The Bomber

TUESDAY 21 DECEMBER

The smell of newly baked glazed ham was still in the air when Annika woke up- one of the few blessings of having a busted extractor fan in the kitchen. She loved the taste of newly baked ham, but really hot- just out of the oven, the juices still trickling. She took a deep breath and threw the duvet aside. Ellen moved in her sleep next to her. Annika kissed the girl's forehead and caressed her plump little legs. Today she had to see to it that she left for work in time, so she'd be able to finish everything off before she had to pick the kids up at three.

She got in the shower and emptied her bladder straight into the floor drain. The pungent smell rose with the steam and hit her straight in the face, making her instinctively turn her head away. She washed her head with dandruff shampoo and swore when she realized they were out of conditioner. Now her hair would look like wood shavings until she washed it again.

She got out of the shower, dried herself and the floor where the water had seeped out, applied a good amount of antiperspirant under her arms, and smeared her cheeks with moisturizer. The rash wasn't quite gone, so she put some cortisone cream on as a precaution. A little mascara and a daub of eye shadow and she was good to go.

Annika tiptoed into the bedroom and opened the door to the walk-in wardrobe. The squeak made Thomas turn in his sleep. He had been up reading his report until long after she'd gone to bed. The main report on the regional question, which was Thomas's responsibility, was supposed to be ready in January. His staff still hadn't produced the interim reports it would be based on, so the pressure on Thomas was mounting. She knew that he suffered from stress just as much as she did, only his deadlines were further away than hers.

She felt a bit Christmassy and put on a red stretch top, red jacket, and black trousers. She finished just in time to catch Rapport's first news of the day at six thirty.

The footage from Sätra Hall wasn't very dramatic. The TV crew hadn't been allowed inside the cordons; they only had pictures of the usual blue-and-white tape flapping in the night wind. The voice-over announced that the explosion had occurred inside one of the changing rooms in the old part of the building. The fire brigade had found the remains of a man there.

There was a dispute between the police and firefighters' unions as to who should handle the remains of bodies they came across in their work. The fire department refused, saying it was not their responsibility; the police said the same. Rapport spent a large chunk of the program reporting on the standoff and announced they would return to the subject later on with a studio debate.

After that, a reporter walked around an empty arena somewhere in the suburbs, shouting "Hello!" There was no reply, and the reporter considered this a scandalous state of affairs.

"How is the police handling the security?" was the predictable rhetorical question. The exhausted police press officer was interviewed, saying it was impossible to watch all parts of every facility all the time.

"So how will you manage during the Games?" the reporter asked insinuatingly.

The press officer sighed, and Annika knew that the police now were faced with exactly the debate they had wanted to avoid most of all. The discussion of Olympic security would naturally grow louder the longer it took for the Bomber to be apprehended. Samaranch appeared, telling the Reuters reporter the Games were not in jeopardy.

The transmission ended with an analysis of a meeting of the Bank of Sweden, Riksbanken, later in the day. What would happen to the interest rate? They wouldn't change it, guessed the reporter. So it will go up or down for sure, Annika mused. She switched off the TV and went to get the morning paper from inside the front door. There was no mention of the victim's name; one reporter had been walking around shouting, "Hello!" in some other arena in some other suburb; Samaranch and the police press officer said the same things they had said on TV a second ago. None of the papers had time to get together any plans showing where the bomb had detonated; she wouldn't get that info until she reached the office and could get her hands on the evening papers.

Annika ate some strawberry yogurt and corn flakes, blow-dried her hair straight, and put on lots of warm clothes. The weather had changed during the night; it was snowing and a hard wind was blowing. Her original plan had been to catch the 55 bus to the paper, but she quickly revised it when the first squall hit her face, smearing her mascara. She quickly jumped into a taxi. The seven o'clock Eko started just as she landed on the backseat. Even the lofty Eko desk had been out "helloing" during the night; the police press officer sounded tired and strained; Samaranch was getting repetitive. She turned a deaf ear and stared out at the houses they passed along Norr Mälarstrand, one of the most high-priced addresses in Sweden. She couldn't understand why. The houses were wholly unremarkable: The short sides of the buildings faced the water and some had balconies- that was it. But the heavy traffic in the street below must make it impossible to sit outside and enjoy the view. When they arrived, she paid with a Visa card, hoping the paper would reimburse her.

During the week, Annika always grabbed a copy of the paper from the big stand in the main entrance. She would normally have time to leaf through it to the middle before the elevator landed her on the fourth floor, but not today. The paper was so full of ads that it was almost impossible to get through it at all.

Spike had just gone home, so she was happy about that. Ingvar Johansson had just come in and was absorbed in one of the morning papers, the first mug of coffee in his hand. She picked up a copy of the rival and some coffee and went into her office without saying hello.

