The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  ‘I’m from the Evening Post’, she said. ‘I was wondering if I could possibly ask you a few rather personal questions.’

  The man laughed.

  ‘I see! What sort of questions?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down the Olof Furhage who’s the son of the managing director of the Stockholm Olympics, Christina Furhage,’ she said as neutrally as she could. ‘Would that be you, by any chance?’

  The man looked down at the ground for a moment, then looked up and brushed his hair back.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s me.’

  They stood in silence for a few seconds. The sun was shining right in their eyes. Annika could feel the cold coming through the thin soles of her shoes.

  ‘I don’t want to be intrusive,’ she said, ‘but I’ve spoken to a lot of people who knew Christina Furhage in recent days. It felt important to talk to you as well.’

  ‘Why have you been doing that?’ the man said, wary, but not hostile.

  ‘Your mother was a very well-known woman, and her death has repercussions for the whole world. But even though she was such a public figure, she was almost completely anonymous as a private person. Which is why we’ve been talking to the people closest to her.’

  ‘Why, though? Presumably she wanted to be anonymous. Can’t you respect that?’

  The man wasn’t stupid, that much was clear.

  ‘Of course,’ Annika said. ‘It’s out of respect for those close to her, and her own desire to be anonymous, that I’m doing this. Because we don’t know anything about her, there’s a risk that we’ll make basic mistakes in what we write about her, the sort of thing that might upset her family. I’m afraid we’ve done that once already.

  ‘Yesterday we printed a big article in which your mother was described as the ideal woman. That upset your sister Lena quite badly. She called me yesterday, I met her and we had a long talk. I want to make sure we don’t do the same thing to you.’

  The man was looking at her, bemused.

  ‘Quite a speech,’ he said, impressed. ‘You could talk the hind legs off a donkey, couldn’t you?’

  Annika wasn’t sure whether she should smile or be serious. The man saw her confusion and laughed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you. Do you want coffee, or are you in a hurry?’

  ‘Both, really,’ Annika said, laughing back.

  ‘Would you like to take a look at the greenhouse first?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Annika said, hoping it was warmer in there.

  It was. The air was mild and smelled of compost and fruit. It was an old-fashioned design, and big, at least fifty metres long and ten wide. It was completely empty; the ground was covered in an enormous sheet of dark-green plastic. Two paths ran down the entire length of the greenhouse.

  ‘I grow organic tomatoes,’ Olof Furhage said.

  ‘In December? Wow,’ Annika said.

  The man laughed again – he clearly laughed easily.

  ‘No, not right now. I pulled the plants up in October, then the ground rests over winter. When you grow organically, it’s important to keep the greenhouse and the soil free from bacteria and mould. Modern growers often use rockwool or peat, but I stick to soil. Come and have a look.’

  He went quickly down the path and stopped at the far end of the greenhouse.

  ‘This is a steam machine,’ Olof Furhage said. ‘I force steam in through these thick tubes, and they run underground and heat up the soil. And that kills the mould. I’ve had it on this morning, which is why it’s so warm in here.’

  Annika looked on with interest. There was a lot she didn’t know anything about.

  ‘So when do you get tomatoes?’ she asked politely.

  ‘You don’t want to force your tomatoes too early; they get really straggly if you do. I start towards the end of February, and by October the plants are up to six metres long.’

  Annika looked round the greenhouse.

  ‘But how does that work? There’s not enough room in here?’

  Olof Furhage laughed again.

  ‘Well, you see that wire there? When the plant gets that tall you bend it over the wire. There’s another wire fifty centimetres from the ground, and you do the same thing again, bend the stem over and up it goes again.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ Annika said.

  ‘Well, what about coffee?’

  They left the greenhouse and went up to the house.

  ‘You grew up here in Tungelsta, didn’t you?’ she said.

  The man nodded as he held the outer door open for her.

  ‘Feel free to take your shoes off. Yes, I grew up on Kvarnvägen, not far from here. Hello! How are you getting on?’

  This last part was shouted into the house, and a young girl’s voice replied from upstairs: ‘Okay, Daddy, but I don’t think I can get any further. Can you help me?’

  ‘Yes, but in a little while. I’ve got a visitor.’

  Olof Furhage pulled off his heavy boots.

  ‘She’s had flu, was really quite ill. I bought her a new computer game as consolation. Please, go in …’

  A small face peered down from the staircase.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl said. ‘My name’s Alice.’

  She was nine or ten years old.

  ‘My name’s Annika,’ Annika said.

  Alice disappeared to play her computer game again.

  ‘She lives with me every other week, and her sister Petra lives here full time now. Petra’s fourteen,’ Olof Furhage said as he filled the coffee-machine.

  ‘You’re divorced?’ Annika asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes, two years ago. Milk or sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Olof Furhage finished making the coffee, set the table, then sat down opposite Annika. It was a nice kitchen, with a wooden floor, mirrored cupboard doors, a red gingham tablecloth and an Advent star in the window. There was a fine view of the greenhouse.

  ‘How much do you know?’ the man asked.

  Annika took her notepad and pen out of her bag.

