Liza Marklund - The Bomber

The union wouldn't have much to make a noise about anyway. Anders Schyman had simply made the reporter an offer. People were often offered severance packages in the trade, even if it hadn't happened many times at this particular paper. All the union could do was to support its member during negotiations and make sure he got as good a deal as possible.

And should all hell break loose, one of the in-house lawyers, an expert in employment law, was preparing a really nasty case before the industrial tribunal. Then the union's central ombudsman would enter as the other party and appear for Nils Langeby in court, but the paper couldn't lose. Schyman's only objective was to get rid of the fucker, and he intended to succeed.

The editor took another sip of water, lifted the receiver, and asked Eva-Britt Qvist to come in. He'd given Spike one hell of a tongue-lashing the night before, so there wouldn't be any further hassle from him. He might as well deal with them all at a stroke.

The call from the tipster Leif came to the newsdesk at 11:47 A.M., only three minutes after the event. Berit took the call.

"The central Stockholm sorting office has been blown up. There are at least four casualties," the tipster said and hung up. Before the information had even registered in Berit's brain, Leif had already dialed the next paper. You had to be first, or there'd be no money.

Berit didn't put the receiver down; she just quickly pressed the cradle down and phoned the police central control room.

"Has there been an explosion at the sorting office?" she quickly asked.

"We have no information as yet," an extremely stressed police officer replied.

"But has there?" Berit insisted.

"Looks like it," he said.

They hung up, and Berit threw the remains of her sandwich in the trash.

At 12:00 P.M. Radio Stockholm was the first to report on the explosion.

Annika left Tungelsta with a peculiar sense of warmth in her soul. The human psyche did, after all, have a remarkable ability to self-heal. She waved to Olof Furhage and Alice as she turned into Älvvägen and drove away toward Allévägen, cruising at a leisurely pace in the pleasant neighborhood toward the main road. She could picture herself living here. She drove past the villages Krigslida, Glasberga, and Norrskogen over toward Västerhaninge Junction and the motorway into Stockholm.

She put the car in the right lane and picked up the phone that she had left on the passenger seat. "Missed call" the display said; she pressed for "show number" and noted that the switchboard of the paper had tried to reach her. She sighed lightly and put the phone back down. She was very happy Christmas was so near.

She switched on the radio and sang along to Alphaville's "Forever Young."

Just after the exit to Dalarö, the phone rang. She swore and turned down the radio, pushed the earpiece into her ear, and pressed "answer."

"Is that Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjö. We met last Tuesday at Sätra Hall and then I called you in the evening…"

Annika groaned to herself, of course- the loony project manager. "Hello," Annika said, overtaking a Russian container truck.

"I was wondering if you've got time for a chat?"

"Not really," Annika said and steered back into the right-hand lane.

"It's quite important," Beata Ekesjö said.

Annika sighed.

"What's it about?"

"I think I know who killed Christina Furhage."

Annika nearly drove into the ditch.

"You do? How could you know that?"

"I've found something."

Annika's brain had really got going now.

"What?"

"I can't say."

"Have you told the police?"

"No, I wanted to show you first."

"Me? Why?"

"Because you've been writing about it."

Annika slowed down in order to be able to think and was immediately overtaken by the Russian truck. The snow whirled around her on the road.

"It's not me investigating the murder, but the Krim," she said.

"You don't want to write about me?"

The woman was obviously intent on appearing in the paper.

Annika considered the pros and cons. On the one hand, the woman was eccentric and probably didn't know a thing, and she just wanted to get home. On the other hand, you don't hang up if someone calls and offers you the solution to a murder.

"Tell me what you've discovered and I'll tell you whether I'll write about it or not."

It was hard work driving in the snow whipped up by the Russian truck, so Annika overtook it once more.

"I can show you."

Annika groaned quietly and looked at her watch: a quarter to one.

"All right, where is it?"

"Out here, at the Olympic arena."

She was just driving past Trångsund, and Annika realized she would practically be driving past Victoria Stadium on her way back to the newspaper.

"Okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes."

"Great," Beata said. "I'll meet you on the forecourt below…"

The phone emitted three short tones and the call was interrupted. The battery was dead. Annika started digging for the other battery at the bottom of her bag but gave up when she veered into the outside lane by mistake. The phone would have to wait until she got out of the car. Instead she turned up the radio again and to her delight heard that they'd just started spinning Gloria Gaynor's old hit "I Will Survive."

There were already several news reporters and photographers outside the sorting office when Berit and Johan Henriksson arrived. Berit squinted up at the futuristic building; the sun was glittering on the glass and chrome.

"Our Bomber is reinventing himself," she said. "He hasn't done letter bombs before."

Henriksson loaded his cameras while they climbed the steps to the main entrance. The other reporters were waiting inside in the bright entrance hall. Berit looked around as she stepped inside. It was a typical 1980s building: marble, escalators, and ceilings reaching for the sky.

"Is anyone from Kvällspressen here?" a man over by the elevators asked.

Berit and Henriksson looked at each other in surprise.

"Yes, over here," Berit said.

"Could you come with me, please?" the man said.

The cordons had been lifted and the approach plowed, so Annika could drive all the way up to the steps below the stadium. She looked around. The sunlight was so strong she had to squint, but she couldn't see a soul anywhere near. She stayed in the car, leaving the engine running, while she listened to Dusty Springfield in "I Only Wanna Be with You." She jumped when there was a knock on the window right by her ear.

"Hiya! My God, you scared me there," Annika said when she opened the door.

Beata Ekesjö smiled.

"Don't worry," she said.

Annika switched off the engine and put her cellphone in the bag.

"You can't park here," Beata Ekesjö said. "You'll get a ticket."

"But I'm not staying long," Annika protested.

"No, but we've got to walk a bit. The fine is 700 kronor here."

"So where should I park?"

Beata pointed. "There, the other side of the footbridge. I'll wait here for you."

Annika started the car again. Why do I let people push me around? she mused as she drove back the way she had come and parked among the other cars next to the new housing development. Oh, well, she could do with a couple of minutes' walk in the sunshine, that didn't happen every day. The main thing was not to be late picking up the kids from daycare. Annika took out the phone and changed batteries. There was a beep when she put the new one in, and "message received" appeared on the display. She pressed "c" to remove the message and called the daycare center. They closed at five, an hour earlier than usual but still later than she'd counted on. She breathed out and started walking across the footbridge.