Both of the papers had the name and a photo of the latest victim. He was a thirty-nine-year-old builder from Farsta by the name of Stefan Bjurling. Married with three children. For fifteen years he had worked for one of the hundreds of subcontractors engaged by SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games. Patrik had spoken to his employer.

"Stefan was the best supervisor you could wish for on a building site," the victim's boss said. "He had a great sense of responsibility, always finished on time, didn't stop working until everything was done. There was no messing around if you were on Stefan's team, that's for sure." He sounded like a great guy: hugely popular, wonderful sense of humor, cheerful temperament. "He was a great workmate, fun to work with, always upbeat," said another colleague.

Annika was angry, cursing whoever had killed this man and ruined the life of his family. Three small children had lost their father. She could only imagine something of how Ellen and Kalle would react if Thomas died suddenly. What would she do? How do people survive tragedies like this?

And what a shitty way to die, she thought, feeling sick when she read the preliminary police account of the killing. The explosive charge had probably been tied to the back of the victim, level with the kidneys. The man had been tied, hands and feet, to a chair before the explosion. What type of explosives had been used and how the charge had been detonated wasn't established, but the killer had probably used some kind of timer or delay mechanism.

Christ, Annika said to herself, wondering if they shouldn't have spared the readers the most graphic details.

She pictured the man sitting there with the bomb ticking on his back, struggling to get free. What do you think about right then? Do you see your life flashing past? Did this man think of his children? His wife? Or just of the ropes around his wrists? The bomber wasn't just nuts; he was a sadist to boot. She shuddered, despite the dry electric heat of the room.

She leafed past Janet Ullberg's description of yet another empty arena at midnight and skimmed through the ads. One thing was certain: There were enough toys in the world.

She went out and fetched another cup of coffee and looked into the photographers' office on her way back. Johan Henriksson was working the morning shift and was reading the morning broadsheet Svenska Dagbladet.

"Nasty murder, don't you think?" Annika said, sitting down in an armchair opposite him.

The photographer shook his head. "Yeah, he seems like a real head case. I never heard anything like it."

"Do you want to go and have a peek?" Annika said teasingly.

"It's too dark," Henriksson said. "You won't see a thing."

"No, not on the outside, but maybe we can get inside. They may have removed the cordons now."

"Not likely, they'll barely have swept the guy up yet."

"The builders should be coming out there now in the morning. His workmates…"

"We've already talked to them."

Annoyed, Annika got to her feet.

"Forget it, I'll just have to wait for a photographer who can be bothered to get off his ass…"

"Hey…" Henriksson said, "of course I'll go with you. Just trying to be practical."

Annika stopped short and tried to smile. "Okay, sorry I lost my temper. My last photographer copped a real attitude."

"Sure. Don't worry." Henriksson said and went to pick up his camera bag.

Annika finished her coffee and went over to Ingvar Johansson.

"Do you know if the morning team needs Henriksson, or can I have him? I want to try to get inside Sätra Hall."

"The morning team won't get a word in the paper unless World War Three breaks out. That's how packed the paper is," Ingvar Johansson said and closed the rival paper. "We've got sixteen extra pages for the suburban edition, every column chock-a-block with ads. And they've sent out a team to cover the snarl-up the snowstorm is causing. Beats me where they think they're going to publish that."

"You know where to reach us," Annika said and went to put on her coat.

They took one of the paper's cars. Annika drove. The state of the roads really was appalling; the cars on the West Circular were crawling along at thirty miles an hour.

"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.

Poor cow, Annika thought. She can't be having an easy time with these guys.

For want of anything else to say, Annika then went on to ask if they'd known Christina Furhage. Now all the men were nodding appreciatively.

"Now, there was a woman and a half," said the man in overalls. "The way I see it, no one could have pulled this off except her."

"Why do you think so?" Annika asked.

"She went around all the building sites and talked to the workers. No one could understand how she found the time to do it, but she insisted on meeting everyone and finding out how everything worked."

The man fell silent. Annika tapped pensively with her pen against the pad.

"Will you go on working today?"

"We're talking to the police, but then I guess we'll go home. And we're holding a minute's silence for Stefan," said the man in overalls.

The police officer returned together with two colleagues. They looked pretty uptight and were heading straight for the little group.

"Thanks a lot," Annika said in a hushed voice and picked up Henriksson's bag that was next to her. Then she abruptly turned on her heel and started walking along the side of the building toward the open emergency exit. She heard the photographer jogging behind her.

"Hey, you!" the policeman called out.

"Thanks a million, we won't bother you any more now," Annika called back, waving her hand but not slowing down.

She held the door open for Henriksson and then let go of it with a bang.

