The Bomber

WEDNESDAY 22 DECEMBER

It was Annika's turn to do the nursery run, so she could stay in bed for a while after Thomas had left. Only two days remained until Christmas Eve. She was in the home stretch. It was amazing how little was required for her to win back her courage to face life. After an hour in town, some gingerbread baking, and a good fuck, she was ready to face the vultures afresh. For once, she'd had a whole night without any kids in the bed, but now they were awake and came rushing into the bedroom. She scooped them up and romped about in bed with them for so long they were late leaving for daycare. Ellen had invented the "Meatball Game," which consisted of tickling each other's toes while screaming "meatballs, meatballs!" Kalle liked playing airplane, with Annika lying on her back and balancing him on her feet high above. The plane would crash at regular intervals amid shouts of joy. Finally, they built a house with all the pillows, the duvet, and Thomas's big pajamas. Then they quickly ate their strawberry yogurt with honey puffs and made sandwiches for lunch. They just made it in time for morning assembly. Annika didn't hang around.

It was still snowing. The dirty sludge lay in drifts along the side of the road. Ever since the City Council had been divided into smaller district councils, all ploughing had ceased. She wished she had the energy to be politically active.

She was lucky with the bus. She picked up the paper by the entrance and took the elevator upstairs. Annika greeted the postboys outside the newsroom entrance. When she saw one of them dragging in the second lot of the day's mail, she felt gratitude toward Schyman. Things had been easier since Eva-Britt Qvist had resumed her mail-opening job.

She picked up a copy of the rival tabloid by the newsdesk and grabbed a coffee on the way to her office. Eva-Britt was in her usual place and said a surly "hello." Everything was normal, in other words.

Berit had done a fantastic job on the wife of Stefan Bjurling. The story was the center spread with one single picture of the woman and her three children sitting on the family leather couch in the suburban terraced house. "Life Must Go On," was the headline. The woman, who was thirty-seven and called Eva, looked collected and serious. The children, who were eleven, eight, and six years old, were looking wide-eyed straight into the camera.

"Evil appears in many shapes here on earth," Eva said in the piece. "It would be foolish to think we're exempt from it here in Sweden just because we haven't had a war since 1809. Violence crops up where you least expect it."

She had been making pancakes when the police had rung the doorbell to bring her the news of her husband's death.

"You simply can't break down when you have three kids," Eva was quoted. "Now we have to make the best of it and get on with our lives."

Annika studied the picture for a long while. A feeling of something being wrong nagged her. Wasn't this woman a bit too calm and collected? Why didn't she express any feelings of grief and despair? Oh, well, the text was good and the picture worked. It was a good piece. She pushed away her feeling of unease.

As usual, Patrik had done a solid job with the technical analysis and the police hunt. The hypothesis that the same person lay behind the two bombings was still valid, even though the explosives hadn't been exactly the same. "The blasting action was considerably smaller this time," the police press officer said. "Preliminary lab reports seem to suggest the explosive agent was either of a different kind or that a different configuration was used."

At the next meeting of the senior editors she would recommend they gave Patrik a permanent contract.

Her own piece with Johan Henriksson's photo of the builders in Sätra Hall had been given a whole page. It was okay.

She leafed on, leaving the Bomber behind and reaching the WAK section, short for Women and Knowledge. Within the office, these pages were of course never referred to as anything other than the "wank" pages. Today, the wank pages had employed the reliable trick of writing about some new American pseudo-psychological book, spicing it up with examples of some well-known Swedish women. The title of the book was The Ideal Woman, written by a woman with a hyphenated name and very thin nose, the kind you only get by surgically removing half of it. Apart from a small photo of the author, the story was accompanied by a five-column photo of Christina Furhage. The readers were told of a book that AT LAST gave all women a chance to become a truly IDEAL WOMAN. Next to this was a small piece outlining the main facts about Christina Furhage. Annika realized that the myth of the murdered Olympic supremo was germinating. Christina Furhage, it said, was a woman who had succeeded at everything. She had a fantastic career, a beautiful home, a happy marriage, and a gifted daughter. Furthermore, she had taken good care of herself; she was slim and fit and looked fifteen years younger than her age. Annika got a stale taste in her mouth, and it wasn't only from the cooling coffee. This was not quite right. Christina's first marriage had gone to pot, her first child had died or disappeared some way or another, her second child was a pyromaniac, and she herself was blasted to smithereens in a deserted sports stadium by someone who hated her. That was the reality. And this person also hated Stefan Bjurling, she could swear to it.

She was about to go for a second mug of coffee when the phone rang.

"Come here," a man said. "I'll tell you everything." He was crying. It was Evert Danielsson.

Annika bagged a pen and a pad and called a taxi.

Helena Starke woke up on the kitchen floor. At first she didn't know where she was. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She was cold and her hip hurt. The skin on her face felt tight after all the tears.

She sat up laboriously, leaning her back against a cupboard and looking at the falling snow through the dirty window. She was breathing slowly and consciously, forcing air into her lungs. They also felt like sandpaper- she wasn't used to smoking. Funny, she thought, life feels completely new. My brain is empty, the sky is white, and my heart is calm. I've reached the bottom.

A sense of peace rose within her. She sat on the kitchen floor for a long time, watching the wet snow gather on the windowpane. Memories of the past days hovered like gray ghosts at the back of her mind. She thought she must be quite hungry. As far as she could remember, she hadn't eaten for ages, only drunk a bit of water and one beer.

The conversation with the newswoman last Monday had broken down all barriers. For the first time in her life, Helena Starke had felt deep and genuine grief. The hours that had passed since then had made her realize that she actually had loved someone- for the first time in her life. The realization that she was capable of loving had slowly dawned on her during the long hours of last night, making her grief all the more profound. She had loved someone and now she was dead. Her disorientation and feelings of loss had developed into a massive self-pity, which she understood she would have to learn to accept. She was the classic widow-in-mourning, with the difference that she never would receive any support or understanding from the world around her. These expressions of sympathy were reserved for the established institution of heterosexual relationships.

She struggled to her feet. She really was stiff. She had been sitting at the kitchen table, chain-smoking one cigarette after another, lighting one on the stub of the other. In the small hours of the morning, she hadn't been able to sit upright on the chair any longer, so she had moved down on the floor. She must have dropped off finally.

She grabbed a glass from the worktop, rinsed it under the tap, filled it with water, and took a sip. She felt her stomach turn. She remembered what Christina used to say, almost hearing her voice inside her head: You have to eat, Helena. Take care of yourself.

She knew she'd been important to Christina, perhaps the most important person in the Olympic supremo's life. But she knew Christina's darker sides. She had no illusions what that might mean. People simply weren't important to Christina.

She opened the fridge and found- miracle of miracles- a small pot of yogurt only two days past its eat-by date. She took a spoon, sat down at the table, and started eating. It was vanilla, her favorite. She looked out at the sludge; it really was dreary. As the traffic rumbled on as usual in the busy street below, she wondered how she could stand it here. All at once she realized she didn't have to anymore. She was worth more than this. She had plenty of money in the bank and could go anywhere she liked in the world. She put down the spoon on the table and wiped the last of the yogurt from the pot with her finger.

It was time to move on.

Restaurant Sorbet lay on the eighth floor in the old lamp factory in Hammarby Dock. They served Swedish and Indian food. The owners of the establishment weren't fussy about opening hours. They let Evert Danielsson come in and served him coffee, although they didn't open for another fifty minutes.

Annika found the head of the Secretariat behind a trellis on the right-hand side of the room. His face was completely gray.

"What's happened?" Annika asked and sat down opposite him. She pulled off her scarf, gloves, and coat and threw them on the chair next to her with her bag.

Evert Danielsson looked down on his hands. As was his custom, he was holding on firmly to the table.

"They lied to me," he said in a strained voice.

"Who?"

He looked up.

"The board," he said.

"About what?" Annika asked.

The man gave a sob.

"The board. Hans Bjällra. They all lied. They said I would get another assignment, that I would be handling practical matters after Christina's death. But they lied to me!"

Embarrassed, Annika looked around. She didn't have time to nanny bureaucrats.

"Now tell me what's happened," she said gruffly, gaining the desired effect: The man pulled himself together.

"Hans Bjällra, the chairman of the board, promised me I'd be involved in the formulation of my new assignment, but that won't happen now. When I came into the office today, a letter was waiting for me. It had been couriered over early in the morning…"

He fell silent and stared down at his white knuckles.

