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.
The apartment of the Furhage-Milander family was on the top floor.
"Let's tread very softly now," Annika whispered to Henriksson before she rang the doorbell. Five chimes sounded somewhere inside.
The door immediately opened, as if the man had been standing waiting behind it. Annika didn't recognize him; she had never seen him, even in a photo. Christina never brought her husband along anywhere. Bertil Milander was gray in the face and had dark shadows under his eyes. He was unshaven.
"Come in," was all he said.
He turned around and went straight into what looked like a large drawing room. His back was stooped under the brown jacket, and Annika was struck by how old he seemed. They took off their coats, then the photographer hung a Leica on his shoulder, leaving the camera bag by the shoe rack. Annika's feet sank into the thick carpets— this home would cost a fortune to insure.
The man had sat down on a couch, while Annika and the photographer ended up on another couch opposite him. Annika had taken out a pad and a pen.
"We're here to listen," she calmly began. "If there is anything you want to say, anything you want us to write, we'll take it into consideration."
Bertil Milander was looking down on his clasped hands. Then he began to cry quietly. Henriksson moistened his lips.
"Tell us about Christina," Annika urged him.
The man pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He painstakingly wiped his nose before putting the handkerchief away. He gave a deep sigh and began:
"Christina was the most remarkable person I've ever met. She was absolutely formidable. There was nothing she couldn't do. Sharing one's life with such a woman was…"
He pulled out the handkerchief and blew his nose again.
"…a fresh adventure every day. She organized everything to do with the household. Food, cleaning, parties, laundry, finances, the responsibility for our daughter, she took care of everything…"
He stopped short and contemplated what he had said. It looked like he suddenly was struck by the meaning of his words. From now on it was all down to him.
He looked down at his handkerchief.
"Would you like to tell me how you met?" Annika asked, only to fill the silence. He didn't seem to have heard her.
"Stockholm would never have gotten the Olympics without her. She wrapped Samaranch around her little finger. She built up the entire campaign organization. It was such a success. Once she had secured the Games for Stockholm, they wanted to remove her and put someone else in charge, but naturally that was impossible. No one but she could do the job, and they soon realized that."
Annika noted down what the man was saying with a feeling of mounting confusion. She had often come across people in shock after traffic accidents and at crime scenes and knew that they could react in very peculiar ways, often quite irrationally, but Bertil Milander didn't sound like a bereaved husband. He sounded like a bereaved employee.
"How old is your daughter?"
"She was selected as 'Woman of the Year' by that American magazine, what's it called again…? Woman of the year. She was woman of the year. Woman of the whole of Sweden. Woman of the whole world."
Bertil Milander blew his nose again. Annika put her pen down and stared into her notepad. This didn't feel right. The man didn't know what he was doing or saying. He didn't seem to understand what she and the photographer were doing there.
"When did you hear about Christina's death?" Annika ventured.
Bertil Milander looked up.
"She never came home," he said. "She went to the Secretariat's Christmas party and never came home again."
"Were you worried when she didn't come home? Was she away often? She must have traveled quite a lot?"
The man straightened up on the couch and looked at Annika as if seeing her for the first time.
"Why do you ask that?" he said. "What do you mean?"
Annika deliberated for a second. This did not feel right. The man was in shock. His reactions were confused, he was rambling, and he didn't know what he was doing. But there was one question she had to ask.
"A threat had been made against the family," she said. "What was the nature of this threat?"
The man stared at her with his mouth open. He didn't seem to have heard her.
"The threat," Annika repeated. "Could you say anything about the threat against the family?"
He gave Annika a reproachful look.
"Christina did all she could," he said. "She's not a bad person. It wasn't her fault."
Annika felt a cold shiver run down her back. This was definitely not right. She collected her pad and pen.
"Thank you so much for seeing us under these circumstances," she said and started getting up from the couch. "We'll be…"
A slamming door made her jump and spin around. An emaciated-looking young woman with tousled hair and a sullen look came and stood behind the couch.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the woman said Christina's daughter, Annika thought. She collected herself. She said they were from
Kvällspressen.
"Hyenas," the woman said contemptuously. "Did you smell blood, is that why you came here? To get at the remains of the body? Suck out the best parts while you can?" She walked around the couch and came closer to Annika, who forced herself to remain seated and look calm.
"I'm so sorry about your mother's death…"
"Well, I'm not!" the daughter screamed. "I'm glad she's dead. Glad!" She burst into tears and left the room running. Bertil Milander showed no reaction; he was looking down at his hands twiddling the handkerchief.
"Is it okay to take a picture?" Henriksson said. It woke Bertil Milander up.
"Yes, yes, of course it is," he said, getting to his feet. "Right here?"
"Maybe if you could walk over to the window, that'll give us a bit more light."
