Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"Who is the dark man, and who is the witness?"

"I haven't been able to get anything on that," Patrik said.

Suddenly Annika remembered something her driver had said in the car on the way out to the stadium early that morning. "There's an unlicensed club out there," she said, straightening up in her chair. "The injured driver had a fare there when the bomb went off. There must've been people there, both guests and staff. That's where we'll find our witness. Have we talked to them?"

Patrik and Berit looked at each other.

"We've got to go to the docks and talk to them," Annika said.

"An unlicensed club?" Berit was skeptical. "How keen will they be to talk to us?"

"What the hell," Annika said, "you never know. Let them speak anonymously or off the record- they can just tell you if they saw something or know anything."

"Sounds like a good idea," Patrik said. "It could be productive."

"Have the police talked to them?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask," Patrik said.

"Okay," Annika said. "I'll call the police. You get out there and try to find the club. Call the injured driver. We've got him hidden away at the Royal Viking. Ask him exactly where the club is. They won't be open tonight, I presume; the place is probably inside the police cordons. Still, talk to the driver and see if he had a name for the customer he drove there. Maybe it was he who recommended the club because he knows someone there, you never know."

"I'll go right now," Patrik said. He picked up his jacket and was gone.

Berit sighed. "I can't really believe it was a terrorist attack," she said. "Why? To put a stop to the Games? Then why start now, it's a little late in the day."

Annika doodled on her pad. "One thing I do know," she said. "The police better catch this Bomber person, otherwise this country will have a hangover it hasn't seen since Olof Palme was killed."

Berit nodded, picked up her things, and went out to her desk.

Annika called her contact, but he wasn't available. She e-mailed an official police communication about the illegal club to Patrik. Then she went and picked up a copy of the Government's official yearbook and looked up the name of the director of the local tax office in Tyresö. It gave his name and the year of his birth. His name was much too common to be easily found in the phone directory, so Annika had to Reg him first. This way she got his home address, then information found him quick as a flash.

He answered on the fourth ring and sounded quite drunk. It was Saturday night after all. Annika switched on her tape recorder.

"I can't say a word about Christina Furhage," the tax director said, sounding like he was about to hang up on her straight away.

"Naturally," Annika said calmly. "I'd just like to ask a few general questions about people being off record and about threat scenarios."

A group of people burst out laughing simultaneously in the background. She must have called in the middle of a dinner party or a Christmas drinks party.

"You'll have to call me at the office on Monday," the tax director said.

"But the paper will have gone to print long before then," Annika said in a silky voice. "The readers have a right to a comment tomorrow. What reason shall I give for you not answering?"

The man breathed silently down the line. Annika could feel him debating with himself. He understood that she was alluding to his intoxication. She wouldn't ever write anything like that in the paper; you just don't. But if an official was awkward, she didn't hesitate to use a few tricks to get her way.

"What do you want to know?" he said icily.

Annika smiled. "What does it take for a person to be off record?" she asked.

She knew that already, but the man's words when describing it would be a recapitulation of Christina's case.

The man sighed, giving it some thought. "Well, there has to be a threat. A real threat," he said. "Not just a telephone call, but something more, something serious."

"Like a death threat?" Annika said.

"For example. Though there has to be more, something to make a court issue a restraining order."

"An incident? Some kind of violent act?" Annika asked.

"You could put it that way."

"Would someone be made off record for less than what you've described to me?"

"No, they wouldn't," the man said firmly. "If the threat were of a less serious nature, it would suffice to have a security flag in the Public Register."

"How many people have you approved for going off record during your time in Tyresö?"

He pondered the question then said, "Uh… three."

"Christina Furhage, her husband, and her daughter," Annika declared.

"I didn't say that," the tax director said.

"Can you comment on Christina Furhage being off record?" she swiftly continued.

"No, I cannot," the man said in a surly tone.

"What kind of death threat was directed at Christina Furhage?"

"I can't comment on that."

"What was the act of violence behind your decision to grant her off-record status?"

"I can't say anything more in the matter. We'll end the interview here," the man said and hung up.

Annika smiled happily. She was home and dry now. Without saying a word about Christina, the man had confirmed it all.

After another couple of verifying calls, she wrote her copy on the threat scenario, keeping the terrorist theory at a reasonable level. Just after 11 P.M. she was done. Patrik still hadn't returned. That boded well.

She gave her copy to Jansson, who was now in full swing out by the desk, ruffling his hair and continually speaking on the phone.

She decided to walk home, despite the cold and the dark, despite her empty head. Her legs were aching; they always did when she was exhausted. A brisk walk was the best remedy, then she wouldn't have to take a painkiller when she got home. She quickly put on her coat and pulled the hat over her ears before she had time to change her mind.

"I'm on my cellphone," was all she said to Jansson on her way out. He waved to her without looking up from the phone.

The temperature had really shifted up and down today; now it was just below freezing again and large snowflakes were slowly falling. They were nearly hanging still in the air, wavering back and forth on their way to the ground. The snow wrapped all sounds and deadened them. Annika didn't hear the 57 bus until it drove past right next to her.

She took the stairs down to the Rålambshov Park. The path across the wide lawn was muddy and cut up by prams and bicycles; she slipped and nearly fell, swearing to herself. A startled hare leapt away from her into the shadows. Amazing that there were so many animals in the middle of the city. Once Thomas had been chased by a badger on their own street on his way home from the pub. She laughed out loud in the dark at the memory.

The wind was stronger here than up among the buildings, so she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. The snowflakes were wilder and wet her hair. She hadn't seen her kids all day. She hadn't called back since the morning; it would only have been painful. Usually she felt okay working in the week, since all the kids in Sweden were at daycare centers then and her conscience could rest. But on a Saturday like today, the last one before Christmas, you were supposed to be at home making toffee and baking saffron buns. Annika sighed, and the snowflakes whirled around her. The problem was that when she did organize a baking session or some other big activity it was never much fun. At first both children thought it was great and would quarrel about who would stand next to her. By the time they'd fought over the dough and messed up the whole kitchen, her patience would be giving out. It would be worse if she'd had a hard time at work; she'd end up blowing her top. It had ended that way on more occasions than she cared to think of. The kids would sulk in front of the TV, while she finished the baking at lightning speed. Then Thomas would put them to bed while she cleaned the kitchen. She let out another sigh. Maybe this time it would have been different. No one would have burned their fingers on the sticky toffee and they could all have eaten freshly baked saffron buns together in front of the fire.