The photographer was silent while Annika drove back to the paper. It was still snowing, but they had full daylight now. The traffic was even heavier, Christmas shoppers having added to the usual flow. There were only three days left now.

"Where are you spending Christmas?" Annika said to break the silence.

"Are you going to use any of that stuff?" was Henriksson's reply.

Annika looked at him in surprise. "Why?"

"Can you really use it when you just marched in like that?"

Annika gave a sigh. "I'll talk to Schyman and explain what happened. I think we'll run a picture of the guys and let them say something about their minute's silence for Stefan Bjurling. It won't be much more than a caption. In the story next to it, I can quote what the police have said and that the questioning of the builders continues, as does the forensic investigation, blah, blah, blah- you know."

"What about the woman?"

Annika chewed on her lip. "I'm not using her. She was too unbalanced. She didn't have anything useful. I thought she wasn't all there. All that crap about fate."

"I didn't hear all of it," Henriksson said. "Did she talk about evil and guilt all the time?"

Annika scratched her nose.

"More or less… That's why I won't use her. She was in the building when the bomb went off, but she had nothing to say about that. You heard her. I don't want to expose her, even though she wanted it. I don't think she's capable of judging what's best for her."

"But you said it isn't up to us to decide who can cope with being written about in the paper," Henriksson retorted.

"True, but it is up to us to judge whether a person is sound enough of mind to understand who we are and what we are saying. That woman was just too unhinged. She's not going in the paper. But I can say something about the project manager being in the building when the explosion took place and that she is completely devastated by Stefan's death and blames herself for it. But I don't think the paper should publish her name and picture."

They drove in silence the rest of the way. Annika dropped Henriksson outside the main entrance before parking the car in the multistory car park.

Bertil Milander sat in front of the TV in his magnificent Art-Nouveau library, feeling his heart thumping in his chest. There was a murmur and trickle in his veins; his breath filled the room. He could feel he was falling asleep. The sound on the TV had been turned down to a soft whisper and reached him intermittently above the clamor of his body. Right now there were some women talking and laughing on TV, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Some signs appeared with regular intervals on the screen, showing flags and telephone numbers next to different currencies. He didn't understand what it was all about. The sedatives were blurring everything. Now and then he gave a little sob.

"Christina," he muttered and cried some more.

He must have nodded off, but suddenly he was wide awake. He recognized the smell and knew it meant danger. The warning signal had been so deeply ingrained in him that it reached him even through his drug-induced sleep. He struggled to get up from the leather couch. His blood pressure was low, which made him slightly dizzy. He got to his feet and held on to the back of the couch and tried to locate the smell. It came from the drawing room. He walked carefully, holding on to the bookcases until he could feel his blood pressure catching up.

His daughter was crouching in front of the tiled stove, feeding it with a rectangular piece of stiff paper.

"What are you doing?" Bertil Milander asked, confused.

The old stove didn't draw well and some of the smoke was puffing into the room.

"I'm clearing up," said his daughter Lena.

The man went up to the young woman and sat down next to her on the floor.

"Are you making a fire?" he asked warily.

His daughter looked at him. "I'm using the stove. Not on the parquet floor this time."

"Why?" he said.

Lena Milander stared into the flames, which quickly died out. She took another page and fed the fire with it. The flames engulfed it and embraced it. For a few seconds it lay flat in the fire, then it quickly rolled up and disappeared. Christina Furhage's smiling eyes dissolved forever.

"Don't you want any memories of Mom?" Bertil asked.

"I'll always remember her," Lena replied.

She tore another three pages from the photo album and tossed them into the fire.

Eva-Britt Qvist looked up when Annika walked past on the way to her room. Annika gave her a friendly greeting, but Eva-Britt immediately cut her off.

"You're back from the press conference already?" she said triumphantly.

Annika realized that Qvist wanted her to say "which press conference?" and then the secretary would have a chance to make it known that she was the one who had to take care of everything on the crime desk.

"I didn't go," she said, smiling even wider, and then walked into her room and shut the door. There, now you can sit there and wonder where I've been, she thought.

She phoned up Berit's cellphone. The signal went through, but then the voice mail took the call. Berit always had her phone at the bottom of her bag and never managed to find it in time. Annika waited thirty seconds and tried again. This time Berit answered straight away.

"I'm at a press conference at police headquarters," the reporter said. "You were out on a job. I came here with Ulf Olsson."

Thank you, darling! Annika thought.

"What's going on?"

"Some good stuff. I'll be back soon."

They switched off. Annika leaned back in her chair and put her feet on the desk. She found a half-melted chocolate bar in the pencil tray of the top drawer and broke it into smaller pieces. The chocolate was partly crystallized but edible.

