While the car drove toward the paper, she was sorting through the information in her head. She couldn't tell the police about this; her sources were protected by law. But she could use Evert Danielsson's statement to formulate questions, including some that involved him.
* * *
Lena heard Sigrid, the daily help, singing in the kitchen while putting yesterday's dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Sigrid was a woman of about fifty whose husband had left her when the daughters had grown up and Sigrid had grown too big. She did the cleaning, washing-up, shopping, laundry, and cooking in the Furhage-Milander household. It was a full-time job. She had been doing it for close to two years now. Mother had welcomed the recession: Before they had had problems finding people and making them stay. In recent years, people had begun thinking twice about leaving a job. To tell the truth, all the nondisclosure agreements and threats of lawsuits that Mother forced them to sign may have had a cooling effect on their willingness to be employed. But Sigrid seemed to be happy and never had she been happier than during the last few days. She seemed to like being at the center of things, of being able to move freely in the world-famous murder victim's home. She would be cursing the nondisclosure agreement now, because Sigrid probably would open her heart to the media if she had a chance. She had cried to great effect off and on, but they were the kind of tears people had shed over Princess Diana. Lena recognized them. Because Sigrid had hardly met her mother since the papers had been signed, although she had been cleaning the toilet and washing her dirty underwear for nearly two years. Maybe that gave a certain feeling of intimacy.
Sigrid had bought both the evening papers and left them on the table in the hallway. Lena took them into the library where her poor father lay sleeping on the couch with his mouth open. She sat down in her armchair and put her feet on the antique table beside it. Both the tabloids were full of the new Bomber murder, but there were a few things about her mother's death, too. She couldn't help reading the details about the explosives, which had now been analyzed. Maybe the psychologist at the hospital had been wrong in not classifying her as a pyromaniac. She knew that she liked fire and everything connected with explosions and fires. Things like fire engines, fire extinguishers, hydrants, and gas masks also got her excited. Oh, well, she'd been declared fit and wasn't going to tell the doctors their diagnosis might be wrong after all.
She leafed through one paper and continued with the other. Before the center pages, she saw a spread and she felt like she'd been hit in the stomach. Her mother was looking up at her from the paper with smiling eyes. Under the picture it said in big letters, "THE IDEAL WOMAN." Lena threw the paper down and screamed out, a howl that cut through the light stillness of the Art-Nouveau apartment. Poor Daddy woke up and looked about him in a daze, saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth. She rushed to her feet, threw the table at the door, and grabbed the bookcase nearest to her. The whole section fell over, books and wood crashing with a deafening noise to the floor, crushing the TV and the stereo.
"Lena!"
She heard her father's distressed call through the red haze of her hatred and stopped short.
"Lena, Lena, what are you doing?"
Bertil Milander opened his arms to his daughter, his look of dejection making the young woman's own desperation spill over.
"Oh Daddy!" she exclaimed and flung herself into his arms.
Sigrid quietly closed the door on father and daughter and went to get garbage bags, a broom, and the vacuum cleaner.
* * *
When Annika returned to the newsroom, she walked straight into Patrik and Eva-Britt Qvist. They were on their way to the canteen, and Annika decided to go with them. She saw that this annoyed the secretary, who no doubt had been looking forward to ragging on her to Patrik. The canteen, the Three Crowns, was always referred to as the Seven Rats after a mythical health and safety check. Now it was so full that there barely would be room for the rats.
"You wrote some really good copy last night," Annika said to Patrik as she picked up an orange plastic tray at the self-service counter.
"Do you think? Thanks!" he said and glowed.
"You managed to make the analysis seem interesting. Even when it wasn't. You must have found someone really good to tell you about different types of dynamite."
"I found him in the yellow pages, under 'explosives.' He was amazing! Do you know what he did? He set off three test charges over the phone so I could hear the difference between different makes."
Annika laughed, Eva-Britt didn't.
Special of the day was herring salad followed by ham or boiled fish. Annika took a cheeseburger with French fries. The only available seats were over in the cafeteria, among the smokers. Consequently, they ate quickly without talking and decided to have coffee up in the office and talk through the day's work.
On the way up, they bumped into Nils Langeby. He was back after taking the time off he'd earned the past weekend. He came to attention when he saw Annika and the others.
"Well, are we going to have a meeting today or not?" he said imperiously.
"Yes, in fifteen minutes, in my office," Annika informed him.
"Just as well, because I think we're being far too lax with these meetings nowadays," Langeby said. Annika pretended not to hear but walked toward the ladies' room. She really had to bite her tongue with him. Annika thought he was being unreasonably bitter, mean, and stupid. But he was part of the desk she was head of, and she knew it was her responsibility to see to it that things ran smoothly. He was trying to provoke her into making mistakes, and she was not going to give him that satisfaction. Jerk.
Nils Langeby had already made himself comfortable on the couch in her room when she returned from the ladies' room. She was annoyed that he'd entered her office when she wasn't there but decided not to show it. He was ridiculously early for the meeting as well.
"Where are Patrik and Eva-Britt?" she asked, as if everyone turned up ten minutes early.
"That's your job. You're the boss here, not me."
She went outside and asked Patrik and Eva-Britt to come in and then walked over to the news editor Ingvar Johansson and asked him to join them. On the way back, she grabbed a cup of coffee.
"Didn't you bring one for me?" Nils Langeby said reproachfully when she entered her room.
