"Well, this is where she did the spadework. Then she had her office downtown, just behind Rosenbad. That's where she had her third secretary, where all meetings and negotiations took place and where she received the press and various guests…. Do you want a ride somewhere?"
"No, thanks, I'm going to say hello to a friend over at the old lamp factory," Annika said.
"You can't walk there in this mud," Evert Danielsson said. "I'll drop you over there."
He had a brand new company car, a Volvo— naturally. Volvo was one of the main sponsors. He unlocked the central locking, beep-beep, with a remote control, caressing the car roof before opening the door. Annika got in on the passenger side, put on the seat belt, and said:
"Who do you think blew her up?"
Evert Danielsson started up the car and revved it twice, carefully put it in reverse, and stroked the wheel.
"Well," he said, "one thing I know for sure. There were a lot of people with a reason for doing it."
Annika bounced. "What do you mean by that?"
The man didn't reply but drove in silence the five hundred meters to the old factory building. He stopped outside the gates.
"I want to know if you write anything about me."
Annika gave him her card and asked him to call her if there was anything he wanted to tell her, thanked him for the ride, and got out.
"One thing I know for sure," she quoted him, "this story keeps getting more and more complex."
She went up to the TV company where Anne Snapphane worked. Anne was still editing and seemed relieved to have a break.
"I'll be done soon," she said. "Do you want some glogg?"
"Nonalcoholic," Annika said. "Is there a phone I could use?"
"Take the one on my desk. I'm just…"
Annika went over to Anne Snapphane's desk and threw her coat on top of it. She started by calling Berit.
"I've talked to the limo driver, Christina's chauffeur," Berit said. "The rival already did that yesterday, but he had some new stuff to tell me. He confirmed that Christina had her laptop with her— she left it behind, so they had to go back and get it. He hadn't worked long for Christina, only about two months. She had a hell of a turnover of drivers."
"You don't say," Annika said.
She heard Berit turning over the pages on a pad.
"He also said that she was extremely worried about being followed. He was never allowed to drive straight from the Secretariat to her house. He also had to check the car carefully every day. Christina was scared of bombs."
"Well done!"
"What else was there… Oh, yes, he'd been given express orders never to let the daughter, Lena, anywhere near the car. Weird, eh?"
Annika sighed lightly.
"Christina seems to have been a bit paranoid. But it'll make for one hell of a story, Christina afraid of being blown up. The bit about the daughter we'll have to leave out."
"Absolutely. I'm chasing the police for a comment right now."
"What's Patrik doing?"
"He hasn't showed up yet. He worked almost right through last night. Where are you?"
"At my friend Anne Snapphane's. I've had a little chat with Evert Danielsson. He's out."
"Booted out?"
"Well, not quite. He wasn't quite sure himself. It's not really anything to write about. I mean, who cares? He's not going to cry on our shoulders, but he isn't going to blast anyone either. Doesn't seem capable."
"So what did he say?"
"Not much. He was the guy who had an affair at the Secretariat. We talked about that, mostly. And he hinted that Christina had a lot of enemies."
"Well, well, it's all coming out now," Berit said. "What else are we doing?"
"Christina was married before and had a son. I'll see what I can find on that."
"A son? But I wrote her life history last night. I didn't know she had a son."
"She's hidden him well. I wonder if there are any other secrets in her closet…"
They hung up and Annika fished out her pad. On the back of it she had noted Helena Starke's telephone number. She dialed the number, starting 702, which they often did on Ringvägen, and hoped for the best.
* * *
Helena Starke had had another lousy night, waking up repeatedly from ghastly nightmares. When at last she'd gotten out of bed and looked out the window, she nearly went straight back to bed again. It was raining, a gray drizzle that killed all the colors in the street outside. The stench from the closet had become unbearable, so she had put on a pair of jeans and gone down to the laundry room to book a time. Things are very organized in Sweden. Needless to say, there wasn't a single slot available before the new year. So she quickly emptied one of the running machines, threw the dripping load in a basket and went and collected her mat. She shoved it into the machine, poured in too much washing powder, and hurried away. She took a long shower to finally get rid of the smell of vomit from her hair and then scrubbed the closet and the floor in the hallway. She considered collecting the mat but refrained; it was better to wait until tonight and let the old bags downstairs rant and rave first.
She went into the kitchen to have a cigarette. Christina didn't like her smoking, but that didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She stood by the kitchen table in the dark, having had the second deep drag on the cigarette when the phone on the windowsill rang.
It was the woman from last night, the bitch from
Kvällspressen.
"I don't know if I want to talk to you," Helena Starke said.
"You don't have to, of course… Are you smoking?"
"So what if I am? Yes, I'm smoking. What's it to you?"
"Nothing. Why do they call you Christina's enforcer?"
Helena didn't know what to say.
"What the hell do you want from me?"
"Nothing really. It's Christina I'm interested in. Why wouldn't she acknowledge her son? Was she ashamed of him?"
Helena Starke's head was spinning. She sat down and put out the cigarette. How could she know about Christina's son?
"He died," she said. "The boy died."
"Died? When?"
"When he was… five."
"Really? That's terrible. Five, just like Kalle."
"Who?"
