘She had a charge-card for a taxi, money, and maybe two and a half thousand employees who could help a colleague get home by car. So why would she, the head of the Olympic Games, Woman of the Year, help a drunk lesbian down into the underground? It doesn’t make sense.’