Breathe calmly now, she thought and sat down behind her desk.
"No," she said. "I didn't know you wanted coffee. But you have time to get some if you hurry."
He didn't budge. The others came in and took their seats.
"Okay," Annika began, "four things: One. The hunt for the Bomber. The police are sure to have some leads now. We have to try and crack that one today. Anybody have a good idea?"
She left it open, letting her gaze sweep over the people in the room: Patrik cudgelling his brains, Ingvar Johansson showing a skeptical indifference, Eva-Britt Qvist and Nils Langeby just waiting for her to expose a weak spot.
"I can do some digging," Patrik said.
"What were the police saying last night?" Annika wondered. "Did you get the feeling they're looking for a link between the two victims?"
"Yes, absolutely," Patrik replied. "It could be anything, maybe the Games themselves, but something makes me think they have more. They seem focused and aren't saying a word. Perhaps they're about to arrest someone."
"We have to keep the pressure up there," Annika said. "It's not enough to monitor the police radio and rely on the tipsters; we have to try and work out if they're about to make an arrest for ourselves. A picture of the Bomber getting into a police car would be an international scoop."
"I'll see if I can ferret something out," Patrik said.
"Good, I'll make some calls, too. Two: I know of one link already. The victims knew each other. They sat next to each other at a Christmas dinner last week."
"Christ!" Patrik exclaimed. "That's hot stuff!"
Ingvar Johansson woke up. "What if there are some photos!" he exclaimed. "Incredible! Imagine the picture: the victims kissing each other under the mistletoe, and the headline, 'Now They Are Both Dead.' "
"I can look into the pictures," Annika said. "There could be other links between them. I met Evert Danielsson this morning, and when I described Stefan Bjurling, he knew who he was. 'Steffe,' he called him. Christina Furhage could have known him too, before the party."
"Why were you meeting Danielsson?" Johansson wanted to know.
"He wanted to talk," Annika said.
"About what?" Ingvar Johansson said, and Annika realized she had her back to the wall somewhat. She would have to say something, or she'd end up in the same mess as at the Six Session last Monday, and she didn't want that, especially with Nils Langeby and Eva-Britt Qvist present.
"He said he thought Christina Furhage was a lesbian," was therefore what she said. "He thought that she'd been having an affair with Helena Starke, a woman at the Secretariat, but he had no evidence. It was just a feeling, he said."
No one said anything.
"Three: Did Bjurling receive any threats? Anyone heard anything? No? Okay, I'll check it out myself. And lastly, four: What happens next? The security, the Games, will they finish building in time, are the police monitoring any terrorist organizations, etc. Are you doing that out at the newsdesk?"
Ingvar Johansson sighed. "No, there are hardly any reporters in today. They've all started their Christmas holidays."
"Nils, can you look into that?" Annika said. What was put as a question was really an instruction.
"How long are the rest of us going to have to sit and listen to this?" Nils Langeby said.
"What do you mean?" Annika said, straightening up.
"Are we just going to sit here like schoolchildren while you ram assignments down our throats? And where the hell is the analysis, the reflection, the commentary? Everything that used to distinguish
Kvällspressen?"
For a moment Annika deliberated on what to say. Should she nail Langeby to the wall? With Langeby's expertise in self-justification, that would take at least an hour, and she felt with her whole body that she didn't have the energy for it.
"Oh, for God's sake. Why don't you take care of that," she said instead and got up. "Anything else?"
Ingvar Johansson and Patrik left first, Eva-Britt Qvist and Nils Langeby followed. But Langeby stopped in the doorway and turned round.
"I think it's a damned shame how this desk has gone to the dogs. We don't turn out anything but crap these days."
Annika went up to him and took hold of the door.
"I don't have time for this right now," she said tensely. "Just go."
"It's pathetic that a manager can't have a simple discussion about our work."
He walked away slowly, provocatively. He was goading her.
"I don't know what to do with that man," Annika said to herself. "Next time he starts whinging, I'll kick his fucking teeth in."
She closed the door to get some space to think. She looked up Building&Plumbing in the phone directory and dialed a cellphone number some way down the list. As she had guessed, it was for the general manager of the firm, a man standing somewhere at a building site.
"Yes, I was at the Christmas party," he said.
"You didn't bring a camera, by any chance?" Annika asked.
"Camera? No, I didn't. Why?"
"Did anyone else bring one? Someone who took pictures at the party?"
"What? It's over there, behind the scaffolding… Pictures— yes, I think so. Why do you want to know?"
"Do you know if Stefan Bjurling had a camera?"
The man went quiet, all you could hear was the droning noise of a lorry unloading. When the man returned, his voice had changed.
"Listen, lady, where did you say you're calling from?"
"I told you,
Kvällspressen.
I'm Annika Be…"
He switched off.
Annika put the phone down and started thinking. Who was the most likely person to have taken a picture of Stefan Bjurling together with the world-famous Games supremo? She took a few deep breaths and then dialed the number of Eva Bjurling. The woman sounded tired but composed when she answered. Annika did the usual commiseration bit, but the woman interrupted her.
"What do you want?"
"I was wondering whether you or your husband knew the MD of SOCOG, Christina Furhage? Personally," Annika said.
The woman thought about it.
"Well, not me, I know that," she said. "But Steffe was sure to have met her; he did talk about her now and then."
Annika switched on her tape recorder.