"My son, he's five. How awful! What did he die of?"
"Malignant melanoma, skin cancer. Christina never got over it. She didn't ever want to talk about him."
"I'm so sorry I… Sorry, I had no idea…"
"Anything else?" Helena Starke said, trying to sound as cold as possible.
"Yes, quite a lot, actually. Do you have a moment?"
"No, I'm doing my laundry."
"Laundry?"
"Yeah, what's so strange about that?"
"No, it's just that I… I mean… Well, you knew Christina really well, you were so close to her." Annika pushed it. "It must be difficult to think about doing ordinary stuff like laundry so soon after…"
"Yes, I knew her well!" Helena Starke shouted, and the tears started running. "I knew her best of all!"
"Apart from her family, perhaps."
"Right, her fucking family! That senile old man and her crazy daughter. You know she's a pyromaniac? Cuckoo bird. Spent most of her teens in a psychiatric ward. Set fire to anything she could lay her hands on. That special home in Botkyrka that burned down six years ago, do you remember? That was her, Lena. Talk about nutcase, you couldn't have her in the house."
She cried straight into the phone, loud and uncontrolled, hearing how awful she sounded, like some strange trapped animal. She put the receiver down and let her arms drop onto the kitchen table, her forehead landing among the breadcrumbs, and then she cried and cried and cried until everything was black out there and everything inside her had run out.
* * *
Annika could hardly believe what she had just heard. For a long while, she sat with the receiver held out from her ear, listening to the silence after Helena Starke's unbearable scream.
"What's up? Why are you sitting like that?" Anne Snapphane said, placing a coffee mug full of glogg and a stack of ginger biscuits on the desk next to Annika.
"Bizarre…" Annika said, putting the phone down.
Anne Snapphane stopped nibbling at her biscuit.
"You look wretched. What happened?"
"I just spoke to a woman who knew Christina Furhage. It was kind of over the top."
"How so?"
"She started crying loudly, really howling. I always feel awful when I go too far."
Anne Snapphane nodded sympathetically and pointed at the mug and the stack of biscuits.
"Come with me to the editing suite and I'll show you the beginning of our New Year's show.
Things We Remember— That They'd Rather Forget
is the title. It's about celebrity scandals. Delicious!"
Annika left her coat but hung her bag on her shoulder and followed Anne, balancing the glogg and the biscuits. The TV offices were empty of people. The season's productions were finished, and they wouldn't start on the next until after the holidays.
"Do you know what you're doing next season?" Annika asked while they stepped down the spiral staircase to the editing suite.
Anne Snapphane pulled a wry face. "What do you think? Fat chance. I'm hoping to get away from
Women's Sofa.
I've done it backwards and forwards a million times now. He cheated on me with my best friend, my best friend cheated on me with my son, my son cheated on me with my dog… Count me out…"
"So what do you want to do instead?"
"Anything. I might go to Malaysia with this new show in the spring. People living on a desert island for as long as possible without being voted out by the audience. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?"
"Sounds damn boring to me," Annika said.
Anne Snapphane looked at her with mock scorn and continued down another corridor.
"Luckily you're not head of the program. I think it'll be great. People love that shit. Here we are."
They stepped into a room filled with TV monitors, Digibeta players, keyboards, consoles, and cables. The room was considerably larger than the little cubicles they called editing suites at the state television newsroom. There was even a couch, two armchairs, and a coffee table in the corner. The editor was sitting on a swivel chair in front of the main console— a young guy who handled the technical side of putting together the program— staring at a screen where images were rushing past. Annika greeted him and then went and sat down in one of the armchairs.
"Run the opening sequence," Anne said and sat down on the couch.
The editor reached out for a large Digibeta tape and fed it into one of the players. The screen on the largest monitor flickered and a countdown clock appeared. Then the show started and the well-known presenter stepped out on the studio floor. The audience cheered. He presented the program that would feature a politician who had thrown up in the head waiter's booth at the famous Café Opera, the most talked about divorces of the year, TV gaffes we remember, and other important items.
"Okay, you can turn down the volume," Anne said. "What do you think? Isn't it good?"
Annika nodded and took a sip from her mug. The glogg was pretty strong. "Do you know someone called Helena Starke?"
Anne let her cookie drop and thought about it.
"Starke… it sounds really familiar. What does she do?"
"She works at the Olympic Secretariat with Christina Furhage. Lives in South Island, around forty, short black hair…"
"Helena Starke, now I know! Sure. She's a lesbian activist. Butch dyke type."
Annika looked at her friend with skepticism in her eyes.
"Come on, what do you mean 'butch dyke'?"
"She's active in the National Swedish Association for Sexual Liberation— writes articles and stuff like that. She's trying to make lesbians look less soft. Complains about 'vanilla sex,' for example."
"How do you know this?"
It was Anne Snapphane's turn to look skeptical.
"What do you think I do all day? There isn't a single activist in this country I don't have the private phone number of. How do you think we make these programs?"
Annika raised her eyebrows apologetically and finished her glogg.
"Has Starke been on your show?"
"Nope, no way would she come on. Come to think of it, we've asked her a couple of times. She says she stands for her sexuality but won't have it exploited by the media."