"And…?" Annika said.

"It said I should vacate my office before lunch. SOCOG doesn't intend to make use of my services anymore. Consequently, it's not necessary for me to be at the disposal of the organization. I'm free to seek employment elsewhere. My severance packet will be paid out on 27 December."

"How much?"

"Five annual salaries."

"Poor you," Annika said tartly.

"I know- it's horrible," Evert Danielsson said. "And while I sat there reading the letter, a guy from the service department came in. He didn't even knock, just stepped right in. He said he'd come for my keys."

"But you had until lunch to clear out?"

"The car keys, they took my car from me!"

He bent over the table and started crying. Annika looked at the top of his head. His hair looked a bit stiff, as if he blow-dried it and used hairspray. She noticed it was thinning at the top.

"You can always use some of your severance pay and buy yourself a car," Annika suggested. As she said it, she realized it was pointless. You can't tell someone whose pet has just died that he should get a new one.

The man blew his nose and cleared his throat. "I see no reason to remain loyal. Christina is dead. I can't harm her."

Annika picked up her pen and pad from the bag.

"What was it you wanted to tell me about?"

Evert Danielsson gave her a tired look.

"I know everything about Christina," he said. "She was never the obvious candidate to head SOCOG or even the campaign to get the Games for Stockholm. There were other people, mainly men, who were considered more suitable."

"How did you get to know Christina?"

"She started in banking; you probably knew that already. I got to know her about eleven years ago when I was head of administration at the bank where she was the deputy managing director. Christina was pretty much hated by the rank and file; she was seen as hard as nails and unfair. The first was true, but not the latter. Christina always acted consistently; she would never carpet anybody who didn't deserve it. Though she did like public executions, which meant people were scared of not making the grade. It's possible it had a positive effect on profits, but it was devastating for the working atmosphere at the bank. The union was talking about staging a vote of no confidence in her; such things are not common in the banking business, I'll tell you that. But Christina put a stop to that. The union representatives behind the move resigned and left the bank the same day. I don't know how she managed to get rid of them, but there were no more calls for a vote."

A waiter brought coffee for Annika and gave Evert Danielsson a refill. Annika thanked him. She thought she recognized his face from a commercial for a credit card. She had a good memory for faces, so she was probably right. The TV companies in the building often used extras close at hand.

"How could she keep her job if people detested her that much?" Annika asked when the coffee man had gone.

"I've wondered about that too. Christina had been at her job for almost ten years when I got there. During that time they had changed managing director more than once, but Christina's name never came up. She was unassailable where she was, but she didn't get any higher."

"Why not?" Annika wondered.

"Don't know. The glass ceiling, perhaps. The board may have been afraid of what she might do if given more power. They must have seen what stuff she was made of." Evert Danielsson put a lump of sugar in his cup and Annika waited while he stirred his coffee.

"In the end, I think Christina understood she wasn't going to get any further. When the City of Stockholm decided to apply for the Olympic Summer Games, she made sure the bank went in as one of the main sponsors. I think she had her plan all laid out already then."

"Which was…?"

"Taking over the Games. She became deeply involved in the preparations. After some maneuvering, she was granted leave of absence from the bank and took over the application work as acting Olympic head. Her appointment wasn't particularly remarkable, even though she was an unknown entity in a semi-important position. The job paid poorly, much less than she got at the bank. That's why most of the business highfliers weren't interested in it. Nor was it an assignment that would propel you to the top after. Maybe you remember the initial disapproval of people and all the debates at the time? The Olympic Games weren't particularly popular with a lot of people. It was really Christina who turned public opinion around."

"Everyone says she did a fantastic job," Annika interjected.

"Oh, yes," Evert Danielsson said, pulling a wry face. "She was very skilled at lobbying and at hiding the cost of such exercises under various budgets. The swing in Swedish opinion concerning the Olympics is the most expensive PR campaign ever mounted in this country."

"I've never read anything about that," Annika said, unconvinced.

"Of course not. Christina would never have allowed facts like that to come out."

Annika made some notes and contemplated the information.

"When did you enter the picture?"

Evert Danielsson smiled. "You're wondering whether I can bear this out, and just how dirty my hands are? They're not clean. I stayed on at the bank when Christina transferred to the Olympic campaign and was given some of her tasks. They were mostly minor matters of an administrative nature. My job at the Secretariat came about through chance."

He leaned back in his chair, seeming more at ease.

"Once Christina had landed the Games, the situation changed dramatically. The post as MD of SOCOG became a lot more prestigious. Everyone agreed it should go to a competent person with extensive experience from the private sector."

"There were several possibles, weren't there? All men," Annika said.

"Yes, but mainly one man who at the time was director-general of one of our largest government departments."

Annika searched her memory and saw the man's pleasant face.

"Right- he pulled out for personal reasons and was appointed Governor of Stockholm County instead, is that right?"

Evert Danielsson gave a smile. "Yes, exactly. Those 'personal reasons' were a bill from a Berlin brothel, which ended up on my desk just after Stockholm was given the Games."

Annika looked up in surprise. The former head of the Secretariat was happy now.

"I don't know exactly how she did it, but Christina learned that this man had taken several colleagues to a brothel at the time of a Socialist convention in Germany. She dug out the credit card bill, which was paid for with taxpayers' money, and that was it for him."

"How? And how did you get hold of it?"

Evert Danielsson pushed aside his cup and leaned forward over the table.

"Once the Games were in the bag, Christina was supposed to return to her job at the bank. The Swedish IOC saw to it that her mail was forwarded to us again. Since I already had been dealing with some of her stuff, it seemed natural for me to take care of the bills that came in."

"Did you really have the authority to open her mail?" Annika asked in a silky voice.

The smile stiffened on the man's face.

"I'm not pretending I'm snow white," he retorted. "I forwarded the original bill to Christina without any comment, but I made sure to make a photocopy of it. The day after, the prospective MD of SOCOG announced that it wasn't his intention to accept the post. Moreover, he recommended that Christina Furhage get the job. And that's what happened."

"Where do you enter the picture?"

Evert Danielsson leaned back and sighed.

"By then I was thoroughly fed up with my job at the bank. The management had clearly shown what they thought of me by leaving me to deal with Christina's menial tasks. There was no future for me there. So I showed Christina the copy of that bill and said I wanted a job at the Secretariat, a good job. It only took a month before I started my duties as head of the Secretariat."

Annika bowed her head and contemplated the new information. It was possible. If the director-general had visited a brothel with some other men after an international Socialist convention, it wasn't only his head on the block. The other people involved would be influential social democrats, and their careers would be at stake as well. They could have been local or national politicians, high civil servants, or union officials. Whoever they were, they would have a lot to lose from being exposed. They could be fired or prosecuted for fraud or breach of trust. The families of these men would suffer, and their marriages would be ruined. For the director-general, it would have been an easy choice between relinquishing the Olympic job or having everything blown sky-high.

"Do you still have your copy of that bill?" Annika asked.

Evert Danielsson shrugged. "Sorry. I had to give it to Christina in exchange for getting the job."

Annika contemplated the man in front of her. Perhaps he was telling the truth. The story made sense and did not give a particularly flattering picture of himself. Then she suddenly remembered seeing the director-general recently in some picture, his nice, smiling face next to Christina Furhage's.

"Isn't the director-general on the board?" she said.

Evert Danielsson nodded. "Yes, but he's the Stockholm County Governor nowadays."

Annika felt ill at ease. Evert Danielsson could be out for revenge. He could be trying to con her. For Christina, as he himself had said, it didn't matter anymore. But he could still do harm to the members of the board that had fired him. She decided to continue the conversation and see where it took them.

"How did Christina perform in the job?" she asked.

"Brilliantly, of course. She knew all the stratagems. She was well in with some of the weightiest IOC members. I don't know exactly how she did it, but she had a serious hold on several of them. Sex, money, or drugs. Maybe all of them. Christina never left a single thing to chance."

Annika took notes, trying to keep a straight face.

"Earlier you hinted that she had many enemies."

Evert Danielsson let out a short, dry laugh.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I can think of a whole series of people, starting from her time at the bank and onwards. People who'd like to see her dead and cut up to pieces. Any man who tried being macho in her presence she'd humiliate to the point of him breaking down in public. Sometimes I think she got a kick from it."

"Didn't she like men?"