She couldn't help thinking, even though she probably wouldn't dare say it out loud in the newsroom: The link between the two murders and the Olympics was extremely weak. Perhaps they were two personally motivated murders of two individuals. Sätra Hall was as far from an Olympic arena as you could get. But there had to be a lot of common denominators for Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling. The link could of course be the Olympic Games but not necessarily. Somewhere in their past there was something that tied them to the same person who became their killer. Annika was sure of that. Money, love, sex, power, envy, injustice, family, friends, neighbors, schools, childcare, transport- their lives could have intersected a thousand different ways. Already at the building site this morning there were at least ten people who had met both Stefan Bjurling and Christina Furhage. The victims didn't even have to know each other.

She called her contact.

He gave a deep sigh. "I thought you and I had finished talking to each other."

"Right, and see where that landed you. You enjoying this security debate? 'Hello! Hello, is anybody there?' " she said, imitating the reporter on radio that morning.

He sighed again and Annika waited.

"I can't talk to you anymore."

"Okay, fine," Annika swiftly replied. "I know you're busy. I'm sure you're all frantically searching for links between Stefan Bjurling and Christina Furhage. Perhaps you've found the right one. How many people had access to the security codes and knew Stefan?"

"What we're trying to do is answer the questions about security."

"I don't think so," Annika said. "You're quite happy the focus has been moved from the investigation to an irrelevant debate about arena security."

"Bullshit," her contact said. "At the end of the day, security is always the first responsibility of the police."

"I'm not talking of the entire police force, I'm talking about you and your friends who are trying to solve these murders. It's all down to you, isn't it? If you succeed, the whole debate is finished."

"If?"

"When. That's why I think you ought to start talking to me again. The only way to get anywhere is through communication. We've got to keep talking."

"Is that what you were doing in Sätra Hall this morning- communicating?"

Shit, he'd heard about that.

"Among other things," Annika said.

"I've got to go," he said.

Annika drew a breath and then said: "Christina Furhage had another child, a son."

"I know. Bye!"

He was still pissed. Annika hung up. Berit stepped through the door.

"Awful weather," she said, shaking snowflakes out of her hair.

"Have they caught anyone?" Annika asked facetiously and offered Berit some chocolate. She looked at it with alarm and declined.

"No, but they think it's the same person. They maintain there's no threat to the Games."

"What makes them think that?"

Berit picked up her pad and started leafing through it.

"They say there have been no threats to any people associated with the Games. No threats against any Olympic building. The threats that have been made have all been personal and had no connection to arenas or Olympic events."

"They're talking about the threat to Furhage. Had Stefan Bjurling received any threats?"

"I'm hoping to find out this afternoon- I'm meeting his wife."

Annika raised an eyebrow. "Really? Was she okay with that?"

"Yes, she had no objections to seeing me. We'll see what that leads to. She may be too shaky to say anything we could put in the paper."

"Still, it's great. Anything else?"

Berit turned over the pages.

"Yes, they'll soon have a preliminary analysis of the explosives from the first murder. They were hoping to issue a press release by noon. They thought it'd be ready for the press conference, but it was held up by something in London."

"Why was the stuff sent to London in the first place?" Annika asked.

Berit smiled. "The equipment at the lab in Linköping was out of order, as simple as that."

"Did they say why they're still ignoring the terrorist angle?"

"Didn't say."

"You know what," Annika said. "I think they're close to solving the murders."

"But you don't know who they're looking at?"

"No," said Annika.

Berit got up. "Well, I'm hungry. What about you?"

They went to the cafeteria, where Berit had lasagne and Annika chicken salad. As their food arrived, Patrik came in. His hair was in disarray and he looked like he'd slept in the clothes he was wearing.

"Good morning," Annika said. "Great job last night. How did you get all those quotes from Bjurling's workmates?"

The young man grinned, embarrassed, and said: "I just called them at home and woke them up."

Annika smiled.

They talked about Christmas neurosis, buying presents, and the stress of the season. Berit had bought all her presents before the beginning of December; neither Patrik nor Annika had even started.

"I was hoping to get some shopping done today," Annika said.

"I'll buy chocolates for my mother on the plane," Patrik said.

He was spending Christmas with his parents in Småland, in southern Sweden. Berit's two grown-up children were visiting her. She had a daughter in the U.S.A. and a son in Malmö.

"We've worked our butts off these past few days. Why don't we organize it so that we can all have some time off the next few days?" Annika suggested.

"Cool. I'd love to have Thursday off," Patrik said. "I could catch an earlier flight."

"I'd like to get some cleaning done tomorrow; Yvonne and her family are arriving on Thursday."

"Perfect!" said Annika. "I'll leave early today and early-ish on Thursday."

They moved to Annika's office to run over what had to be done. Patrik went off to get a copy of the rival.

