Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"I grow organic tomatoes," Olof Furhage said.

"In December, too," Annika remarked.

The man laughed again; laughter seemed to come easily to him.

"No, not at the moment. I lifted the plants in October. You let the soil rest over the winter. In organic farming, it's vital to keep the greenhouse and soil free of bacteria and fungus diseases. Present-day farmers often use rock wool or peat, but I stick to soil. Come here, I'll show you."

He walked down the path and stopped at the far end. There was a big metal device on the outside.

"This is a steam-boiler," Olof Furhage said. "Through the pipes that enter here I pipe in steam, which goes down into the soil and warms it up. That kills off the fungus. I've had it on in the morning, which is why it's so warm in here."

Annika watched with great interest. There are so many things one doesn't know.

"So when will there be some tomatoes?" she asked politely.

"You shouldn't rush tomatoes; the plants become weak and unstable. I start toward the end of February, and by October the plants are up to eighteen feet tall."

Annika looked around the greenhouse.

"How? The ceiling isn't high enough."

Olof Furhage gave another laugh.

"Do you see that wire up there? When the plant reaches that, you bend it over the wire. About two feet from the ground is another wire. That has the same function: You bend the plant around it and it starts growing upwards again."

"That's clever," Annika said.

"How about that coffee now?"

They left the greenhouse and walked toward the house.

"You grew up here in Tungelsta, didn't you?" she asked.

The man nodded and held the door open for her.

"Please take your shoes off. Yes, I grew up nearby, in Kvarnvägen. Hello, sweetheart, is everything okay?"

The last few words he called toward the interior of the house, and a girl's voice could be heard from upstairs.

"Fine, Dad, but I'm stuck. Can you help me?"

"Sure, in a little while. I've got a visitor."

Olof Furhage pulled off his heavy boots.

"She's been down with the flu. She was really sick. I bought her a new computer game on CD-ROM to comfort her. Please come in, this way…"

A little face appeared on the stairs to the upper floor.

"Hello," the girl said. "My name's Alice."

She was nine or ten years old.

"My name's Annika."

Alice disappeared back to her computer game.

"She lives with me every other week, and her sister Petra has moved in here for good. Petra's fourteen," Olof Furhage said, while pouring water into the coffeemaker.

"You're divorced?" Annika said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Yes, a couple of years now. Milk and sugar?"

"Neither, thanks."

Olof Furhage prepared the coffee, laid the table, and sat down opposite Annika. It was a cozy kitchen, with a wooden floor, paneled kitchen cupboards, a checked red-and-white tablecloth, and an electric Star of Bethlehem in the window. There was a splendid view of the greenhouse from the window.

"How much do you know?" he asked.

Annika took out her pad and pen from the bag.

"Do you mind if I take notes? I know that your father was Carl Furhage and that Christina left you with a couple in Tungelsta when you were five years old. I also know that you contacted Christina a few years ago and that she was terrified of you."

Olof Furhage laughed again but this time a sad laughter.

"Yes, poor Christina, I could never understand why she was so horror-struck," he said. "I wrote a letter to her just after my divorce, mostly because I was feeling so incredibly low. I wrote and asked her all those questions I'd always had and never got an answer to. Why she gave me up, if she'd ever loved me, why she'd never come to visit me, why she wouldn't let Gustav and Elna adopt me… But she never replied."

"So you went to see her?"

The man sighed. "Yes, I took to driving over to Tyresö, sitting outside her house during the weeks when the girls were at their mother's. I wanted to see what she looked like, where she lived, how she lived… She'd become well-known by then. With the Olympics, she was in the papers every week."

The coffeemaker spluttered, Olof Furhage got to his feet, fetched the pot, and put it on the table.

"I'll let it percolate a bit longer," he said. He took out a plate with a sponge cake from the refrigerator. "One night she came home alone. It was in the spring, I remember that. She was heading for the front door when I stepped out of the car and walked up to her. When I said who I was, she looked as if she was going to faint. She stared at me as if I were a ghost. I asked her why she hadn't answered my letter, but she didn't reply. When I started asking the questions that I'd asked in the letter, she turned around and walked toward the front door, still not saying a word. I was furious and started screaming at her. 'Bloody bitch!' I screamed. 'Couldn't you at least give me a minute of your time,' or something like that. She started running and stumbled on the steps in front of the door. I ran after her and grabbed her, turning her around and shouting 'Look at me!' or something…"

He dropped his head, as if the memory hurt him.

"Didn't she say anything?" Annika asked.

"Yes, two words: 'Go away!' Then she went inside, locked the door, and phoned the police. They picked me up, here in this kitchen, that same evening."

He poured out coffee and put one sugar in his cup.

"Have you ever had any contact with her?"

"Not since she left me with Gustav and Elna. I remember the evening when we went there clearly. We went in a taxi, Mom and I; it felt like a long journey. I was happy. She had made it into an adventure, a fun outing."

"Did you like your mother?" Annika queried.

"Of course I did. I loved her. She was my mother, she read stories and sang to me, often gave me hugs, and said evening prayers with me every night. She was slim and bright, like an angel."

He fell silent and looked down at the table.

"When we arrived at Gustav and Elna's, we had dinner, pork sausages and mashed turnips. I remember it to this day. I didn't like it, but Mom said I had to finish it. Then she took me out in the hallway and said that I had to stay with Gustav and Elna because she had to go away. I was hysterical. I suppose I was a bit of a momma's boy. Gustav held me while Mom grabbed her things and rushed out. I think she was crying, but my memory could be deceiving me."

He had some coffee.

"I lay shaking all through the night, screaming and crying when I could muster the strength. Though things got better as the days passed. Elna and Gustav were both over fifty and had no children of their own. You could justifiably say that they spoiled me. They came to love me more than anything else in the world. You couldn't have had better parents. They're both dead now."

"Did you ever see your mother again?"

"Yes, once, when I was thirteen. Gustav and Elna had written to her, saying they wanted to adopt me. I remember I sent along a letter and a drawing as well. She came one evening, asking us to leave her alone. I recognized her immediately, even though I hadn't seen her since I was a small child. She said that adoption was out of the question, and she didn't want any more letters or drawings in the future."

Annika was speechless.

"I was devastated, of course, what kid wouldn't be? She remarried soon after coming here, perhaps that was why she was so uptight."

"Why wouldn't she let your foster parents adopt you?"

"I've wondered about that," Olof Furhage said, pouring out more coffee for Annika and himself. "I was about to inherit an awful lot of money. Carl Furhage had no other children apart from me, and after the death of his third wife he was wealthy- maybe you knew that? Yes, well, then you also know that he instituted a generous scholarship with most of his money. I received my statutory share of the inheritance, and Mother held that in trust. And she did that with a vengeance. There was hardly anything left by the time I came of age."