  ‘Do you mind if I make notes? Well, I know that your father’s name was Carl, and that Christina left you with a couple in Tungelsta when you were five years old. I know you were in touch with Christina a couple of years ago. She was very scared of you.’

  Olof Furhage laughed again, but this time it was sad laughter.

  ‘Yes, poor Christina. I never understood why she got so terrified,’ he said. ‘I wrote her a letter just after the divorce, mainly because I felt so bloody awful. I wrote and asked those questions I had always wondered about, but never had any answers to. Why she gave me away, whether she had ever loved me, why Gustav and Elna weren’t allowed to adopt me … She never replied.’

  ‘So you went to see her?’

  The man sighed.

  ‘Yes, I started going out to Tyresö and sitting outside the house in the weeks when the girls were with their mother. I wanted to see what she looked like, where she lived, what her life was like. She was famous by then – now that she was head of the Olympics, she was in the paper every week.’

  The coffee-machine hissed and Olof Furhage stood up and brought the jug over to the table.

  ‘I’ll let it settle for a few moments,’ he said, slicing some cake and putting it on a plate. ‘One evening she came home alone. I remember it was spring. She was heading towards the door when I got out of the car and walked up to her. When I said who I was she almost fainted. She stared at me like I was a ghost. I asked her why she’d never answered my letter, but she didn’t answer. When I began asking the questions I had written in the letter she turned away and carried on walking to the door, still without saying a word. I got angry and started shouting at her. “Fucking bitch,” I yelled, “surely you could let me have just one minute of your time?” or something like that. She started to run, and stumbled on the steps up to the door. I ran after her and grabbed her, spun her round and shouted “Look at me!” or something similar.’
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  The man lowered his head, as if pained by the memory.

  ‘And she said nothing?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Yes, she said two words: “Go away!” Then she went in and locked the door and called the police. They picked me up here later that evening.’

  He poured the coffee and helped himself to a lump of sugar.

  ‘You’d never had any contact with her?’

  ‘Not since she left me with Gustav and Elna. I can still remember the night I arrived at theirs. We took a taxi, Mum and I, and it felt like a really long journey. I was happy; Mum had explained it all as a big adventure, a nice outing.’

  ‘Did you like your mother?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Of course I did. I loved her. She was my mum; she read me stories and sang to me, gave me lots of hugs and said my prayers with me every evening when I went to bed. She was as small and bright as an angel.’

  He stopped and looked down at the table.

  ‘When we got to Gustav and Elna’s we had something to eat, sausage and mash. I still remember that. I didn’t like it, but Mum said I had to eat it up. Then she took me out into the hall and said I had to stay with Gustav and Elna, because she had to go away. I was hysterical. I suppose I must have been very close to her. Gustav kept hold of me while Mum grabbed her things and ran out. I think she was crying, but I might have got that wrong.’

  He drank some coffee.

  ‘I lay awake shaking all night long, screaming and crying whenever I had the energy. But things got better as time passed. Elna and Gustav were both over fifty, and had never had any children of their own. There’s no question that they spoiled me rotten. They loved me above everything else on earth, you couldn’t wish for better parents. They’re both dead now.’

  ‘And you never saw your mother again?’

  ‘Once, when I was thirteen. Gustav and Elna had written to her saying they wanted to adopt me. I sent a letter and a drawing as well, I remember. She came out here one evening and told us to leave her alone. I recognized her straight away, even though I hadn’t seen her since I was little. She said there was no question of me being adopted, and that she didn’t want any letters or drawings in future.’

  Annika suddenly felt at a complete loss for words.

  ‘Good grief,’ she said simply.

  ‘I was crushed, naturally. What child wouldn’t be? She married soon after she came out to see us; maybe that was why she was stressed.’

  ‘Why weren’t your foster-parents allowed to adopt you?’

  ‘I’ve wondered about that as well,’ Olof Furhage said, pouring more coffee for both of them. ‘The only reason I can think of is that I would soon be inheriting a great deal of money. Carl Furhage had no other children apart from me, and after his third wife died he was really loaded – maybe you know that? Well, you’ll also know that he set up a foundation with most of his money. I got my legal share, which was to be administered by Mum. And she certainly did that. There was practically nothing left when I came of age.’

  Annika could hardly believe her ears.

  ‘Is that true?’ she said.

  Olof Furhage sighed.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. There was enough money left for this house and a new car. The money came in very useful, I was at college and had met Karin. We moved in here and started to do it up; it was practically uninhabitable when we bought it. When we got divorced Karin let me keep the house. I suppose it was a fairly amicable breakup really.’

  ‘But you should have sued your mother!’ Annika said, worked up. ‘She’d embezzled your money!’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t care,’ Olof said with a smile. ‘I didn’t want anything to do with her. But when I got divorced my childhood bubbled up to the surface again. I suppose I was trying to work out why I’d failed – what it was in my background that made it all go wrong. That was why I got back in touch with Mum again. It didn’t make things any better, of course, as you’ve probably worked out by now.’

  ‘How did you get over it?’