Annika and Berit took their usual places, Berit on the couch, Annika with her feet on the desk. A second later Patrik came rushing in like a hurricane.

"They got the test back. They know what blew up Furhage!"

He waved the police press release in the air.

"Okay," said Berit. "What does it say?"

Patrik read in silence a couple of seconds. "It was dynamite," he said, disappointedly.

"What kind of dynamite?" Annika asked and reached for the press release. Patrik pulled it away.

"Hang on, hang on. This is what it says: "The analysis of the explosives used at the detonation at Victoria Stadium, Stockholm, at 3:17 on blah-blah… when the MD for SOCOG, Christina Furhage, was killed, has now been completed. The substance used was a gelatinous explosive mixture containing nitroglycerine, as well as nitroglycol. It is marketed under the trade name Minex and is available in a number of weights and forms. The charge in question is estimated to have been approximately fifty pounds made up of fifteen plastic-wrapped cartridges, 50 x 550 millimeters in size…' "

"Fifty pounds, that's a lot of explosives," said Annika.

"Especially when it's above ground," Berit said. "I'm not surprised the blast was felt all the way to South Island."

Patrik continued, demanding attention: " 'The batch in question was manufactured in Poland, sometime in the past three years. It is characterized by its high power, high density, and high V of D, velocity of detonation. It's soft in consistency and has a relatively mild smell. The substance is characterized by its low sensitivity…' What the hell does that mean?"

"Something to do with safety," Berit said. "It's a safe explosive."

"How do you know that?" Annika was impressed.

Berit shrugged. "I'm good at crosswords, too."

" 'It has a high energy level, the volume of detonation gas being slightly above average, the power is 115 percent of ANFO and the density approximately 1.45 grams per cubic centimeter. The velocity of detonation is 5,500-6,000 m/s.' "

"Okay, what does that mean?" Annika wondered.

"Take it easy. Just technical stuff. I'm coming to the important part. 'Minex is one of the most widely used dynamite brands in Sweden. The general agent in Nora has sold it to more than a hundred building projects in the last three years. Including some Olympic sites. It has not been possible to ascertain to this point which lot the charge in question originated from.' "

"So it was common building dynamite," Berit said.

"What do you build with dynamite?" Annika asked.

"They use it for all kinds of things. You blast to prepare for roads; in mines, in opencast mining, you make gravel out of rock with the help of dynamite, you make the ground level for building… We hired a blaster when we installed a new septic tank at our country cottage. It's done every day."

"I guess so," Annika remembered. "They were blasting away like crazy when they built that new housing development next to us."

"Listen, there's more here: 'The charge was initiated with the help of electric detonators. The firing switch of the device was a timer connected to a car battery.' "

Patrik put the paper down and looked at his colleagues.

"Well," he said, "we're really talking premeditation here."

They sat in silence for a while, digesting the information. Annika took her feet off the desk and shook herself.

"This is a creepy one," she said. "So, who's doing what? Berit, you've got the victim's family; Patrik, can you do the analysis and the police hunt?"

Both of the reporters nodded and Annika went on: "I've written a column on the builders who came to their workplace and held a minute's silence for their dead colleague. That will show how much they're mourning their friend."

"What was it like out there?" Berit wanted to know.

"Well, there was a woman who just cried and cried. She was rambling on about guilt and punishment and evil- it was a bit spooky. I've left her out completely because it didn't seem right to expose her."

"I'm sure you're right," Berit said.

"Have we forgotten anything? Was there anything else?"

The reporters both shook their heads and went out to their telephones and computers. Annika filed her copy on the server, put her coat on and left. It was only half past one, but she wasn't going to sit around any longer.

The snow was still falling as Annika walked to the bus stop. Since the temperature was hovering around the freezing point, the snowflakes turned into a grayish brown slush the instant they reached the sidewalk. But the snow was managing to stick in other places, forming a fairly white cover on the grassy slope outside the Russian Embassy.

She sat down heavily on the bench by the bus stop. There was no one else there, which made her think that she'd just missed a bus. On top of that, she'd sat on something wet, a puddle or a snow patch. She sat on a glove.

They were spending Christmas in town. Thomas's parents would be with them on Christmas Eve. She had hardly any contact with her own family. Her father was dead and her mother still lived in Hälleforsnäs, the small town where Annika grew up. Her sister lived in Flen nearby and worked part time at the checkout at the Right Price. They hardly ever saw each other. She didn't mind; they had very little in common any more, apart from the time they'd shared growing up in the dying industrial community. Though Annika sometimes wondered whether they really ever had been in the same place all that time. Their experiences of the small town were utterly different.