"She didn't like people at all, but she preferred women. At least in bed."

Annika blinked. "What makes you think that?"

"She had a relationship with Helena Starke. I can stake my life on it."

"But you don't know for sure?"

The man looked at Annika.

"You can tell when people are sexually involved. They move into each other's personal space, they stand a bit too close, their hands touch at work. Little things, but decisive."

"But she didn't like all women?"

"Not at all. She hated coquettish women. She would pull them to pieces, scrap everything they did, and bully them into resigning. Sometimes I think she enjoyed firing people in public. One of the nastiest ones was this young woman, Beata Ekesjö. In front of a whole group of people…"

Annika's eyes were now wide open.

"Really. So what did Ekesjö think of Christina?"

"She hated her. Absolutely and utterly," Evert Danielsson said, and Annika felt the hair on her neck rising. Now she knew the man was lying. Only yesterday Beata Ekesjö had told her how much she admired Christina Furhage. Christina was her role model and her death had left her brokenhearted. There was no doubt about that. Evert Danielsson had shot himself in the foot. He couldn't know that Annika knew who Beata Ekesjö was.

It was half past eleven and the restaurant was beginning to fill up with lunch guests. Evert Danielsson fidgeted and looked around. People from the Secretariat would come here for lunch. He obviously wasn't keen on being seen talking to a journalist. Annika decided to go for the last, decisive questions.

"So who do you think killed Christina, and why?"

Evert Danielsson licked his lips and grabbed the tabletop again.

"I don't know who could've done it. I really haven't the faintest idea. But it must have been someone who hated her. You don't blow up half a stadium unless you're seriously angry."

"Are you aware of any links between Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling?"

Evert Danielsson looked nonplussed.

"Who is Stefan Bjurling?"

"The second victim. He worked for one of your subcontractors, Building &Plumbing."

"Oh, Building &Plumbing is one of our best subcontractors. They've had a finger in more or less every building project that SOCOG has been involved in over the past seven years. Was it one of their guys that died?"

"Don't you read the papers?" Annika wondered. "He was a foreman, thirty-nine years old. Ash-blond hair, sturdy guy…"

"Oh, him," Evert Danielsson said. "Yes, I know who he is, Steffe. He is… was a real nasty piece of work."

"His workmates said he was a nice guy. A cheerful man."

Evert Danielsson gave a laugh. "The things people will say about the dead!"

"Is there a connection between him and Christina Furhage?" Annika persisted.

The former head of the Secretariat pursed his lips and gave it some thought. His eyes traveled over a group of people entering the restaurant. He momentarily stiffened but then relaxed again. No one he knew.

"Yes, there is, actually. I mean, not so much of a connection. Probably more of a coincidence," he said.

Annika waited, not turning a hair.

"Christina sat next to Stefan at that big Christmas dinner last week. They sat there talking until long after people had left their tables."

"Was that at the Basque restaurant?"

"No, that was the Secretariat's Christmas dinner. This was at the big Olympic do for all the functionaries, voluntary workers, and subcontractors' employees… We won't be throwing a party like that again until after the Games are over."

"So Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling knew one another?" Annika said in surprise.

Evert Danielsson's expression suddenly darkened. He remembered that he no longer could say "we" and that he probably wouldn't be attending any more Olympic parties.

"Well, it seemed like it. They sat there talking most of the evening. But I really think I have to…"

"How come Stefan Bjurling was seated next to the MD?" Annika asked rapidly. "Why wasn't she sitting next to the chairman of the board or some other big shot?"

Evert Danielsson gave her an annoyed look. "They weren't there. This was a party for the foot soldiers. It was very grand, though. Christina chose the place: Blå Hallen, the banqueting hall at the Stockholm City Hall."

He stood up, pushing at the chair with his legs.

"What do you think they talked about?"

"I haven't got the faintest idea. Look, I really have to go now."

Annika got to her feet, too, collected her stuff, and shook hands with the ex-head of the Olympic Secretariat.

"Give me a call if there's anything you want to add," she said.

He nodded and hurried out of the restaurant.

Instead of taking a right by the exit, Annika went down one floor to Anne Snapphane's office. Anne was on Christmas leave, Annika was told. Nice for her. The receptionist called a taxi for Annika.

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.

"What did he say?"

The woman sighed.

"I don't know. He would talk about her, saying she was a tough bitch and stuff like that. I don't remember…"

"But you didn't get the impression they knew each other well?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. What makes you think that?"

"I was just wondering. They sat next to each other at the Christmas party last week."

"Did they? Steffe didn't say anything about that. He said it was a pretty boring party."

"Did he bring a camera to the party?"

"Steffe? No way; he thought cameras were a waste of time."

Annika hesitated for a couple of seconds and then decided to ask what was actually on her mind.

"You have to forgive me for asking this, but how come you sound so calm and collected?"

The woman gave another sigh. "Of course I'm sad, but Steffe was no angel," she said. "It was hard work being married to him. I filed for divorce twice but rescinded both times. I couldn't get rid of him. He always came back, never gave up."

The scenario sounded familiar. Annika knew exactly what her follow-up question should be:

"Forgive me, but did he hit you?"

The woman hesitated for a moment.

"He was convicted of assault and battery once. The court issued a restraining order, which he constantly violated. In the end, I'd had enough and took him back," the woman said calmly.

"Did you believe he'd change?"

"He'd stopped making such promises; we were way past that stage. But he did get better after that. This last year it wasn't too bad."

"Did you ever go to a women's shelter?"

Annika put the question quite matter-of-factly; she'd uttered it hundreds of times over the years. Eva Bjurling paused but for some reason decided to answer this too.

"A couple of times, but it was so hard on the kids. They couldn't go to daycare and school like they were used to. It all got too complicated."

Annika waited in silence.

"You're wondering why I'm not brokenhearted, aren't you?" Eva Bjurling said. "Of course I am sad but mostly for the kids' sake. They loved their dad, but it'll be better for them now he's gone. He hit the bottle pretty seriously from time to time. So, there you have it…"

They both remained silent for a moment.

"I don't want to disturb you any longer," Annika said. "Thanks for being honest. It's important to know about these things."

Suddenly the woman remembered who she was talking to.

"Are you going to write about this? Most people I know really don't know anything about this."

"No," Annika said. "I won't write about it, but it's important for me to know; it may help me to prevent it happening again."

They ended the call there and Annika switched off the tape recorder. She sat staring into the air for a while. Wife-beating was everywhere, she'd learned that over the years. She had written many long series of articles about women and the violence they're subjected to. While she let her thoughts run on freely on the subject, she had a sudden realization. There was another common denominator between the two victims: People who didn't know them very well had paid warm tribute to both of them. Both had later turned out to be real bastards, unless Evert Danielsson really was lying about Christina.

She heaved a sigh and switched on her Mac. It was best to write everything down while it was still fresh in her mind. While the computer was booting up, she picked up the pad from her bag. She couldn't make Evert Danielsson out. One minute he seemed professional and competent, the next he was crying because they'd taken his precious company car away from him. Were men of power really that sensitive and naive? Yes, probably. Men of power aren't very different from other people. If they lose their jobs or something else that matters to them, they'll have a crisis. A hard-pressed person in a crisis situation isn't rational, regardless of what his job title is.

She had almost finished writing up all her notes when the phone rang.

"You told me to phone if something you wrote was wrong," someone said.

It was the voice of a young woman. Annika couldn't place it.

"Yes, absolutely," she said, trying to sound neutral. "What can I do for you?"

"You said so when you were here last Sunday. That I could call you if there were any mistakes in the paper. Now you've really gone too far."

It was Lena Milander. Annika's eyes grew wide.

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you read your own paper. There's a huge picture of my mother there, and then you've written 'THE IDEAL WOMAN' underneath it. What do you know about that?"

"What do you think we should write?" Annika asked.

"Nothing," Lena Milander said. "You should leave her alone. She hasn't even been buried yet."

"As far as we're aware your mother was an ideal woman," Annika said. "How could we know otherwise unless someone tells us?"

"Why do you have to write anything at all?"

"Your mother was a person in the public eye. She had chosen to be one. The image is of her own making; if no one tells us differently, it's the only one we've got."

Lena Milander was silent for a moment, then she said:

"Meet me at the Pelikan in South Island in half an hour. Afterwards you will promise me never to write trash like this again."

