"Let's ask for pics and cuttings before we set off for the police headquarters. Did either one of you talk to Eva-Britt yesterday?"
Both Berit and Patrik shook their heads. Annika went over to her desk and dialed the secretary's home number. When Eva-Britt Qvist answered, Annika asked her if she could come into the office.
"I know it's the last Sunday before Christmas, but it would be great if you could come in all the same," she said. "The rest of us are going to a press conference at police headquarters, and it would be really helpful if you could collect all the stuff we have on Christina Furhage while we're there, both pics and copy."
"I've just put some dough aside to rise," Eva-Britt Qvist said.
"Oh, that's a shame," Annika said. "But big things are happening here today, and the rest of us are a bit out of it. Patrik was here until half past four this morning, I worked from a quarter past three in the morning until eleven at night yesterday, Berit about the same. And we need help with what is really your job, looking things up in databases and compiling material…"
"I'm sorry, I've already said I can't," Eva-Britt Qvist said. "I do have a family."
Annika swallowed the first response that came into her mind. Instead she spoke very deliberately: "Yes, I know what it's like when you have to change your plans. It's awful to disappoint your children and partner. Naturally, you'll be paid overtime or you'll get time off in lieu whenever you want. Between Christmas and New Year, or the next school holiday, whatever. But it would be really great if you could have the material ready by the time we get back from the press conference."
"I told you, I'm in the middle of baking! I can't come in!"
Annika took a deep breath. "Okay, then we'll do it this way instead, if that's what you prefer. I order you to come in. I expect you to be here in fifteen minutes."
"What about my buns?!"
"Ask your family to mould them," Annika said and hung up. To her annoyance, she noticed that her hand was shaking.
She hated this. She would never dream of doing what Eva-Britt Qvist had just done if a superior called her and asked her to do over time. If you worked at a newspaper and something big happened, you had to be prepared to come in, that's just the way it was. If you wanted a nine-to-five job, Monday to Friday, you should join the accounts office of a phone company or something like that. Other people could check the databases— she or Berit or one of the newsroom reporters. But in a situation like this, everyone was hard-pressed. And everyone wanted to celebrate Christmas. It made sense to distribute the workload as fairly as possible and let everyone do their bit, even if it was Sunday. She couldn't climb down and let Eva-Britt off the hook because that would make her life as a manager hell. The kind of disrespect the crime-desk secretary had just shown her would not be rewarded with days off. She wished she could just fire the bitch.
"Eva-Britt's coming in," she said to the others, thinking she saw the shadow of a smile on Berit's face.
* * *
They took two cars to the press conference. Annika and Berit in one, together with the photographer Johan Henriksson, and Patrik in the other with Ulf Olsson. The media pack was, if possible, even more hysterical today. Henriksson had to park on Kungsholm's Square half a mile away; both Bergsgatan and Agnegatan, the streets running alongside the police headquarters, were solid with OB vans and Volvos with large media logos on them. Annika enjoyed the short walk. The air was clear and fresh after the previous day's snowfall, the top floors of the buildings aglow in the sharp sunlight. The snow crunched under their shoes.
"I live over there," she said, pointing at the newly renovated nineteenth-century apartment building further up on Hantverkargatan.
"Do you rent or own?" Berit asked.
"Secure tenancy," Annika said.
"How did you get hold of an apartment there?" Henriksson said, thinking of his sublet in the outer southern suburbs.
"Stubbornness," Annika replied. "I got a short lease in the house eight years ago. A small two-bedroom apartment with no mod cons at the back of the block. There was a communal bathroom in the basement of the adjoining house. The house was scheduled for a renovation and I was given a six-month lease. But then the recession came and the owner went bust. No one wanted to buy the place, and after five years I got tenancy rights. By then there were almost four of us in that small apartment: me, Thomas, Kalle, and Ellen on the way. When the building was finally renovated, we got a four-bedroom apartment at the front of the building. Not bad, eh?"
"Jackpot," Berit said.
"What's your rent?" Henriksson asked.
"Ask me something else, like how nice the wood paneling is or how high the ceilings are," Annika said.
"Goddamn yuppie," Henriksson exclaimed, and Annika laughed out loud.
* * *
The group from
Kvällspressen
was late and barely managed to get inside the press conference room. Annika ended up in the doorway and could hardly see anything. She craned her neck and saw reporters doing their best to show everybody else how extremely important and focused on their job they were. Henriksson and Olsson elbowed their way to the front, arriving there at the same time as the press conference participants filed into the room. There were fewer of them than the day before. Annika could only see the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström and the police press officer. Evert Danielsson wasn't there, nor was the Krim investigator. Above the head of a woman from one of the morning papers, Annika saw the press officer clear his throat and begin to speak. He summed up the situation and went through already known facts, that the Tiger was wanted for questioning by the police and that the forensic investigation was underway. He talked for ten minutes and then Kjell Lindström leaned forward, with the entire press corps doing the same. Everybody had an idea of what was coming.