The bus was nearly empty. Annika took a seat at the very back and went into Hötorget in the city center. She went to the PUB department store and bought toys on her Visa card for 3,218 kronor, trying to comfort herself with the bonus points she would earn. She bought a cookbook on sauces and a shirt for Thomas and a woollen scarf for his mother. Thomas would have to buy something for his father- he usually only wanted brandy anyway. She was back in the apartment at two thirty. After a moment's hesitation, she hid the gifts at the back of the big walk-in closet. True, last year Kalle had found all the presents there, but she didn't have the energy to think of another place at the moment.

She went out in the slush again and on a sudden impulse walked over to a nearby antiques shop. They had the most amazing collection of diamanté jewelry, necklaces, and earrings, big like those on 1940s film stars. She went in and bought a classic gold-plate brooch with garnets for Anne Snapphane. The neat gentleman behind the counter wrapped it in shiny gold-colored paper and tied a glittering blue ribbon around the little parcel.

The children joyously rushed toward her when she stepped into the daycare center. Her guilty conscience stabbed her like a knife in the heart. This was what a real mother should do every day, right…?

They went to the Co-op supermarket and bought marzipan, cream, treacle, chopped almonds, gingerbread dough, and cooking chocolate. The children were twittering like little birds:

"What are we making, Mommy? What will it be? Will we get candy today, Mommy?"

Annika laughed and hugged them both while they stood in the checkout queue.

"Yes, you'll get candy today- we're making our own, won't that be fun?"

"I like Liquorice Cats," Kalle said.

When they arrived home, she put big aprons on the kids. She made a conscious decision to ignore the outcome and let them enjoy themselves. First, she melted the chocolate in the microwave to a creamy sauce, in which they rolled little balls of marzipan. The marzipan balls that survived were few in number and not pretty. Her mother-in-law would surely turn up her nose at them, but the kids were having fun, especially Kalle. She had planned to make toffee as well, but she realized the kids couldn't help because the mixture was far too hot. Instead she started the oven and set about the gingerbread dough. Ellen was blissfully happy. She rolled out dough and cut out little figures and ate the dough between them. In the end, she was so stuffed she couldn't move. They made enough for a couple of baking trays, and they were quite acceptable.

"You're so clever!" she said to the children. "Look how well you've done, all this yummy gingerbread."

Kalle swelled with pride and had a biscuit and a glass of milk, even though he was quite full himself.

She placed the children in front of a video while she cleared up the kitchen. That took forty-five minutes. She joined the children on the couch when the film was at its scariest, the scene when Simba's father died. When the kitchen was clean, there was still some time to spare before The Lion King ended, so she took the opportunity to call Anne Snapphane. Anne lived alone with her little daughter on the top floor of a house in Lidingö. The girl, Miranda, lived with her father every other week. They were both there when Annika called.

"I haven't had the energy to start the Christmas shit yet," Anne groaned. "How come you always manage and I don't?"

Annika could hear the music of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. They were watching Disney in Lidingö, too.

"I'm the one who never manages," she said. "Your house is always spotless. I get a guilty conscience just visiting you."

"All I say is Tonia from Poland," Anne said. "Are you okay otherwise?"

Annika sighed. "I'm having a hard time at work. The same bunch of people always trying to put me down."

"It's fucking awful when you first become a manager. I thought I was going to die during my first six months as a producer. My heart hurt every day. There's always some bitter and twisted little bastard out to spoil you."

Annika chewed on her lip.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. This is what I should be doing: baking with the kids and sitting with them when there's something scary on TV…"

"You'd go crazy within a week," Anne said.

"I know. But the kids still matter most, you can't get away from that. The woman who was murdered, Christina Furhage, she had a son who died when he was five. She never got over it. Do you really think her work and success could erase that memory? Could make up for that?"

"That's terrible," Anne said. "What did he die of?"

"Malignant melanoma, skin cancer. Pretty gruesome, eh?"

"No, Miranda, get down from there!… How old did you say he was?"

"Five. Just like Kalle."

"And died from malignant melanoma? Who told you that? It's not possible."

Annika was lost. "What do you mean?"

"He couldn't have died from malignant melanoma if he was only five years old. That's just impossible."

"How do you know?" Annika said in amazement.

"Annika, we talked about it, remember. I had all my moles removed. I don't have a single one left on my body. I did all that research into skin cancer at the time. Do you think that I, of all people, would be mistaken about a thing like that? Annie, please…"

Annika felt confusion mounting within. Could she have misunderstood what Helena Starke said to her?

"Well, refresh my memory. Why couldn't he have had malignant melanoma?" she asked.

