Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"The identification procedure of the victim at the stadium is now more or less complete," the prosecutor said, as all of the reporters craned their necks.

"The family has been informed, which is why we have decided to make it public, although there is some work still to be carried out… The deceased is Christina Furhage, Managing Director of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games."

Annika's reaction was almost physical: yes! I knew it! I knew it! When the excited voices at the press conference were reaching fever pitch, she was already on her way out of the building. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and dialed the number she had memorized. With out a sound, her phone called the other handset, and then the number was ringing. She stopped in the small lobby between the reception area and the front doors, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and focused all her energy on communicating a telepathic message: please, somebody, pick up, pick up! Three rings, four rings, and there was a click! Someone was answering! Christ, who could it be?

Annika screwed up her eyes even tighter and began talking quietly and slowly. "Good afternoon. My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from Kvällspressen. To whom am I speaking?"

"I'm Bertil Milander," someone said in a faint voice.

Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, surely that was Christina Furhage's husband? Wasn't that his name? To be on the safe side, Annika continued as slowly as before: "Is this Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage's husband?"

The man at the other end sighed. "Yes, that's right."

Annika's heart was pounding. This was the most unpleasant call a reporter could ever make- to the house of a person whose next of kin had just died. There was an ongoing debate within the press corps whether these calls should be made at all. Annika felt it was better to call than not, if for no other reason than to tell people what the paper was doing.

"Let me begin by saying how deeply saddened I am by the tragedy that has struck you and your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife Christina who died in the explosion at Victoria Stadium," she began.

The man said nothing.

"By the way, isn't this Christina's cellphone?" she heard herself ask.

"No, it's the family's," the man said in surprise.

"The reason I'm calling is to tell you that we will be writing about your wife in tomorrow's paper."

"You already have," the man said.

"Yes, we have been covering the bomb attack, the event itself."

"Weren't you the ones with that photo? The photo where…"

His voice cracked as he started sobbing. Annika put her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. God, the man had seen Henriksson's picture of the doctors picking up the pieces of his wife. God almighty! She soundlessly drew a breath.

"Yes, that was us," she said calmly. "I regret we couldn't warn you we would run that picture, but we have only now found out that your wife was the victim. I couldn't call any sooner. I apologize if the picture caused you suffering. That's why I believe it's vital to talk to you now. We will continue writing about this tomorrow."

The man was crying.

"If there's anything you want to say, I'm here," Annika said. "If you have any complaints or want us to write, or not write, about something in particular, we want you to tell us. Mr. Milander?"

He blew his nose.

"I'm still here," he said.

Annika looked up and through the glass wall saw the phalanx of media beginning to leave the building. Quickly she pushed the door open and went outside to stand next to the steps. Through the earpiece she heard two signals announce that someone was trying to get through to the other phone.

"I understand how completely awful this must be for you," she said. "I can't even begin to understand what it must be like. But this is a world event, one of the worst crimes ever committed in this country. Your wife was a prominent figure and a role model to the women of Sweden. That's why it's our duty to cover the event. And that's why I appeal to you to talk to us, to give us a chance to be respectful. Just tell me how you want it. We could make things even worse by writing the wrong things and unintentionally hurt you."

The call-waiting signal again. The man was wavering.

"I'll give you my own and my editor's direct numbers, and then you can call when you feel ready…"

"Come here," the man cut in. "I want to talk."

Annika closed her eyes and was ashamed of the exultation she felt inside. She had an interview with the victim's husband! She took the secret address, jotting it down on the back of a taxi receipt she found in her pocket. Before she had time to consider the ethics of it, she quickly added:

"Your phone will be ringing without interruption from now on. Don't hesitate to switch it off if you feel it's too much for you."

She had got hold of him. It would be best if no one else did.

She pushed inside the building to find her colleagues. The first one she bumped into was Berit.

"I got hold of the family," she said. "I'll take Henriksson and go there now. You do Furhage's last hours and Patrik the hunt for the murderer. How does that sound?"

"Fine," Berit said. "Henriksson is somewhere at the back. He dragged Kjell Lindström out to get a picture of him. It's probably quicker to go around…"

Annika rushed out and, sure enough, found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, the street around the corner from police headquarters. He was perched on a paper recycling container with Lindström below him and the steel-mesh corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindström and then pulled the young photographer along with her.

"Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow," she told him.

Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left. Everything she was had been grilled to charcoal and died. She felt the salty tears running down her face, but she didn't feel she was crying. There was nothing but an echo in her body. Her body was a void, filled only with a roaring noise: Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead…

Someone knocked on the door.

"Helena! How are you? Do you need any help?"

She groaned and sank to the floor, curling up under the washbasin. Christina is dead, Christina…

"Open the door, Helena! Are you ill?"

Christina is dead, Christina is dead…

"Get this door open, someone!"

Something hit her, something that hurt. It was the light from the fluorescents in the corridor.

"Christ, help her up! What happened?"

They would never understand, she mused, noticing that she still could think. They would never understand. Never ever.

She observed how someone was lifting her up. She heard someone screaming, then realized it was herself.

The building was a burnt ochre color and was built in Art-Nouveau style. It was situated in Upper Östermalm, on one of those tranquil streets where all the cars were shiny and the ladies had little white dogs on a leash. The entrance was magnificent, of course: marble floors, paneled doors with faceted glass panes, beechwood and brass in the elevator, marbled walls in a warm yellow tone. Facing the courtyard was a large ornamental stained-glass window with a floral pattern. The floor from the street door and all the way up the stairs was covered with a deep-pile runner carpet in green. Annika thought she recognized it from the Grand Hotel.