"I'm surprised there are pile-ups. You can't go fast enough," Henriksson said.
At least it was finally growing light— always a good thing. Annika drove south along the combined E4/E20 and the traffic eased up somewhat. She could drive at forty. She turned off at the Segeltorp/Sätra exit and slowly drove down past Bredäng. On the right hand, she dimly glimpsed row upon row of yellow, brick, terraced houses, while on the left were some drab tin buildings— some kind of warehouses or small factories.
"I think you missed our turning," Henriksson said at the same time as they saw Sätra Hall flicker past in the sleet on the right-hand side.
"Shit!" Annika said. "We'll have to go all the way to Sätra and turn around."
She shuddered as she saw the gray tower blocks. The top floors were invisible through the snowfall. She had been up in one of them once, when Thomas was buying Kalle's first bicycle. Thomas believed in buying secondhand. It was cheaper and environmentally friendly. They had bought the most popular buy-and-sell magazine and pored over the ads. Once Thomas found a suitable bicycle, he became nervous that it might be stolen. He wouldn't pay until he had seen with his own eyes both the receipt and the child who had outgrown it. The family had lived in one of these houses.
"Cordoned off," Henriksson pointed out.
Annika didn't reply but turned the car around. She drove back and parked between the snowdrifts in a deserted car park on the other side of the road.
She stood looking at the building. It was built of redwood. The sides were shaped somewhat like a standard UFO, and the slightly curved roof rose into a steep arch in the middle.
"Have you ever been here before?" she asked Henriksson.
"Never."
"Bring the cameras and let's see if we can get in," she said.
They trudged through the snow around to the back side of the facility. If Annika's calculations were right, they were at the furthest point from the main entrance.
"This looks like some kind of goods entrance," she said and tramped on toward the middle of the short end. The door was locked. They trudged on through the snow, around the corner, and along the side of the building. Halfway down were two doors that looked like balcony doors; Annika guessed they were emergency exits. The first was locked, but the second was not. There were no cordons in sight. Annika felt a giddy sensation of joy in her stomach.
"Welcome," she mumbled and pulled the door open.
"Can we walk in just like that?" Henriksson said.
"Of course, we can," Annika said. "Just put one leg in front of the other in a repeated and controlled falling movement."
"But aren't we trespassing or something?" Henriksson said worriedly.
"That remains to be seen, but I don't think so. This is a public sports facility, owned by the City of Stockholm. It's open to the public and the door was unlocked. It shouldn't be a problem."
Henriksson entered, a skeptical expression on his face. Annika shut the door behind them.
They came in at the top of the small stand of the arena. Annika looked around; inside, it was a beautiful building. Seven wooden arches supported the entire structure. The oddly shaped UFO top turned out to be a row of glass panes high up under the ceiling. A banked running track dominated the arena, and at the far end on the right were the pole vault supports and pit. On the opposite far end of the track was a row of what looked like offices.
"There are lights on over there," Henriksson said, pointing at the Secretariat at the far left end.
"Let's go," Annika said.
They followed the wall and reached what had to be the main entrance. They heard someone crying in a room next to them. Henriksson stopped.
"Christ, I don't want to do this," he said.
Annika paid no attention to him but walked over to the office where the crying was coming from. The door was open, so she knocked softly on the frame and waited for a reply. When none came, she pushed the door open and looked inside. The room looked like a building site: Electric cables were jutting out from the walls, there was a big hole in the floor, and boards and a power drill were on a workbench. A young, blonde woman sat crying on a plastic chair in the middle of the mess.
"Excuse me," Annika said. "I'm from
Kvällspressen.
Can I help you at all?"
The woman went on crying as if she hadn't heard Annika.
"Do you want me to get someone to come and help you?" Annika asked.
The woman didn't look up but continued bawling, her face hidden in her hands. Annika waited in silence in the doorway, then she turned around and was about to close the door behind her when the woman spoke.
"Can you believe someone could be so evil?"
Annika stopped short and turned around to face the woman again.
"No," she said. "It's beyond comprehension."
"I'm Beata Ekesjö. I work here," the woman said and blew her nose on a piece of toilet paper. She wiped her hands on another piece and then held out her hand to Annika who took it without batting an eyelid. Handshakes were important. She could still remember the first time she'd shaken hands with someone who was HIV-positive, a young woman who had been infected at the birth of her second child. The mother had been given blood by the Swedish health service and got the virus in the bargain. Her soft, warm handshake had been burning in Annika's hand all the way back to the paper. On another occasion, she'd been introduced to the president of a hang-around club of Hell's Angels. When Annika held out her hand, the president had stared hard at her while slowly licking his right hand from the wrist to the finger tips.
"People are so fucking stupid," he had said, holding out his saliva-sticky fist. Annika shook it without a moment's hesitation. The memory flashed before her now she was holding the crying woman's hand, feeling the remnants of tears and snot between her fingers.
"I'm Annika Bengtzon," she said.
"You've written about Christina Furhage," Beata Ekesjö said. "You wrote in
Kvällspressen
about Christina Furhage."
"That's right," Annika said.
"Christina Furhage is the most fantastic woman," Beata Ekesjö said. "That's why it's such a shame it had to happen."