She hung up, and Annika looked with surprise at the receiver. She quickly saved the notes from her meeting with Evert Danielsson onto a disk, erased it from the hard drive, picked up her bag and coat, and left.

Anders Schyman was in his office, going over the circulation figures for the past weekend. He was happy; this was how it was supposed to look. Last Saturday, the rival tabloid had sold more copies than Kvällspressen, as it usually did. But Sunday there had been a break in the trend. For the first time in a year, Kvällspressen had won the circulation war, even though the rival had a bigger and more lavish Sunday supplement. It was the news-gathering work about the bombing of the Stockholm Olympic arena that had paid off, and the determining factor had been the first-page story. In other words, Annika's discovery that Christina Furhage had received death threats.

There was a knock. Eva-Britt Qvist was standing in the doorway.

"Come in," the editor-in-chief said, signaling her to sit down on the chair on the other side of his desk.

The crime-desk secretary smiled briefly, adjusted her skirt, and cleared her throat.

"Well, there's something I feel I have to talk to you about."

"Please, go ahead," Anders Schyman said, leaning back in his chair. He clasped his hands behind his neck and observed Eva-Britt Qvist behind half-closed eyelids. Something unpleasant was coming, he was sure of it.

"I think the atmosphere at the crime desk has deteriorated lately," the secretary said. "There's no real pleasure in the work anymore. I've been here for a long time, and I don't think I should have to accept this."

"No, you shouldn't," Anders Schyman agreed. "Can you give me an example of something that makes the situation so bad?"

The secretary fidgeted and gave it some thought.

"Right… Well, it felt bad to be ordered in harsh words to come in to work in the middle of baking, and this just before Christmas. There has to be some flexibility."

"Were you ordered in while you were baking?" Schyman asked.

"Yes, by Annika Bengtzon."

"Was it in connection with the Bomber?"

"Yes, she's so incredibly inflexible."

"So you don't think it's appropriate that you work overtime when everybody else is?" he said calmly. "Tragedies on this scale fortunately don't occur that often in this country."

The woman's cheeks turned a pale pink and she chose to go on the offensive:

"Annika Bengtzon can't behave herself! Do you know what she said after lunch today? Well, she said she'd kick Nils Langeby's teeth in!"

Anders Schyman found it hard to keep a straight face.

"Really," he said. "Did she say that to him?"

"No, she didn't say it to anyone, more to herself, but I actually heard it. I really think it was unnecessary. You shouldn't talk like that at work."

The editor leaned forward and placed his hands almost at the opposite edges of the desk.

"You're quite right, Eva-Britt, it was an unsuitable thing to say. But do you know what I find a lot worse? People who come running to their boss like children, telling tales about their colleagues."

Eva-Britt Qvist first turned white as a sheet, then red as a lobster. Anders Schyman didn't let go of the woman with his gaze. She looked down at her lap, looked up, looked down again, and then stood up and went out. She would probably spend the next fifteen minutes crying in the ladies' room.

The editor leaned back and sighed. He had thought the weekly quota of nursery squabbles had been filled, but he'd clearly been wrong.

Annika jumped out of the taxi on Blekingegatan and for a moment puzzled the rich little miss's choice of restaurant. The Pelikan was a classic beer hall with "character," good home cooking, and a very high sound level later in the evening. At this time of the day, it was still pretty quiet, as people sat talking over beer and sandwiches. Lena Milander had just arrived; she'd chosen a table by the far wall and sat facing the room, dragging hard on a rolled-up cigarette. She fit in perfectly, with her short hair, black clothes, and somber expression. She could easily be a regular. The waitress came up to take their order and said:

"The usual, Lena?" She was a regular.

Annika had coffee and a ham-and-cheese sandwich, Lena a beer and a meat hash. The young woman stubbed out the cigarette halfway through, looked at Annika, and gave a wry smile.

"No, I don't really smoke, but I like lighting up," she said, watching Annika closely.

"I know you're a bit of a firebug," Annika said and blew on her coffee. "That children's home in Botkyrka."

Lena's face remained blank.

"How long are you going to go on lying about my mother?"

"For as long as we don't know any better," Annika said.

Lena lit her cigarette again and blew the smoke in Annika's face. Annika didn't blink.

"So, have you bought any Christmas gifts yet?" she said, picking a tobacco flake from her tongue.

"Some. Have you bought any for Olof?"

Lena's gaze hardened while she took a deep drag on her cigarette.

"Your brother, I mean," Annika went on. "Let's start with him, shall we?"

"We have no contact with each other," Lena said and stared out through the window.

Annika felt that familiar thrill travel along her spine again- Olof was alive!

"Why don't you have any contact?" she said as deadpan as she could manage.

"We never did. Mother didn't want it."

Annika picked up a pad and pen from her bag and the copy of the family photograph where Olof was two years old. She put it on the table in front of Lena. She looked at it for a long time.

"I've never seen this one," she said. "Where did you find it?"

"In the morning paper's archive. You can have it if you like."

Lena shook her head. "No point, I'll only set fire to it."

Annika put it back in her bag.

"What is it you want to tell me about your mother?"

Lena fingered her cigarette.

"Everyone's writing about how fantastic she was. In your paper today, she was little short of a saint. In actual fact, Mom was a tragic person. She failed in a whole lot of ways. She hid all her failures by threatening and deceiving people. I sometimes wonder whether there wasn't actually something wrong with her, she was so fucking vicious."

The young woman fell silent and looked out through the window again. It was getting dark already. The snow didn't ever seem to be ceasing.

"Could you explain that a bit?" Annika said guardedly.

"Well, take Olle, for example," Lena resumed. "I didn't even know he existed until Gran told me. I was eleven then."

Annika took notes and waited in silence.

"Grandad died when Mom was little. Gran sent her up to live with some relatives in the far north. She grew up there. The relatives weren't very fond of her, but Gran paid them. When she was twelve, she was sent to a boarding school, where she lived until she married Carl. That's the old man in the photograph. He was nearly forty years older than Mom but from a good family. That was important to Gran. She arranged the whole thing."

Lena started rolling another cigarette. She was quite clumsy about it, spilling tobacco on her untouched food.

"Mom was barely twenty when Olle was born, and dirty old Carl liked to show off his new family. But then his company went bust and the money ran out. The penniless child bride lost her charm, so the swine dumped Mom and Olle and married some loaded old bag instead."

"Dorotea Adelcrona," Annika said, and Lena nodded.

"Dorotea was the widow of some old timber magnate outside the city of Sundsvall. She was swimming in money, and Carl managed it well. The old cow died after only a year, and Carl became the richest widower in Norrland. He instituted a grand scholarship for some kind of idiotic achievement in the timber industry."

Annika nodded. "Right. It's still awarded every year."

"Anyway, Mother didn't get a cent. Socially, she was given the cold shoulder, of course. A destitute, divorced single mother wasn't exactly the flavor of the month with high society in the 1950s. She'd done some sort of bookkeeping course at the boarding school, so she moved to Malmö and got a job as private secretary for some director in the scrap metal industry. She placed Olle with an old couple in Tungelsta, outside Stockholm."

Annika looked up from her notes.

"She gave him up?"

"Yep. He was five years old. I don't know if she ever saw him again."

"But why?" Annika said, somewhat shocked. The mere thought of giving up her own son made her feel sick.

"He was difficult, that's what she said. But the real reason was of course that she wanted to work and not have a kid weighing her down. She was getting a career, remember?"

"Yes, and she certainly succeeded," Annika muttered.

"I think she had a really tough time to begin with. Her first boss harassed her sexually and made her pregnant, at least that's what she said. She went to Poland for an abortion and got really sick as a result. The doctors thought she'd never be able to have another child. She was sacked, of course, but got a new job at a bank in Skara. She kept at it, and eventually got a job at the head office in Stockholm. She climbed up the hierarchy, and somewhere along the way she met Dad. He fell madly in love with her. They married after a couple of years, and Dad started nagging her about having a child. Mom said no but stopped taking the pill to humor him. She knew she probably couldn't get pregnant again."

"But she did," Annika said.

Lena nodded.

"She was over forty. You can imagine how incredibly pissed off she was. Abortion was legal by then, but for once Dad stood his ground. He refused to agree to an abortion, threatening to leave her. She swallowed the bitter pill and had me."

The young woman made a face and drank some beer.

"Who told you all this?" Annika asked.