"The identification procedure of the victim at the stadium is now more or less complete," the prosecutor said, as all of the reporters craned their necks.
"The family has been informed, which is why we have decided to make it public, although there is some work still to be carried out…. The deceased is Christina Furhage, Managing Director of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games."
Annika's reaction was almost physical: yes! I knew it! I knew it! When the excited voices at the press conference were reaching fever pitch, she was already on her way out of the building. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and dialed the number she had memorized. With out a sound, her phone called the other handset, and then the number was ringing. She stopped in the small lobby between the reception area and the front doors, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and focused all her energy on communicating a telepathic message: please, somebody, pick up, pick up! Three rings, four rings, and there was a click! Someone was answering! Christ, who could it be?
Annika screwed up her eyes even tighter and began talking quietly and slowly. "Good afternoon. My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from
Kvällspressen.
To whom am I speaking?"
"I'm Bertil Milander," someone said in a faint voice.
Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, surely that was Christina Furhage's husband? Wasn't that his name? To be on the safe side, Annika continued as slowly as before: "Is this Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage's husband?"
The man at the other end sighed. "Yes, that's right."
Annika's heart was pounding. This was the most unpleasant call a reporter could ever make— to the house of a person whose next of kin had just died. There was an ongoing debate within the press corps whether these calls should be made at all. Annika felt it was better to call than not, if for no other reason than to tell people what the paper was doing.
"Let me begin by saying how deeply saddened I am by the tragedy that has struck you and your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife Christina who died in the explosion at Victoria Stadium," she began.
The man said nothing.
"By the way, isn't this Christina's cellphone?" she heard herself ask.
"No, it's the family's," the man said in surprise.
"The reason I'm calling is to tell you that we will be writing about your wife in tomorrow's paper."
"You already have," the man said.
"Yes, we have been covering the bomb attack, the event itself."
"Weren't you the ones with that photo? The photo where…"
His voice cracked as he started sobbing. Annika put her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. God, the man had seen Henriksson's picture of the doctors picking up the pieces of his wife. God almighty! She soundlessly drew a breath.
"Yes, that was us," she said calmly. "I regret we couldn't warn you we would run that picture, but we have only now found out that your wife was the victim. I couldn't call any sooner. I apologize if the picture caused you suffering. That's why I believe it's vital to talk to you now. We will continue writing about this tomorrow."
The man was crying.
"If there's anything you want to say, I'm here," Annika said. "If you have any complaints or want us to write, or not write, about something in particular, we want you to tell us. Mr. Milander?"
He blew his nose.
"I'm still here," he said.
Annika looked up and through the glass wall saw the phalanx of media beginning to leave the building. Quickly she pushed the door open and went outside to stand next to the steps. Through the earpiece she heard two signals announce that someone was trying to get through to the other phone.
"I understand how completely awful this must be for you," she said. "I can't even begin to understand what it must be like. But this is a world event, one of the worst crimes ever committed in this country. Your wife was a prominent figure and a role model to the women of Sweden. That's why it's our duty to cover the event. And that's why I appeal to you to talk to us, to give us a chance to be respectful. Just tell me how you want it. We could make things even worse by writing the wrong things and unintentionally hurt you."
The call-waiting signal again. The man was wavering.
"I'll give you my own and my editor's direct numbers, and then you can call when you feel ready…"
"Come here," the man cut in. "I want to talk."
Annika closed her eyes and was ashamed of the exultation she felt inside. She had an interview with the victim's husband! She took the secret address, jotting it down on the back of a taxi receipt she found in her pocket. Before she had time to consider the ethics of it, she quickly added:
"Your phone will be ringing without interruption from now on. Don't hesitate to switch it off if you feel it's too much for you."
She had got hold of him. It would be best if no one else did.
She pushed inside the building to find her colleagues. The first one she bumped into was Berit.
"I got hold of the family," she said. "I'll take Henriksson and go there now. You do Furhage's last hours and Patrik the hunt for the murderer. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Berit said. "Henriksson is somewhere at the back. He dragged Kjell Lindström out to get a picture of him. It's probably quicker to go around…"
Annika rushed out and, sure enough, found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, the street around the corner from police headquarters. He was perched on a paper recycling container with Lindström below him and the steel-mesh corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindström and then pulled the young photographer along with her.
"Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow," she told him.
* * *
Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left. Everything she was had been grilled to charcoal and died. She felt the salty tears running down her face, but she didn't feel she was crying. There was nothing but an echo in her body. Her body was a void, filled only with a roaring noise: Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead…
Someone knocked on the door.
"Helena! How are you? Do you need any help?"
She groaned and sank to the floor, curling up under the washbasin. Christina is dead, Christina…
"Open the door, Helena! Are you ill?"
Christina is dead, Christina is dead…
"Get this door open, someone!"
Something hit her, something that hurt. It was the light from the fluorescents in the corridor.
"Christ, help her up! What happened?"
