"Yeah, right. Well, my sources tell me it was a terrorist attack, a clear as day terrorist attack."
"Police sources?" Ingvar Johansson sounded surprised.
"Impeccable police sources," Nils Langeby said, thrusting his chest out. He took off his leather jacket, started rolling up his shirt sleeves, and walked off toward his room along the corridor that overlooked the parking lot.
"I'll fucking show you, bitch!"
* * *
Anders Schyman barely had time to lift the first piece of paper from the top of the highest pile before there was another knock at the door. This time it was the photographer Ulf Olsson who wanted a heart-to-heart. He had just returned from the press conference at police headquarters and wanted to tell the editor in all confidentiality how he had been treated by the crime editor Annika Bengtzon the previous day.
"I'm not used to people criticizing me on account of my clothes," the photographer said, adding that he had been wearing an Armani suit at the time.
"Tell me what happened," Schyman said.
"Annika Bengtzon expressed her disapproval of my wearing a designer suit. I don't think I should have to take that. I've never been treated like that at other jobs."
Anders Schyman contemplated the man for a few seconds before replying.
"I don't know what went on between you and Annika Bengtzon," he said. "Nor do I know where you've worked previously or what the dress code was there. As far as I'm concerned— and I know that goes for Annika Bengtzon, too— you can wear Armani as much as you like. You can wear it down a coal mine if you want. But don't blame anyone but yourself if you've got the wrong clothes for a job. I and all the rest of the senior editors of this paper take it for granted that everyone here is reasonably up to date on what's happening in the world when they come to work. If there's been a murder or a bomb attack, just assume you'll be covering it. I suggest you get a big bag with long johns and maybe a tracksuit and keep it in the car…"
"I've already got a bag," the photographer said morosely. "Annika Bengtzon gave one to me."
Anders Schyman gave the man a detached look.
"Anything else I can do for you?" he said. The photographer got up and left.
The editor sighed heavily when the door closed. Jesus. Sometimes he felt like a grade school principal. Bunch of children. He longed to go home to his wife and a large whisky.
* * *
Annika and Johan Henriksson pulled up at McDonald's on Sveavägen and bought two Big Mac meals, which they ate in the car on their way back to the paper.
"I hate doing that," Henriksson said when he had put away the last of his French fries.
"Visiting bereaved families? Yeah, I guess that's about as bad as it gets," Annika said, wiping ketchup off her fingers.
"I can't help it, but I feel like a parasite sitting there," Henriksson said. "Like I'm only there to revel in their misfortune. Gloat because it looks good in the paper."
Annika wiped her mouth and pondered his words for a moment.
"Yes," she said, "it's easy to have that feeling. But sometimes people just want to talk. You mustn't think people are stupid just because they're in a state of shock. Sure, you have to show respect. It's not certain you'll write about the family just because you listen to and talk to them."
"But people who've just lost someone don't always know what they're doing."
"How can you be so sure?" Annika said. "Who are you to decide that someone shouldn't get the chance to talk? Who are we to judge what's best for a particular person in a particular situation? You, me, or that person? We're always arguing about this in the papers and no one has the right answer."
"I still think it's horrible," he said sulkily.
Annika smiled faintly.
"Of course it is. Facing a person who's just met with the worst possible misfortune is one of the hardest things that can happen to you, that's a fact. You can't do many interviews like that in a month. But you get used to it too. Think of people in the caring professions or in the church; they work with tragedies daily."
"They don't have to parade them on the front page," Henriksson said.
"Christ, will you stop carping!" Annika exclaimed, suddenly all steamed up. "It's not as if it's a punishment being on the front page! It shows you're important, that you count. Should we ignore all victims and members of family? Think of the fuss the victims' families kicked up after the
Estonia
ferry disaster. They felt they were getting far too little attention from the media, saying the papers only wrote about the faulty bow doors— and they were right. There was a time when it was taboo to even talk to an
Estonia
victim's family member. If you did, the entire morality mob from the current affairs programs would come after you full force."
"All right, Annika. No need to shout," Henriksson said.
"I'll shout if I fucking want to," Annika said.
They were quiet for the rest of the journey to the paper. In the elevator up to the newsroom, Henriksson gave a conciliatory smile and said:
"I think we got a really good picture of Mr. Milander by the window."
"That's nice," Annika said. "We'll have to see if we use it."
She opened the elevator door and quickly walked out without waiting for a reply.
* * *
Eva-Britt Qvist was busy compiling background material on Christina Furhage when Annika walked past on her way to her room. The secretary was surrounded by files full of old cuttings and computer printouts by the mile.
"There's no end to how much has been written about this woman," she said, trying hard to sound curt. "But I think I've found most of it now."
"Do you think you could prioritize the stuff, then hand it over to someone else to continue with?" Annika said.
"You have a way of presenting orders in the guise of questions," Eva-Britt said.
Annika couldn't be bothered even to answer but went into her office and hung up her coat and scarf. She got a cup of coffee and went over to Pelle Oscarsson, pulled up a chair, and looked at his computer screen. It was filled with stamp-sized pictures, all from the paper's archives, all depicting Christina Furhage.