  ‘In the end I took the bull by the horns and got some counselling. I wanted to break the vicious circle of bad parenting in the family.’

  At that moment Alice came into the kitchen. She was wearing pink pyjamas and a dressing gown, and was carrying a Barbie doll. She looked quickly and shyly at Annika, then crept up into her dad’s lap.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Olof Furhage said, kissing the child on the head. ‘Have you been coughing as much today?’

  The girl shook her head and burrowed her face into her father’s knitted sweater.

  ‘I think you’re getting a bit better, aren’t you?’

  The child took a piece of cake and ran out into the sitting room. Soon they heard the theme tune of The Pink Panther through the open door.

  ‘I’m glad she’s well enough to join in with Christmas Eve,’ Olof said, taking a piece of cake for himself. ‘Petra made it, it’s not bad – try a bit!’

  Annika took a piece. It was very good.

  ‘Alice arrived on Friday after school, and got sick that night. I called the doctor at midnight, when her temperature was over forty-one degrees. I sat with her burning up in my lap until ten past three the next morning, until the doctor finally arrived. When the police turned up on Saturday afternoon at least I had a watertight alibi.’

  She nodded: she had already come to the same conclusion. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the television.

  ‘Well, I really ought to be getting back,’ Annika said. ‘Thank you very much for taking the time to talk to me.’

  Olof Furhage smiled.

  ‘Don’t mention it. As a tomato grower I don’t have much to do in winter.’

  ‘Do you make a living from that?’

  The man laughed.

  ‘No, it hardly covers its costs. It’s practically impossible to make any money from growing vegetables under glass. Not even the companies that grow them way down south with grants, decent heat and cheap labour manage to make much of a profit. I do it because I enjoy it; it costs me nothing but time and labour. And I suppose I do it for the sake of the environment.’

  ‘So what do you live off?’

  ‘I’m a researcher at the Royal Institute of Technology, in waste product technology.’

  ‘Compost and all that?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘So when do you get to be a professor?’ Annika asked.

  ‘Probably never. One chair has just been appointed, and the only other one is up at Luleå Technical College and I wouldn’t want to move that far, because of the girls. You never know, things might even work out between me and Karin in the end. Petra is at hers right now, we’re all going to celebrate Christmas together.’

  Annika smiled, and her smile came from somewhere deep inside.

  56

  Anders Schyman was sitting in his room with his elbows on the desktop and his hands clutched to his head. He had the most unbelievable headache. He got migraines a couple of times a year, always when he started to relax after a particularly stressful period. And yesterday he had made the mistake of drinking red wine as well. Sometimes that wasn’t a problem, but drinking wine just ahead of a few days off was a big mistake. So now he felt terrible, not just because of his headache, but because of what he was about to do. He was on the brink of doing something he’d never done before, and it was unlikely to be pleasant. He had been on the phone half the morning, first to the managing director, and then to the newspaper’s lawyers. His headache had got worse as the conversations went on. He sighed and dropped his hands onto the heaps of papers on his desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was a mess. He stared vacantly ahead of him for a while, then reached for a box of pills and took another Distalgesic. There was no way he’d be able to drive home now.

  There was a knock on the door and Nils Langeby put his head in.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Yes, come in.’ Anders
Schyman stood up with an effort. He went round the desk and gestured to the reporter to have a seat on one of the sofas. Nils Langeby sat down in the middle of the largest sofa and made himself at home. He seemed nervous, but was trying hard to hide it. He was looking at the low coffee table in a slightly perplexed way, as if he were expecting a cup of coffee and a pastry. Anders Schyman sat down in an armchair facing him.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you, Nils, because I want to make you an offer …’

  The reporter brightened up, and a light went on behind his eyes. He presumed he was going to be promoted, that he was about to get some sort of recognition. The editor-in-chief realized this and felt he was being a real bastard.

  ‘I see,’ Nils Langeby said when his boss had been silent for a short while.

  ‘I was wondering what you’d think about continuing to work for the paper on a freelance basis?’

  There, he’d said it. It sounded like a normal question, spoken in a normal tone of voice. The editor-in-chief made an effort to appear calm and collected.

  Nils Langeby clearly didn’t understand.

  ‘Freelance? But … why? Freelance … how …? I’ve already got a fixed contract!’

  The editor-in-chief stood up and went over to fetch the glass of water on his desk.

  ‘Yes, I know you’ve got a fixed contract, Nils. You’ve been employed here for quite a number of years now, and you could stay on for another ten, twelve years, until you retire. What I’m offering you now is a way of working in a less rigid way for the rest of your working life.’

  Nils Langeby’s eyes were darting about.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. His chin had dropped, turning his mouth into a black hole. Schyman sighed and sat down in the armchair again with the glass in his hand.

  ‘I’m asking if you’d like to enter into a preferential freelance contract with the paper. We could help you set up as self-employed, maybe even help you start your own business, then you could work for us on a less formal basis.’

  The reporter gawped and blinked a couple of times. He reminded Schyman of a fish out of water.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Just as I say,’ the editor-in-chief said tiredly. ‘An offer of a new way of working. Have you never given any thought to moving on?’