"My mother, of course. She never tried to hide what she thought about me. She always said she detested me. My first memory is of her pushing me away so that I fell over and hurt myself. Dad loved me but never dared be fully open with it. He was totally scared of her."

She thought this over for a while, and then continued: "I think most people were afraid of her. She terrified people. Everyone who ever came anywhere close to her had to sign an agreement of complete secrecy. They could never speak publicly about Christina without her permission."

"Is an agreement like that valid?" Annika wondered.

Lena Milander shrugged. "Didn't matter, people believed it and were frightened into shutting up."

"No wonder we haven't been able to find anything out," Annika said.

"Mom was afraid of only two people- me and Olle."

How sad, Annika thought.

"She was always worried about me setting fire to her," Lena said with a wry smile. "Ever since that day when I burned the parquet floor, she was on alert when it came to me and matches. She sent me to a treatment center for disturbed youths, but after I burned that down, I was allowed back home again. That's what happens to kids no one can cope with. When the social services can't manage any longer, the little bastards are sent back to their parents."

She lit her new, knobbly cigarette.

"Once I experimented with a homemade explosive charge in the garage. It went off early and sent the garage door flying, and I got shrapnel in my leg. Mom got it into her head that I was going to blow her up in the car, so after that she was hysterically afraid of car bombs."

She laughed without any mirth.

"How did you know how to make an explosive device?" Annika asked.

"There are plans on the Internet. It's not hard; do you want me to show you?"

"Thanks, that won't be necessary. But why was she afraid of Olof?"

"I don't know, actually, she never told me. All she said was that I should beware of Olle, that he was dangerous. He must have threatened her in some way or other."

"Have you ever met him?"

The woman shook her head, her eyes turning blank. She blew out the smoke and tapped off nonexisting ash against the edge of the plate.

"I don't know where he is," she said.

"But you think he's alive?"

Lena took a deep drag on the cigarette and looked at Annika.

"Why else should Mother have been so scared?" she said. "If Olle was dead, we wouldn't have had to have secret identities."

True, Annika thought. She hesitated for a moment but then asked an unpleasant question.

"Do you think your mother ever met anyone else that she may have fallen in love with?"

Lena shrugged. "I don't give a shit," she said. "But I doubt it. Mom hated men. Sometimes I think she hated Dad as well."

Annika dropped the subject.

"As you see, she was hardly an 'ideal woman'," Lena said.

"No, she wasn't," Annika agreed.

"Will you ever write that again?"

"I hope we can avoid it," Annika said. "But to me it sounds as if your mother also was a victim."

"What do you mean?" Lena said, immediately wary.

"She was sent away, just like Olof."

"That was different. Gran actually couldn't take care of her, there was a war on, and Gran really loved her. Gran's great sorrow in life was that Christina couldn't grow up with her."

"Is your Gran alive?"

"No, she died last year. My mother actually went to the funeral, anything else would have looked bad, she said. But they were together on all holidays when Mom was little, and they always celebrated Mom's birthdays together."

"It sounds like you can forgive your gran but not your mother," Annika said.

"And when did you become a fucking psychologist?"

Annika held up her hands in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry."

Lena watched her warily.

"Okay," she said in the end, finishing her beer. "I'm going to stay here and get drunk. Do you want to join me, into the mist and down the river?"

Annika smiled wanly. "I'm afraid not," she said and started collecting her things. She put on her coat and scarf, hanging the bag over her shoulder. Then she stopped suddenly and said:

"Who do you think killed her?"

Lena's eyes narrowed. "All I know is, it wasn't me."

"Did she know a man named Stefan Bjurling?"

"The new victim? Haven't got a clue. I just want you to stop writing crap," Lena Milander said and demonstratively turned in the other direction.

Annika took the hint, went over to the waitress and paid for her and Lena's orders, and left the restaurant.

The woman walked inside the ultramodern entrance of Kvällspressen, trying to look like she belonged. She was dressed in a straight, half-length coat, alternating between navy and purple depending on the light; her hair was obscured by a brown beret. A small and elegant Chanel copy bag dangled from her left shoulder, and in her right hand she carried an oxblood red leather briefcase. She wore gloves. When the front doors slid shut behind her, she stopped for a moment, looking around. Her gaze landed on the glassed-in reception in the far left-hand corner. She adjusted the thin shoulder strap and headed over to it. Inside it sat a porter, Tore Brand, who had relieved the regular receptionist who'd gone for a cup of coffee and a smoke.

Tore Brand pushed the button that operated the opening mechanism of the glass panel when the woman reached the counter. He assumed an official look and said:

"Yes?"

The woman again adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag and cleared her throat.

"I'm looking for one of the reporters, Annika Bengtzon is her name. She works at…"

"Yes, I know," Tore Brand interrupted. "She's not in."

The porter's finger was poised above the button, ready to close the panel. The woman fingered the handle of the briefcase.

"Oh, isn't she in…? When will she be back?"

"You never can tell," Tore Brand said. "She's out on a job, and then you never know what could happen or how long it may take."

He leaned forward and said, in a confidential tone:

"This is a newspaper, you know."

The woman gave a nervous laughter.

"Thanks, I'm aware of that. But I would very much like to see Annika Bengtzon. I have something for her."

"Oh, what's that then?" the porter said curiously. "Is it something I can hold for her until she gets back?"

The woman took a step backwards.

"It's meant for Annika. She's the recipient. We spoke about it yesterday; it's quite important."

"If it's papers or anything like that, I can take care of it and make sure she gets them."

"Thanks, I think I'll just return later."

"You know, we get people bringing in whole cases of papers everyday. Hard-done-by, insurance victims, and lunatics, but we listen to them all. Just give me the stuff and I'll deal with it."

The woman abruptly turned on her heel and hurried toward the door. Tore Brand closed the panel and realized he was dying for a smoke.

Annika elbowed her way past Christmas shoppers on Götgatan. She realized she was only a few blocks from Helena Starke's house. Instead of fighting against the torrent of people emerging from the subway station, she turned around and moved with it. She slipped and slid along Ringvägen- South Island was just as badly plowed as her own part of town. Her memory for numbers didn't let her down; she remembered the entry code for the street door. She took the elevator up, and this time Helena Starke answered the door on the first signal.

"You don't give up, do you?" she said when she opened the door.

"I'd just like to ask a few questions," Annika said benignly.

Helena Starke groaned loudly.

"What is it with you? What the hell do you want from me?"

"Please, not out here in the hallway…"

"I don't care, I'm leaving anyway."

She yelled out the last words so the old women in the building would hear; now they'd have something to gossip about.

Annika looked over the woman's shoulder. It did look like she was packing her things. Helena Starke sighed.

"Well, come on in, but be quick about it. I'm leaving tonight."

Annika decided to be upfront.

"I know you lied to me about the boy, Olof, but I don't care about that. I'm simply here to find out if it's true you had a relationship with Christina Furhage."

"If I did- is that any of your fucking business?" Helena Starke said calmly.

"No, except I'm trying to make sense of the whole thing. So, did you?"

Helena Starke sighed again.

"And if I were to confirm it, it would end up on the front pages all over the country tomorrow, right?"

"Of course not," Annika said. "Christina's sexual preference had nothing to do with her public functions."

"All right," Helena Starke said, almost amused. "I confirm it. Happy?"

Annika lost the thread for a moment.

"So what are you going to ask me now?" Helena Starke said acidly. "How we did it when we fucked? Did we use dildos? Did Christina shout when she came?"

Annika cast down her eyes. She felt like a fool. This really was none of her business.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You must say that a lot. It's your job," Starke said. "Do you want anything else?"

"Did you know Stefan Bjurling?" Annika said, and looked up again.

"A real asshole," Starke said. "If anyone deserved a pack of dynamite in the kidneys it was him."

"Did Christina know him?"

"She knew who he was."

Annika closed the door, which had been open all along.

"Please, can you tell me what Christina really was like…"

"Christ, the papers have been packed with stories about what she was like!"

"I mean the real Christina, not the official one."

Helena Starke leaned against the doorpost of the living room, looking with interest at Annika.

"Why are you so curious?"

Annika breathed in through her nose. The place really had a stale smell.

"Every time I talk to someone who knew Christina, my picture of her changes. I think you were the only one who was really close to her."

"You're wrong there," Helena Starke said. She turned around and sat down on the couch in the small living room. Annika followed her without being invited.

"So who did know her?"

