"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.
Beata was still smiling, her breath a white cloud around her head.
"What was it you wanted to show me?" Annika said, hearing how gruff she sounded.
Beata continued smiling.
"I've found something really odd over here," she said, pointing. "It won't take long."
Annika gave a quiet sigh and started walking. Beata followed behind.
* * *
At the same moment as Berit and Henriksson stepped inside the elevator at Stockholm Klara sorting office, the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström called the
Kvällspressen
newsdesk. He asked to speak to the editor-in-chief and was connected to his secretary.
"I'm afraid he's gone to lunch," the secretary said when she saw Schyman wave his hands in a dismissive gesture. "Can I take a message? I see… One moment please, and I'll see if I can get hold of him…"
Schyman's migraine just wouldn't go. More than anything he just wanted to lie down in a blacked-out room and sleep. He had, despite the headache, achieved something constructive during the morning. His talk with Eva-Britt Qvist had gone surprisingly well. The crime-desk secretary had said she thought Annika Bengtzon was a very promising manager whom she would give all her support; she wanted to join forces to make the crime desk function under Annika's leadership.
"It's a prosecutor and he's very persistent," the secretary said, emphasizing "very."
Anders Schyman sighed and picked up the phone.
"So, the law is still at it this close to Christmas," he said. "Though you've got it the wrong way around, it's we who should be hounding you…"
"I'm calling about the explosive charge that has gone off at the Stockholm Klara sorting office," Kjell Lindström broke in.
"Yes, we've got a team on its way…"
"I know, we're talking to them now. The bomb was meant for one of your employees. A reporter by the name of Annika Bengtzon. She must be given protection immediately."
The words penetrated Anders Schyman's brain through a haze of Distalgesic. "Annika Bengtzon?"
"The envelope was addressed to her and was set off by mistake in the terminal. We believe it was sent by the same person who's behind the explosions at the Olympic stadium and Sätra Hall."
Anders Schyman felt his legs give way under him. He sat down on his secretary's desk. "My God…"
"Where is Annika Bengtzon now? Is she in the newsroom?"
"No, I don't think so. She went out this morning to interview someone. I haven't seen her since."
"Man or woman?"
"What? Who she was interviewing? Man, I think. Why?"
"It's extremely important that Annika Bengtzon is found and given twenty-four-hour protection straight away. She shouldn't go home or to her workplace until the person in question has been apprehended."
"How do you know the bomb was for Annika?"
"It was addressed to her in a registered letter. We're looking into the details right now. But most importantly, Annika Bengtzon has to get protection immediately. A patrol is on its way over to you; they should be with you any minute. They'll see to it she's taken to a safe house. Does she have a family?"
Anders Schyman closed his eyes and passed his hand over his face. This can't be happening, he thought, feeling all the blood draining from his brain.
"Yes, a husband and two small children."
"Are they in a daycare center? Which one? Who might know? Where does her husband work? Can you get hold of him?"
Anders Schyman promised to take care of Annika's family. He gave the police Annika's cellphone number and begged them to hurry.
* * *
They walked away from Sickla Canal and past a small cluster of trees near the arena. The small pine trees had been torn by the explosion, one lay with its roots in the air, the branches of the others splayed in all directions. The snow was a foot deep and got into Annika's shoes.
"Is it far?" she asked.
"Not very," Beata said.
They plodded on through the snow; Annika was beginning to get annoyed. The training facility loomed large above them, and Annika glimpsed the uppermost floors of the media building further ahead.
"How do you get up when there are no steps?" she said and looked at the ten-foot-high concrete wall that supported the track.
Beata came up and stood beside her. "We're not going up there. Just follow the wall."
She pointed ahead and Annika plodded on. She could feel the stress creeping into her veins: She had to write a story on the police closing in on the Bomber, and she still hadn't wrapped the children's Christmas gifts. Oh, well, she'd have to do that after they go to bed tonight. Beata's discovery might be just the thing to get the police talking.
"Do you see how the wall disappears over there?" Beata said behind her. "You can get underneath the arena there, that's where we're heading."
Annika shivered; it was cold here where the wall blocked out the sun. She could hear her own breathing and the traffic on the South Bypass behind her; apart from that it was completely silent. At least she knew where they were going now.
* * *
The police patrol was made up of two policemen in uniform and two plain-clothes detectives. Anders Schyman received them in his office.
"Two bomb patrols with dogs are on their way," one of the detectives said. "There's a real risk that there are more bombs, possibly here at the paper. The premises have to be evacuated and searched straight away."
"Is that necessary? We haven't received any threats," Anders Schyman said.
The detective gave him a serious look. "Of course. She hasn't issued any warnings the other times."
"She?" Schyman said.
The other detective stepped forward. "Yes, we believe the Bomber may be a woman."
Anders Schyman looked from one man to the other. "What makes you think that?"
"We can't tell you that yet."
"She's disappeared," the first detective said, changing subjects. "And we haven't been able to locate Annika Bengtzon. Do you have any idea where she might be?"
Anders Schyman shook his head, his mouth parched. "No, all she said was that she was meeting someone for an interview."
"Who?"
"She didn't say. A man, she said."
"Does she drive her own car?"
"I don't think so."
The two detectives exchanged glances— this man didn't know a whole lot.
"Right, we've got to find out what car she's in, get a description of it, and circulate that to all units. Let's get moving with the evacuation of the building."
* * *
"Up there the competitors will be warming up before the events," Beata said when they were standing under the arena. It was gloomy, almost dark, in here under the concrete roof. Annika looked out through the long, low opening. On the other side stood the Olympic Village, the white houses sparkling in the sunlight. The windows glittered and gleamed; they were all absolutely new. Replacing the blasted windows had been given priority. There was a risk of the water pipes in the uninhabited block freezing and bursting.
"The competitors have to be able to reach the stadium quickly," Beata said. "This area is open to the public to avoid them having to queue for the main entrance. We've built this underground passage, leading from the training facility and up to the stadium."