"We've published more than six hundred in-house pictures of this woman," Pelle Oscarsson said. "We must have photographed her on average once a week over the last eight years. That's more than the King."
Annika gave a lopsided grin; yes, perhaps that was possible. Everything Christina Furhage had done over the past few years had attracted attention, and the woman had enjoyed it. Annika studied the photos: Christina Furhage at the inauguration of the Olympic arena; Christina Furhage briefing the Prime Minister; Christina Furhage meeting the popular singer Lill-Babs; Christina Furhage embracing Samaranch; Christina Furhage showing off her new autumn wardrobe in the Sunday supplement.
Pelle Oscarsson clicked and a new set of images appeared on the screen: Christina Furhage greeting the U.S. President, attending a Royal Theater gala premiere, having tea with the Queen, speaking at a women and leadership conference…
"Is there a single picture of her at home or with her family?" Annika wondered aloud.
The picture editor thought for a moment. "I don't think so," he said, taken aback. "Now that you mention it, there isn't one single personal picture of her. They're all official."
"I think we'll be all right, though," Annika said as the photos flashed by.
"We should use this one on the front page," Pelle said, clicking on a portrait taken in the newspaper's own studio. In a couple of seconds, the picture covered the entire screen, and Annika saw that the picture editor was right in his choice. It was a brilliant portrait of Christina Furhage. The woman was professionally made-up, her hair was shiny and styled, the lighting was warm and soft, smoothing out the lines in her face, she was wearing an expensive, close-fitting tailored suit, and had assumed a dignified, relaxed pose in an elegant antique armchair.
"How old was she?" Annika wondered.
"Sixty-two," the picture editor replied. "We did a piece on her last birthday."
"Wow," Annika said. "She looks fifteen years younger."
"Plastic surgery, healthy lifestyle, good genes…" Pelle said.
"Or all of them," Annika replied.
Anders Schyman walked past with an empty, dirty coffee mug in his hand. He looked tired, his hair was tousled, and he had loosened his tie.
"How are you doing?" he stopped and asked.
"We've been to see Furhage's family."
"Anything we can use?"
Annika hesitated. "Yes, I think so. Some. Henriksson took a picture of the husband, who was quite confused."
"We'll have to look at it carefully," he said and continued walking in the direction of the cafeteria.
"What pics do we use for the news stories?" Pelle Oscarsson asked while clicking the portrait away.
Annika swallowed the last of her coffee.
"We'll have to run through that with the others as soon as they arrive," she said.
She threw her plastic cup in Eva-Britt Qvist's wastepaper basket, went into her office, and shut the door behind her. It was telephone time. She started off with her contact; he was on the day shift today. She dialed his direct number, past the police headquarters' switchboard. She got lucky— he answered on the first ring.
"How did you figure that out, about her being off-record?" he wondered.
"When did you figure out it was Furhage?" Annika retorted without answering the question.
The man let out a sigh.
"Almost straightaway. It was her stuff at the stadium. But the actual identification took a bit longer, of course. You don't really want to make a mistake…"
Annika waited in silence, but he didn't continue. So she said:
"What next?"
"Checking, checking, checking. At least we know it wasn't the Tiger."
"How do you know?" Annika said in surprise.
"I can't tell you that, but it wasn't him. It was someone on the inside, just like you thought yesterday."
"I have to write that story today, you know that, don't you?" she said.
He sighed again.
"Yeah, I guessed as much," he said. "Thanks for keeping it under wraps for twenty-four hours, though."
"Give and take," Annika said.
"So what do you want?" he asked.
"Why was she off-record?"
"There was a threat, a written one, three or four years back. A kind of violent incident, too, but not very serious."
"What kind of violent incident?"
"I don't want to go into that. The person in question was never prosecuted. Christina didn't want to 'ruin' them, as she's supposed to have put it. 'Everyone deserves a second chance,' she is also reported to have said. She was content with moving and asking for— and getting— herself and her family classified as off-record."
"How magnanimous of her," Annika said.
"Absolutely."
"Did the threat have anything to do with the Olympics?"
"Not in the least."
"Was it someone she knew— a member of the family?"
The policeman hesitated.
"Yes, you could say that. The attacker had purely personal motives. That's why we don't want to make it public; it's too close to her. There is absolutely nothing that points to the bomb attack on the arena being a terrorist act. We believe it was aimed at Christina personally, but that doesn't mean the perpetrator was someone close to her."
"Will you question the person who threatened her?"
"We already have."
Annika blinked.
"You're not exactly sitting around doing nothing, from what you're saying. What did that give you?"
"We can't comment on that one. But I can say this: There is today no one person who's under more suspicion than anyone else."
"And who is 'anyone else'?"
"That you can figure out for yourself. Anyone who's ever had contact with her. That must be about four or five thousand people. We can rule out quit a few of them, but I don't intend to tell you who."
"There must be a lot of people with entry cards," Annika coaxed him.
"Who are you thinking of?"
"The Olympic Secretariat, the members of the IOC, the caretakers at the arena, people from all the contractors building the facilities, electricians, builders, foundry workers, transport firms, architects, security firms, the TV sports people…"
He remained silent.