"No one," Helena said. "Not even she herself. Sometimes she was afraid of who she was, or rather of who she had become. Christina carried some pretty terrifying demons inside her."

Annika watched the woman's partly turned-away face. The light from the hallway fell on her neck and clean profile- Helena Starke was actually strikingly beautiful. Further away in the room, the darkness loomed; outside the traffic was thundering past.

"What demons?"

Helena Starke gave up a sigh.

"Her life was hell, from childhood onward. She was extremely intelligent, but that was never taken into account. People just messed her around in all possible ways; she dealt with it by becoming cold and unapproachable."

"What do you mean by people messing her around?"

"She did some pioneering work as a female executive in the private sector, in the banking business, in board rooms. People constantly tried to break her, but they never succeeded."

"The question is whether they didn't in the end," Annika said. "You can break inside, even if the surface is still intact."

Helena Starke didn't respond to that. She was staring unseeing into the darkness. After a while she raised her hand to her eyes, wiping something away.

"Did people know that you… were together?"

Helena Starke shook her head.

"No. Not a single person. I'm sure people talked, but no one ever asked us straight out. Christina was very nervous about it becoming known. She changed drivers every eight weeks to make sure they wouldn't see a connection in her coming here so often."

"Why was she so afraid? There are lots of people in the public eye who are open about their sexuality nowadays."

"It wasn't only that," Helena Starke said. "Any relationships between people at the Olympic Secretariat was prohibited. Christina herself had made that rule. If our relationship were to have become public, I wouldn't have been the only one who would have had to go. She wouldn't have been able to stay on as MD if she'd broken one of her most important rules herself."

Annika let the words sink in. Here was yet another thing Christina Furhage had been afraid of. She looked at Helena Starke's profile and saw the paradox of it all. Christina Furhage had risked everything she had ever worked for on account of this woman.

"She was here that last night, wasn't she?"

Helena Starke nodded.

"We took a taxi. Christina must have paid cash. I don't quite remember, but she usually did. I was out of it, but I remember that Christina was really mad at me. She didn't like it when I drank and smoked. We made rather rough love, and I passed out. She was gone when I woke up."

She fell silent and turned those last words over in her mind.

"Christina was dead by the time I woke up."

"Do you remember when she left here?"

The woman in the dark sighed.

"No idea, but the police said she received a call on her cellphone at 2:53. She had answered it and talked for a couple of minutes. That must have been after we'd finished having sex, because Christina never could talk on the phone while we were at it…"

She turned to face Annika with a wry smile.

"It must be difficult not to be able to be open about how you feel…" Annika said.

Helena Starke shrugged.

"When I fell in love with Christina, I knew what to expect. It wasn't easy to get her to let herself go. It took more than a year."

She gave a little laugh.

"Christina was incredibly inexperienced. It was as if she'd never enjoyed sex before, but once she discovered how much fun it was, she couldn't get enough. I've never had such a fantastic lover."

Annika felt uneasy; this was none of her business. She didn't want to picture this beautiful forty-year-old making love to an ice-cold, sixty-plus woman. She shook herself to get rid of the feeling.

"Thanks for telling me," was all she said.

Helena Starke didn't reply. Annika turned around and walked toward the door.

"By the way, where are you moving to?" she asked.

"Los Angeles," Helena Starke replied.

"Isn't that a bit sudden?"

Helena Starke looked around the doorpost and fixed her with her eyes.

"It wasn't me who blew them up," she said.

Annika returned to the newsroom just in time to catch the 16:45 Eko. They led with a scoop, at least by Eko standards: They had gotten their hands on the government bill on regional issues that would be introduced to Parliament at the end of January. The following item was more interesting. The Eko had gotten hold of a preliminary lab report on the explosives used in Stefan Bjurling's murder. The ingredients were probably the same as those at the Olympic arena: a high-density mixture of nitroglycerine and nitroglycol, but the dimension and size of the charge were different. According to the news program, the explosive probably consisted of paper-wrapped cartridges of the smallest size, with a diameter of somewhere between 22 and 29 millimeters. The police were not willing to comment on the information.

Patrik will have to deal with this, Annika thought, making a note on her pad.

There was nothing more on the news that affected her work, so she switched off the radio and started making some calls. The builders who had worked together with Stefan Bjurling should be home by now. She opened the paper at the page with her own story, looked at the caption below the photo of the men, and then called information. Some of the men had common names like Sven Andersson, which would be difficult to find, but five names were unusual enough to save her calling fifty people, asking if she'd found the right person. She got lucky on the fourth call.

"Yes, I had my camera with me," said the plumber Herman Ösel.

"You didn't take any pictures of Christina Furhage, by any chance?"

"I certainly did."

Annika's heart started beating faster.

"Did you take any of Stefan Bjurling?"

"Not of him alone, but I think he's in one of the pictures I took of Christina."

This isn't happening, what incredible luck, Annika thought.

"You don't know yet, do you?" she asked.

"No, I haven't developed the film yet. I'm planning to take a few snaps of the grandchildren over Christmas…"

"Herman, we can help you develop your film; we'll naturally give you a new roll in exchange. If there should be a photo on your roll that we might be interested in printing, would you consider selling it to us?"

The plumber didn't quite follow.

"You'd buy my film?" he said dubiously.

"No, the film is yours, you'll get it back. But we might be interested in buying the rights to one of your pictures. That's how it usually works when we buy pictures from freelance photographers, which is what you'd be in this case."

"Well, I don't know…"

Annika drew a soundless deep breath and decided to educate him.

"This is the scenario…" she began. "At Kvällspressen we believe it's crucial that the Bomber, who has murdered Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling, is apprehended and put in jail. It's important both to Christina's and Stefan's families, to their colleagues, and to the whole country- even the whole world. The Games are being jeopardized. The best way to spread information and rouse public opinion is by the mass media doing their bit, which for Kvällspressen means writing about the victims and the police work. We work partly in conjunction with the police and the public prosecutor, partly independently. This involves talking to the colleagues of the victims. That's why I'm asking you if we could publish a picture of Christina and Stefan together, if there is such a one on your roll of film."

Her throat was parched after the lecture, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

"Oh, well, in that case I suppose it's all right. But how do we do it? The last mail collection has been out here."

"Where do you live?" Annika asked.

"In Vallentuna, north of town."

"Herman, I'll ask one of my colleagues to drive over to your house and pick up that film."

"But there are still several shots left…"

"You'll get a new film from us, for free. Tomorrow morning you'll get the film back, developed and all. If we find a picture that we want to publish, we'll pay you 930 kronor, which is the going rate. In that case our picture editor will call you tomorrow to arrange the payment. Does that sound okay?"

"Nine hundred and thirty kronor? For one picture?"

"Yes, that's the going rate."

"Why the hell didn't I become a photographer? Of course you can come and pick up my film! When will you be here?"

Annika took down the address and some simple directions and then finished the call. She picked up a roll of film at the picture desk and went out to Tore Brand at the porters' desk to ask if one of the drivers could go out to Vallentuna. "No problem," said Tore.

"By the way, someone was asking for you earlier today," he said as Annika was just about to leave.

"Oh- who?"

"She didn't say. She wanted to give you something."

"What was it?"

"She didn't say that either. Said she'd come back later."

Annika smiled, groaning inwardly. They really should learn to take a message properly. Any day now it could be something important.

She walked past Patrik's desk on the way back to her office, but he was out. She'd have to call him on his cellphone to check up with him before the Six Session. As she walked past Eva-Britt Qvist's desk, the phone started ringing in her office. She ran over and answered. It was Thomas.

"When are you coming home?"

"I don't know, late, I think. Maybe around nine."

"I have to get back to work, we have a meeting at six."

Annika felt herself getting angry.

"Six o'clock? But I'm working. I have a meeting at six, too! Why didn't you call earlier?"

Thomas sounded calm, but Annika could hear the anger was building up in him, too.

"The Eko ran some stuff about the government's regional bill this afternoon. It came as a complete bombshell at the Association of Local Authorities. Politicians from the advisory committee are on their way here now and I have to be there. You understand that, don't you?"

Annika closed her eyes and breathed. Shit, shit, she'd have to go home now.

"We agreed that I was going to work Monday and Wednesday and you Tuesday and Thursday," she said. "I've stuck to my part of the deal. My job is just as important as yours."

Thomas climbed down. Now he was appealing to her.