"Because the malignant, the fatal, variety of melanoma never appears before puberty. But he may have entered puberty very early. That's called…"

Annika racked her brains. Anne Snapphane was sure to be right. She was a full-blooded hypochondriac; there wasn't a disease she hadn't been through. Countless times she'd had herself rushed in an ambulance to the Accident & Emergency Department at Danderyd Hospital; even more times she'd visited the city's various emergency departments, public as well as private. She knew everything about all forms of cancer, could list the differences between the symptoms of MS and familial amyloidosis. She wouldn't be mistaken. Consequently, Helena Starke was wrong, or she lied.

"Annika…?"

"Listen, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later."

She hung up and felt a thrill run along her spine. This was crucial, she could feel it was. Christina Furhage's son did not die from malignant melanoma. Maybe he died under altogether different circumstances. Did he suffer from another disease, was there an accident, or was he killed? Maybe he didn't die at all. Maybe he was still alive.

She got up and restlessly paced around the kitchen, adrenaline pumping. Shit, shit, she knew she was on to something! Then she froze. Her contact! He knew Christina had a son, he'd said so just before ringing off. The police were on the case! Yes, yes, that was it!

"Mommy, The Lion King has ended."

They entered the kitchen in a small procession, Kalle first and Ellen one step behind. Annika resolutely pushed the thoughts of Christina Furhage to the back of her mind.

"Was it good? Are you hungry? No, no more gingerbread now. Pasta? What about a pizza?"

She called La Solo on the other side of the street and ordered one capricciosa, one with meat and garlic, and one calzone with pork. Thomas wouldn't like it, but that couldn't be helped. If he wanted elk casserole again today, he could've come home at two in the afternoon and started making it.

Evert Danielsson turned off the Sollentuna road and into the OK garage in Helenelund that had a good service department and a big do-it-yourself car wash. He came here once a week to pamper his car. His secretary had booked him in for three hours, starting at 7 P.M. You didn't have to book, but he didn't like to take chances because it might be difficult to get three uninterrupted hours without prebooking.

He first went into the shop and picked out the things he needed: a spray bottle of degreasing agent, car shampoo without wax, two bottles of Turtle Original Wax, and a pack of cloths. He paid at the checkout: 31.50 for the degreaser, 29.50 for the shampoo and 188 kronor for two bottles of wax. The three hours in the car wash cost 64 kronor an hour for members. All in all it came to less than 500 kronor for a full evening. Evert Danielsson smiled at the checkout girl and paid with his company card.

He went outside and drove the car into his usual spot, pulled the door to, took out his folding chair and placed his little portable stereo on the bench in the corner. He picked a CD with arias from famous operas: Aida, The Magic Flute, Carmen and Madame Butterfly.

While the Queen of the Night advanced to F sharp three octaves above middle C, he started hosing down the car. The sludge of mud, sand, and ice was running down the drain in little rivulets. He proceeded to spray degreaser all over the car. While he waited for the agent to work, he sat down on the folding chair and listened to La Traviata. He didn't necessarily have to listen to opera in the car wash; sometimes he'd play old R &B, like Muddy Waters, or Hank Williams. Sometimes he even ventured into contemporary music: He liked Rebecka Törnqvist and some songs by Eva Dahlgren.

He let his thoughts wander freely but soon ended up on the one subject that occupied most of his existence at the moment. His career. He had spent the day trying to put a structure to what his job could look like, prioritizing the most urgent tasks. Somewhere he felt a certain relief at Christina being gone. Whoever blew her up might actually have done the world a big favor.

When the piece ended, he changed CDs and put on some piano music by Eric Satie. The melancholy notes filled the hall as he grabbed the hose and started washing the car. He didn't much enjoy the splashing about with water; it was the final phase he looked forward to: waxing and polishing the paintwork until it sparkled and gleamed. He passed his hand over the car roof. He felt sure everything would turn out all right.

Thomas put the children to bed just after half past seven. Annika had read a story to them about a girl who goes to daycare and her mother. In the book, the mother tells the daycare nurses about her boss who no one would obey, and they all think it's hilarious.

"It's okay to bully bosses everywhere, even in children's books," Annika said.

"I guess it is," Thomas said, opening the paper on the business pages.

"I mean, look at this," Annika said and held out a glossy women's magazine. "Answer all these questions to find out what your work situation really is like. Take question fourteen: 'What's your boss like?' The alternatives are: weak, incompetent, pretentious, useless, and arrogant. What kind of attitude is that? And look here, on the next page they give you advice on how to become a boss yourself. The moral is that everyone who becomes a boss is an idiot and that everyone who isn't a boss wants to be one. That's not how it is."

"Of course not," Thomas said, turning over the page.

"But the whole of society rests on these myths!"

"You used to be quite a fault-finder with your bosses at the paper, have you forgotten?"

Annika put the magazine on her lap and gave Thomas a reproachful look.

"Oh, come on, they were the wrong people in the wrong positions."