Bertil Milander posed next to the beautiful, high windows. It would make a good picture. The thin daylight filtered through the mullioned window, the expensive blue curtains framing the portrait.
While the photographer shot his roll, Annika quickly went after the young woman into the room next door. It was a library, tastefully decorated with English period furniture and thousands of books. The woman was sitting in a burgundy leather armchair.
"I'm sorry if you feel we're intruding," Annika said. "It's not our intention to cause you any pain. On the contrary, we just want to tell you what we're doing."
The woman didn't reply. She didn't seem to notice Annika's presence.
"You and your father are welcome to call us if there's anything you wish to bring up, if you feel we're not telling the truth, or if there's anything you want to add or tell us."
No reaction.
"I'll give my phone number to your father," Annika said and left the room. Carefully, she closed the beautiful twin doors behind her.
Henriksson and Bertil Milander were standing in the hallway. Annika went up to them, pulled out a business card from her wallet, and added the editor's direct number to her own.
"Just call, if there's anything," she said. "I always have my phone on. Thank you for your trouble."
Bertil Milander took the card without looking at it. He put it on a gilt table next to the front door.
"My grief over her is endless," and Annika knew she had just gotten her headline for the center-spread photo.
* * *
The editor let out a sigh when he heard the knock at the door. He had hoped to get to the bottom of at least one of the piles of paper on his desk, but since he arrived at the paper an hour ago he hadn't had a quiet second.
"Come in," he said. He tried to relax. After all, he prided himself on his open-door policy.
It was Nils Langeby, and Anders Schyman's heart sank a bit further toward his shoes.
"Nils. What can I do for you?" he said without getting up from behind his desk.
Nils Langeby poised himself in the middle of the floor of the corner office, wringing his hands in a theatrical gesture.
"I'm worried about the crime desk," he began. "It's a complete mess."
Anders Schyman looked up at the reporter, stifling a sigh.
"How do you mean?"
"We're going to miss out on things; things are hanging in the air. Everyone feels insecure after the changes. What will become of our crime coverage?"
The editor pointed at a chair on the other side of his desk and Nils Langeby sat down.
"All change, even change that means improvement, brings some turbulence," Schyman said. "It's quite natural for the crime desk to be a bit unsettled. You've been without a chief for a long time and have just gotten a new one."
"Exactly, and that's what I feel is the problem. I don't think Annika Bengtzon is up to scratch."
Schyman gave it some thought.
"You don't think so? I feel exactly the opposite. I think she's a formidable reporter and a good organizer. She knows how to prioritize and delegate. And she doesn't balk at doing difficult and uncomfortable things. She's driven and knowledgeable. Just look at today's paper for an example of that. What's your problem with her, Nils?"
Nils Langeby leaned forward in a confidential gesture.
"People don't trust her. She thinks she's a big shot. She steps on people's toes and doesn't know how to behave properly."
"What do you mean, Nils?"
The reporter threw his hands out to the side.
"Well, I haven't been affected personally, but one hears things…"
"So you're here because you're concerned for your colleagues?"
"Yes. And because we're losing our coverage of crimes against the environment and in the school system."
"But I thought those particular areas were your responsibility?"
"Yes, but…"
"Has Annika tried to take them away from you?"
"No, not at all."
"So if we fail to get stories in those particular areas, it's really your responsibility, isn't it? It doesn't really have anything to do with Annika Bengtzon, does it?"
A look of confusion spread on Nils Langeby's face.
"I think you're a good reporter, Nils," the editor went on calmly. "It's people like you, with your weight of experience that this paper needs. You'll be continuing to supply us with headlines for a long time to come, I hope. I have full confidence in you, just as I have full confidence in Annika Bengtzon as crime desk editor. That's why my job here gets better and better every day. People grow and learn to work together for the benefit of the paper."
Nils Langeby was listening intently. He grew taller with each word. This was what he wanted to hear. The editor believed in him. He would go on producing headline copy and he would be a force to be reckoned with. When he left the room, he felt cheerful and in good heart. He was actually whistling to himself on his way out of the newsroom.
"Hiya, Nisse, what have you got cooking today?" he heard someone call from behind him.
It was Ingvar Johansson, the news editor. Nils Langeby stopped short and thought for a moment. He hadn't planned to work at all today, and he hadn't been called in. But the editor's words made him feel the measure of his responsibility.
"Well, quite a lot," he therefore replied. "The terrorist attack, the terrorist angle. That's what I'm working on today…"
"Great, it would be good if you could write it up straight away, so we have it ready for when the subs come in. Everyone else will have their hands full with Furhage."
"Furhage?" Nils Langeby said. "What about her?"
Ingvar Johansson looked up at the reporter.
"Didn't you hear? The mincemeat at the stadium, it was the Olympic boss."