"Please, honey. I know, you're right. But I have to go back, you've got to understand that. This is a panic meeting; it won't take long. I've made dinner already, all you have to do is come home and eat with the kids and I'll come back straight after the meeting. We should be done by eight, there isn't really much to be said. You can go back to work when I come back."

She sighed and closed her eyes, pressing one hand against her forehead.

"Okay. I'll go right now."

She went outside to tell Ingvar Johansson about Herman Ösel's photo, but the news editor wasn't at his desk. Picture Pelle was on the phone, so she waved her hand in front of his face.

"What?" he said, putting the receiver against his shoulder, annoyed.

"Some pictures are on their way from Vallentuna of Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling together. Develop the film and make prints of all negs. I have to go, but I'll be back by eight. Okay?"

Picture Pelle nodded and resumed his conversation.

She didn't bother to call for a taxi but took one from the stand in the street below. She felt the stress like a lump in her stomach. It grew until she had difficulty breathing. This was certainly not what she needed right now.

Back at home, the children rushed toward her with kisses and drawings. Thomas gave her a quick kiss on his way out. He took the taxi she'd arrived in.

"Hey, listen, let me take my coat off. Calm down…"

Ellen and Kalle were stopped short by the irritated note in her voice. She leaned down and hugged them just a little bit too hard and walked over to the phone. She called Ingvar Johansson, but he'd gone into the Six Session. She groaned out loud. Now she wouldn't have time to tell the others what her desk had been doing all day. Oh, well, she'd have to talk to Spike later.

The food was on the table, and the kids had eaten already. She sat down and tried to eat a chicken leg, but the food just grew in her mouth until she was forced to spit it all out. She had a few mouthfuls of rice and then threw the rest away. She usually didn't manage to eat at all when she was this stressed.

"You have to eat," Kalle said reproachfully.

She placed the kids in front of the TV, closed the door to the living room, and called Patrik.

"The Tiger phoned," the reporter howled. "He's furious."

"Why?" Annika asked.

"Believe it or not, he's on his honeymoon on Tenerife- Playa de las Americas. He left last Thursday and will be coming home tomorrow. He says the cops knew very well that he was there; they'd checked all departures from Arlanda and found his name. The Spanish police picked him up and held him for questioning a whole afternoon. It made him miss a barbecue and the free pool-side drink. Sad, isn't it…?"

Annika smiled wanly.

"Will you write something on that?"

"Sure."

"Did you hear the Eko item about the lab report on the explosives?"

"Yes, I'm sorting that out as we speak. Ulf Olsson and I are in an explosives depot, blowing shit up. Did you know the explosives look like sausages?"

Dear Patrik! He was so enthusiastic. Whatever the situation. He always found his own angle.

"Did you get anywhere with the police hunt?"

"Nope, they're not saying a word. But I think they're closing in on someone."

"We have to get some kind of confirmation. I'll try to get something out of them tonight," Annika said.

"We have to get out of here now or we'll get a headache, our blaster friend is telling us. Talk to you later."

The children's programs must have ended. The kids had started squabbling over a comic book. She went in to them and switched over to TV2 for the local news.

"Can we do a jigsaw, Mom?"

They sat down on the floor with a wooden jigsaw puzzle of twenty-five pieces depicting the storybook's characters Alfons and Milla in their treehouse. They stayed there until the familiar tune of the local ABC news started up at ten past seven. She sent the children out to brush their teeth while she checked out what ABC had put together. They had been to Sätra Hall and got in the judges' room. The footage wasn't particularly dramatic, since there didn't seem to have been much blast damage to the room itself. All traces of poor Steffe had been thoroughly scrubbed away. They said nothing about an arrest being at hand. She went out into the bathroom and helped the children with their teeth while ABC proceeded with a report on Christmas sales.

"Put your pajamas on and then we'll read a story. And don't forget the fluoride tablets!"

She left them to bicker in their room while watching the headlines of Rapport. They went to town on the regional bill, nothing she needed to watch. She read a story to the children and tucked them in, but they were being difficult and did not intend to go to sleep.

"It's Christmas soon and all children have to be good, or Santa Claus won't come," she said menacingly, feeling bad for threatening her kids.

But it did the trick, and soon they were asleep. She called Thomas at work and on his cellphone, but naturally he didn't answer either. She started up the old PC in the bedroom and quickly wrote down the main points of her conversation with Helena Starke from memory. As she saved the document onto a disk, she was becoming increasingly anxious. Where the hell was Thomas?

Just after half past eight he arrived.

"Thanks, honey," he panted as he stepped inside the front door.

"Did you tell the taxi to wait?" she asked more brusquely than she intended.

"Shit! No, I forgot."

She ran down the stairs to catch the taxi, but of course it was already gone. She walked down to the square, but there were no cars at the taxi stand. She walked past the pharmacy and toward Kungsholmsgatan where there was another stand. There was one single car from some suburban company. She walked into the newsroom at five to nine. The place was deserted and quiet. Ingvar Johansson had gone home ages ago, and the night people had all gone to the canteen. She went into her room and started making calls.

"This is getting tedious," said her contact.

"Don't be difficult," she said wearily. "I've been on the go for fourteen hours, and I'm getting fed up. You have the measure of me, and you know where I stand. Come on now- truce?"

The police officer at the other end clicked his tongue a couple of times.

"You're not the only one who's been at it since seven this morning."

"You've got a fix on him, haven't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"You usually stick to your working hours, especially when a big holiday is coming up. You've got something in the pipeline."

"Of course, we always do. This is a big case, of course we're working late."

Annika groaned out loud. "For Christ's sake…"

"We couldn't leak any information about being close to apprehending the Bomber. You must understand that. Then he'll get clean away."

"But you're closing in on him?"

"I didn't say that."

"But are you?"

The man didn't reply.

"How much can I write?" Annika asked cautiously.

"Not one line, it could wreck the whole thing."

"When are you moving in?"

The police officer was quiet for a couple of seconds, then said:

"As soon as we locate him."

"Locate?"

"He's disappeared."

The hair on Annika's neck rose.

"So you know who it is?"

"We think we do, yes."

"Christ," Annika whispered. "How long have you known?"

"We've had our suspicions for a couple of days, but now we're certain enough to want to bring the person in for questioning."

"Would you let us be there?"

"At the arrest? I find that hard to imagine. We haven't a clue where the person is."

"Are there many of you out looking?"

"No, we haven't put out a wide alert yet. We want to check the places we know about first."

"When will you put out an alert?"

"Don't know."

Annika racked her brains. What could she write without using this?

"I know what you're thinking," the police officer said, "and you may as well give up wondering. Think of it as a test. I've trusted you with some information. Think very carefully before you use it."

The call was over and Annika sat in her office with a pounding heart. She might be the only reporter to know about this, and she couldn't do a thing with it.

She walked out into the newsroom to calm down and have a word with Spike. The first thing she laid her eyes on was a dummy of the next day's front page. It said: "CHRISTINA FURHAGE LESBIAN- Her Lover Talks About Their Last Hours Together."

Annika felt the whole room turn around. It can't be, she thought. Christ, where did they get this? With tunnel vision, she walked up to the easel where the layout was fastened, pulled it down, and threw it down on the desk in front of Spike.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded to know.

"Tomorrow's biggest story," the night editor said indifferently.

"We can't print this," Annika said, unable to keep her voice under control. "It has nothing to do with anything. Christina Furhage never spoke publicly about her sexuality. We have no right to expose her like this. She didn't want to talk about it when she was alive, and we have no right to do it now she's dead."

The night editor straightened up, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back so that his chair nearly tipped over.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, liking girls- I do, too," he leered. He looked over his shoulder to get support from the sub-editors around the desk.

Annika forced herself to be businesslike.

"She was married and had a daughter. Could you look her family in the eye tomorrow if you print this?"

"She was a public person."

"That's got fucking all to do with it!" Annika said, unable to curb her outrage. "The woman has been murdered! And who the hell wrote the fucking story?"

The night editor laboriously got to his feet. He was riled now.

"Nisse has dug up some good stuff. He's got confirmation from a named source that she was a dyke. She had a relationship with that woman Starke…"

"That's my material!" Annika raved. "I mentioned it as a rumor at our lunch meeting. Who's the named source?"

The night editor went up to Annika and said, inches away from her face:

"I don't give a fuck where it came from," he hissed. "Nisse has written the best piece of tomorrow's paper. If you knew about it, why then didn't you write something? Isn't it time you dried out behind your ears?"