"See…?" Thomas said and continued reading his paper.

Annika sat thinking while the weatherman talked about the holiday weather. Everywhere in the country would have a white Christmas Eve, but on Christmas Day rain would approach from the west, which could mean showers on the west coast by late Christmas Eve.

"You had a hard time in your job before you began to find your feet, didn't you?" Annika said.

Thomas put down the paper, switched off the TV with the remote, and reached out his arms to Annika.

"Come here, sugar," he said.

There was a deafening silence with the TV turned off. Annika left her armchair and went over to Thomas on the couch, leaning her back against his chest, her feet on the coffee table. Thomas put his arms around her and caressed her shoulders, blew on her neck and kissed the hollow by her collarbone. She felt a tingle down below, maybe they'd have the energy to make love tonight.

Right then, Annika's cellphone rang, the tinny tones traveling from her bag and into the TV room.

"Don't answer it," Thomas said and nibbled on Annika's ear lobe, but it was too late. Annika had already lost the mood and was sitting upright on the couch.

"I just want to see who it is," she mumbled and got up.

"You've got to change that ring," Thomas said from behind. "What is that tune it's playing now?"

Annika didn't recognize the number on the display. She decided to answer.

"Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjö, we met this morning in Sätra Hall. You said I could call you…"

Annika groaned inwardly, damned business cards. "Sure," she said shortly, "what's it about?"

"Well, I was wondering what you're going to write about me in the paper tomorrow."

"Why do you ask?" Annika said and sat down on the seat in the hallway.

"I was just wondering. It's important it comes out right."

Annika sighed. "Can you be a bit more precise?" she said and looked at her watch.

"I could tell you more about myself, how I do my work and things like that. I've got a lovely house, you're welcome to come and have a look."

Annika heard Thomas switch the TV back on.

"As things stand now, I don't think that's going to happen. As I'm sure you appreciate, there's limited space in the paper. You may not be quoted at all."

There was a few seconds' silence.

"Are you saying you're not going to write about me at all?"

"Not this time."

"But… you talked to me! And the photographer took my picture."

"We talk to a lot of people we never write about," Annika said, trying hard to sound reasonably nice. "Thanks again for giving us your time this morning, but we won't be publishing any parts of our conversation."

This time the silence was longer at the other end of the line.

"I want you to write what I said this morning," the woman said in a low voice.

"I'm sorry," Annika said.

Beata Ekesjö exhaled. "Oh well, thanks anyway."

"Thanks. Goodbye," Annika said and switched off. She hurried back to Thomas on the couch, took the remote from his hand, and turned the TV off.

"Where were we?" she said.

"Who was it?"

"A woman I met this morning. About my age. Seems a bit loopy. She's the project manager for the building work at Sätra Hall."

"She must have a pretty tough job. At least statistically speaking," Thomas said. "Younger women in male-dominated workplaces have the hardest time of anyone."

"Is that so? Has that been statistically established?" Annika said with mock earnestness.

"Yes it has, actually, smartass!" Thomas shot back. "I read it in a report that just came in. Surveys show that it's women who take traditionally male jobs who have the hardest time in the labor market. They're bullied, threatened, and are subjected to sexual harassment more often than all other men and women. A survey at the Nautical Department at Chalmers University of Technology showed that four out of five female applicants had been harassed because of their gender," Thomas reeled off.

"How do you remember all this?" Annika was interested now.

Thomas smiled. "It's the same as you remembering the details of Berit Hamrin's stories. There are more examples, the army being one of them. Many women quit the military, despite having joined voluntarily. One of the main reasons they give is problems with male colleagues. Female managers actually have worse health, especially if they're hassled by colleagues."

"That's something we should write about," Annika said, trying to get up.

"Yes, you should. But not just now, because right now I'm going to give you a massage. Off with your sweater, that's it. And then this, take it off…"

Annika protested feebly as Thomas took her bra off. "The neighbors will see…"

Thomas got up and turned off the light. The only light in the room was coming from the swaying street lights far below. The snow was still falling, snowflakes as big as the palm of a hand. Annika reached out and pulled her husband toward her. They went about it slowly, staying on the couch, licking each other's clothes off.

"You drive me crazy," Thomas mumbled.

They moved down on the floor and started making love, infinitely slow at first, then hard and loud. Annika screamed when she came. Thomas a little less loud. Afterwards, Thomas fetched a duvet, and they moved back onto the couch, wrapping their limbs around each other. Exhausted and relaxed, they lay in the dark, listening to the evening sounds of the city. Far below a bus shrieked to a halt, the neighbor's TV was on, someone bawled and cursed down in the street.

"Christ, I'm looking forward to some time off!" Annika said.

Thomas kissed her. "You're the best," he said.