"Oh, yes, absolutely," Annika said, waiting.
The woman blew her nose again and pushed her flaxen hair behind her ears. Annika noted that she was a natural blonde— no highlights with the roots showing like Anne Snapphane's. She looked around thirty, same as Annika.
"I knew Christina," Beata Ekesjö said in a low voice, looking down at the toilet roll on her lap. "I worked with her. She was my role model in life. That's why it's such a tragedy it had to happen."
Annika started fidgeting. This was leading nowhere.
"Do you believe in fate?" the woman suddenly asked, looking up at Annika.
Annika noticed that Henriksson was standing right behind her.
"No," Annika replied. "Not if you mean in the sense of everything being predestined. I think we shape our own fates."
"Why do you think that?" the woman said with interest, straightening up.
"The future is determined by the decisions we make. Every day we make vital choices. Shall I cross the street now, or wait until that car has gone past? If we make the wrong decision, our lives might end. It's all up to us."
"So you don't believe there's someone watching over us?" Beata said open-eyed.
"A God, you mean? I believe there's a purpose to our existence, if that's what you mean. But whatever that is, we're not meant to find out, because in that case we
would
have known about it, right?"
The woman stood up and seemed to be reflecting on this. She was short, no more than five-foot three, and slender like a teenager.
"Why are you here in this room right now?" Annika finally asked.
The woman sighed and stared at the wall with the exposed cables.
"I work here," she said and blinked away some new tears.
"Did you work with Stefan Bjurling?"
She nodded, and the tears began rolling down her cheeks again.
"Evil, evil, evil," she mumbled while rocking from side to side with her face in her hands. Annika picked up the toilet roll from the floor where the woman had put it and pulled off a good length.
"Here you go," she said.
The woman turned so violently that Annika took a step backwards, stepping on Henriksson's foot.
"If fate doesn't exist, then who decided that Christina and Stefan had to die?" she said, her eyes glowing.
"A human being," Annika calmly replied. "Someone killed both of them. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same person."
"I was here when it went off," Beata said, turning away again. "I asked him to stay behind and check the changing rooms. Does that make me guilty?"
Annika didn't answer but took a closer look at the woman. She didn't seem to fit in here. What was she talking about, and what was she doing here?
"If it wasn't fate that put Stefan in the way of the bomb, then it was my fault, right?" she said.
"What makes you think it was your fault?" Annika asked. At the same moment, she heard voices behind her. A police officer in uniform came in through the main entrance followed by eight or nine builders.
"Can I take your picture?" Henriksson quickly asked.
Beata Ekesjö smoothed down her hair.
"Yes," she said. "And I want you to write about this. It's important it gets out. Write what I have said."
She stared straight at the photographer. He took a few pictures without a flash.
"Thanks for talking to us," Annika said quickly, shaking Beata's hand and then hurrying toward the police officer. He might have something, unlike poor, confused Beata.
The group of men was entering the arena when Annika caught up with them. She introduced herself and Henriksson. The cop was furious.
"How the hell did you get in here? Didn't you see the cordons?"
Annika calmly met his angry gaze. "You were sloppy last night, officer. You hadn't cordoned off the south side of the arena or the emergency exits."
"It's all the same because you're out of here," the officer said, grabbing Annika by the arm.
At the same moment, Henriksson snapped him, this time with a flash. The officer was startled and let go of Annika.
"What are you doing now?" Annika said, taking up a pen and pad from her bag. "Questioning, a forensic investigation?"
"Yes, and you're leaving this minute."
Annika sighed and gestured imploringly with her pad and pen.
"Oh, come on! We need each other. Let us have five minutes with the guys and get a picture of them inside the arena, and then we'll be happy."
The officer gritted his teeth, turned around, and pushed his way through the workers to the entrance. He was probably going off to get his colleague. Annika saw she had to work fast.
"Okay, can we get a group picture?" she said and the men hesitantly slouched over to the small stand.
"I'm sorry, maybe you think we're pushy, but we're only trying to do our job. It's obviously important that Stefan's murderer is apprehended, and hopefully we can help," Annika said while Henriksson started taking pictures.
"We'd like to express our sympathy for the loss of a workmate. It must be terrible to lose a colleague in this manner."
The men said nothing.
"Is there anything anyone would like to tell us about Stefan?" she wondered.
The photographer arranged the group so that they sat on the stand, everyone turned toward him with a full view of the arena behind them. It would make a suggestive picture.
The men hesitated. No one wanted to say anything. They were all restrained, serious, dry-eyed; they were probably in some kind of shock.
"Stefan was our boss," a man in worn overalls eventually said. "He was a good man."
The others muttered in agreement.
"What kind of work are you doing here?" Annika asked.
"We're fixing up the building, changing stuff for the Olympics: security, electricity, plumbing… Same at all the Games sites."
"Stefan was your most senior boss?"
The men in the group started muttering again.
"Not really, he was our immediate boss," the man in the overalls said. "It's she, the blonde, who's the project manager."
Annika raised her eyebrows. "Beata Ekesjö?" she said in surprise. "Is she the boss here?"
A few of the men gave a little laugh and glanced furtively at each other in mutual understanding: Yes, Beata was the boss. The sniggering was cheerless and sounded like snorting.