Annika felt the words sink in. They landed in her midriff and added to the lump in her gut, making her lungs too small. She couldn't breathe. She forced herself to ignore the attack on her person and to focus on the journalistic part of the argument. Was she right? Perhaps Christina Furhage's sexual preference really was a scoop they should publish? She pushed the thought away from her.

"Who Christina Furhage slept with is neither here nor there," she said softly. "What is interesting is who killed her. Another interesting aspect is what effect it will have on the Olympic Games, on sports, and on Sweden's standing in the world. It's also important to sort out why she was killed, who the killer is, and what motivated him. I don't give a shit who she fucked, unless it's got something to do with her death. And neither should you."

The night editor breathed in so forcefully through his nose that he sounded like a fan.

"Do you know what, Miss Crime Editor? You are so totally wrong. You should have made sure your feet were big enough before you stepped into those shoes. Nils Langeby is right, you obviously can't handle your job. Can't you see how pathetic you are?"

The lump of stress in her stomach exploded. She felt as if she had broken into pieces. All sounds disappeared and she saw flashes before her eyes. To her own surprise, she discovered that she was still standing up, registering things with her eyes and still breathing. She turned on her heel and walked over to her office, focusing on crossing the newsroom floor with the other reporters' eyes like darts in her back. She reached her office and closed the door. She slumped down on the floor inside the door, her entire body shaking. I'm not dying, I'm not dying, I'm not dying, she thought. It'll pass, it'll pass, it'll pass… She wasn't getting any air and tried desperately to breathe; the air wasn't reaching her lungs and she took another breath, yet another one, and in the end her arms started cramping. She realized she was hyperventilating and had too much oxygen in her blood; she got to her feet and staggered over to the desk, pulled out a plastic bag from the bottom drawer, and started breathing into it. She conjured up Thomas's voice: Nice and easy, nice and easy, everything'll be all right, my friend, just breathe, you're not falling to pieces, my sweet little Annie, nice and easy, nice and easy…

The shaking subsided and she sat down in the chair. She wanted to cry but swallowed it and called Anders Schyman's home number. His wife answered and Annika tried to sound normal.

"He's at the management Christmas dinner," Mrs. Schyman said.

Annika called the switchboard and asked them to put her through to the banqueting room. She could hear that she wasn't being coherent anymore, that she barely managed to make herself understood. After a long interval of murmuring and rattling, she heard the voice of Anders Schyman.

"I'm sorry… Forgive me for disturbing you during dinner," she said quietly.

"I'm sure you have good reason to," Anders Schyman said shortly.

People were talking and laughing in the background.

"I'm also sorry I didn't make the Six Session tonight, we had a crisis at home…"

She broke out crying, uncontrollably and loud.

"What's happened? Is it something with the children?" he said with alarm.

She collected herself.

"No, no, nothing like that, but I have to ask- at the meeting, did you discuss what Spike has put on tomorrow's front page, that Christina Furhage was a lesbian?"

For several seconds, Annika only heard the background chatter and laughter.

"That what?" Anders Schyman finally said.

She put her hand on her chest and forced herself to breathe calmly.

" 'Her lover tells all,' according to the headline."

"Jesus Christ! I'm coming in," the editor-in-chief said and hung up.

She put the phone down, leaned over the desk, and started to cry. The mascara dripped onto her notes, and her whole body was shaking. I can't take it anymore, I can't, I'm dying, she thought. She realized she'd fallen down on the job. Now she'd really fucked it up. The sound of her despair would escape through the door and across the newsroom floor. Everyone would see that she wasn't up to it, it had been a mistake to promote her; she was a washout. This realization didn't help. She just couldn't stop crying. The stress and exhaustion had finally taken over her whole body. She couldn't stop shaking and crying.

After a time, she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a soothing voice somewhere above her.

"Annika, it's all right. Whatever has caused this, we can sort it out. Do you hear me, Annika?"

She held her breath and raised her head; she felt a flashing pain at the light. It was Anders Schyman.

"I'm sorry…" she said, trying to wipe the mascara off with her hands. "Sorry…"

"Here, take my handkerchief. Sit up straight and wipe your nose while I fetch a glass of water."

The editor disappeared through the door, and Annika mechanically did as she had been told. Anders Schyman returned with a plastic cup of cold water, closing the door behind him.

"Have some of this, and then tell me what's happened."

"Did you talk to Spike about the headline?"

"I'll deal with that later. It's not so important. I am worried about you. Why are you so upset?"

She started crying again, this time softly and quietly. The editor waited in silence.

"I guess it's mostly because I'm tired and worn out," she said when she had collected herself. "And then Spike said all those things you only hear in your worst nightmares- about me being a useless idiot who wasn't up to the job and stuff like that…"

She leaned back in the chair; she'd said it now. Strangely, it had made her calm down. "He has absolutely zero confidence in me as a manager, that's obvious. And he's probably not the only one."

"That's possible," Anders Schyman said, "but immaterial. What matters is that I have confidence in you, and I am absolutely convinced that you are the right person for your job."

She drew a deep breath. "I want to quit."

"You can't," he said.

"I'm resigning," she said.

"I won't accept your resignation."

"I want to go right now, tonight."

"Impossible, I'm afraid. I intend to promote you."

She stared at her boss.

"Why?" she asked in amazement.

"I wasn't going to tell you yet, but sometimes your hand is forced. I have big plans for you, Annika. I might as well tell you about them now, before you decide to leave the company for good."

She stared at Anders Schyman in disbelief.

"This paper is facing big changes," the editor began. "I don't think any of the employees can imagine just how big. We have to adapt to completely new markets, the IT world and increased competition from the free papers. We have to concentrate on our journalism. We have to have senior editors competent in all these areas. People like that don't grow on trees. We can either sit around hoping for them to appear, or we can see to it that the people we most believe in are adapted to the new conditions in advance."

Annika listened wide-eyed.

"I'll be working for ten years longer at the most, Annika, maybe only five. There'll have to be people ready to take over after me. I'm not saying it'll be you, but you are one of three people I consider who might. There's a whole pack of things you need to learn before then, and controlling your temper is one of them. But right now you're the best candidate for my job. You're creative and quick-witted. I've never seen the like, actually. You take responsibility and conflict with equal aplomb. You're structured, competent, and full of initiative. I'm not going to let some idiot night editor drive you away, I hope you realize that. You're not the one who's leaving, the idiots are."

The potential future editor blinked in astonishment.

"So I would appreciate it if you could delay handing in your resignation until the new year," Schyman went on. "There are a couple of people in the newsroom who want to harm you, and it's hard to defend yourself against that. Leave it to me. We'll talk again when this Bomber crisis has calmed down a bit. I'd like you to think about what further training might be good for you. We need to make a plan for which different posts you should cover. It's important you learn the trade at all levels of the newsroom. You also need to have a grasp of the technical and administrative side of the company. You have to win acceptance and respect everywhere, that is imperative. And you will, if we do this the right way.

Annika just sat there gaping. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"You've really thought this through," she said in amazement.

"This isn't an offer to become editor-in-chief; it's a call for you to get started on your training and get the experience you need to be taken into consideration when the time comes. And I don't want this to go any further, excepting your husband. What do you say?"

Annika shook herself.

"Thank you."

Anders Schyman smiled. "Why don't you go on holiday now and come back after New Year's? You must have a mountain of overtime by now."

"I was going to work tomorrow morning, and I don't want to change that just because Spike was an asshole. I hope to have my picture of Christina Furhage clear by then."

"Anything we can use?"

She mournfully shook her head.

"I really don't know. We need to talk about it; it's a tragic story."

"All the more interesting. We'll talk about it later."

Anders Schyman got up and left the room. Annika was left sitting at her desk, an enormous feeling of peace inside her. That's how easy it was to feel okay again, all it took to erase despair as black as night. Setting the record straight, and it was as if the humiliation in the newsroom had never occurred.

She put her coat on and left through the back door, grabbed a taxi from the stand, and went home.

Thomas was asleep; she washed off the remnants of her mascara, brushed her teeth, and crept into bed next to her husband. It wasn't until there, in the dark, with the ceiling floating somewhere above her in the dark, that she remembered what the police had hinted to her earlier that night:

They knew who the Bomber was, and they were about to move in on him.