The editor made some notes. "What else?"
"Who's the victim? Man, woman, young, old? The pathologist's report, the forensic investigation, what are the lines of enquiry the Chief District Prosecutor mentioned at the press conference? Berit and I are looking into this."
"What have we got so far?" Schyman said.
Annika sighed. "Not much, I'm afraid. We'll continue our digging during the evening. I'm sure we'll find something."
The editor nodded and Annika continued. "Then there's the mysterious murder, the hunt for the Bomber, the leads, the theories, the evidence. Who was the man outside the arena just before the explosion? Who was the witness who saw him? Patrik is doing that. We haven't been able to locate the Tiger; neither have the police. According to Lindström, he's not a suspect, but that's bullshit. They may put out a nationwide alert for him this evening or during the night; you'll have to keep an eye on that. And then, of course, there's the Olympic angle, and you've got all that covered, Ingvar…"
The news editor cleared his throat. "Right. The security surrounding the Olympic Games— we've talked to Samaranch at the IOC in Lausanne. He has full confidence in Stockholm as host for the Games and fully believes that the Swedish police will apprehend the perpetrator very soon, blah blah…. Then he says that this in no way jeopardizes the Games, which I think we should emphasize. Then we've got the 'what now' stuff, Janet has done that. The stand will be rebuilt immediately. The work will start as soon as the police technicians have left the place and is estimated to be done in seven or eight weeks. Then there's the injured taxi driver; we're alone on that one, so we'll blow it up. We're doing a color piece with a retrospective of infamous Olympic attacks, the Tiger among others, unless we get hold of him during the night. Then I suppose we'll do a separate piece on him."
"His home telephone number's in the contacts book," Annika said. "I've left a message on his answerphone; it's possible he'll be in touch."
"Okay. Nils Langeby is working on world reactions; that will be an additional tie-in. And then we've got the vox pop on the attack, the
Ring and Sing
has just begun.
He stopped speaking and leafed through his papers.
"Anything else?" the editor said.
"There's Henriksson's pictures from the Olympic flame," Annika said. "We ran them in the early editions this morning, but they haven't been printed nationwide. He shot several rolls, so maybe we could do a variation on that to accompany the story about the victim in tomorrow's paper— a bit of recycling?"
Pelle Oscarsson nodded. "Yep, there are plenty of pics. I'm sure we could find one that isn't all that similar."
"Aktuellt
is on," Ingvar Johansson said, turning up the TV with the remote.
They all turned their attention to the TV to see what Swedish Television had cooked up. They opened with footage from the police press conference, then went back to the morning when the arena was still on fire. After this, interviews followed with all the obvious people: Chief District Prosecutor Lindström, Evert Danielsson from the Olympic Secretariat, a Krim investigator, and an old lady who lived next to the arena and who woke up from the explosion.
"They've got nothing new," Ingvar Johansson stated and switched to CNN.
The meeting resumed and Ingvar Johansson ran through the rest of the contents of tomorrow's paper. They kept the TV on low while CNN ran their Breaking News. A CNN reporter appeared at regular intervals doing stand-ups from outside the cordons around the Olympic Village. They had another reporter in front of the police headquarters and a third one at the International Olympic Committee's headquarters in Lausanne. The live broadcasts were interspersed with recorded segments about the Olympics and various acts of violence that had hit the Games throughout the years. They had comments from internationally known celebrities and a condemnation of the attack by a White House press spokesperson.
Annika realized she wasn't listening to what Ingvar Johansson was saying. When he got to the soft-news pages, she made her excuses and left the meeting. She went back to the cafeteria and ordered a prawn pasta and a low-alcohol beer. While the microwave was humming behind the counter, she sat down and stared into the darkness. If she strained her eyes and focused hard, she could see the windows of the building opposite. When she relaxed, all she saw was her own reflection in the window.
Having finished her meal, she assembled the members of her own little desk, Patrik and Berit, and compared notes with them in her office.
"I'll do the terrorist story," Annika said. "Have you got anything on the victim, Berit?"
"A little," the reporter said, leafing through her notes. "The technicians have found some stuff inside the arena they believe belonged to the victim. It was pretty badly damaged, but they've established that there's a briefcase, a Filofax, and a cellphone."
She fell silent and noticed that both Annika's and Patrik's eyes were wide open.
"Christ!" Annika exclaimed. "That must mean they know who the victim is."
"Possibly," Berit said, "but they're not saying a word. It took me two hours just to get this from them."
"But that's great," Annika said. "Fantastic! You've done really well. Really! I haven't heard this anywhere else."
She leaned back in her chair, laughing and clapping her hands. Patrik smiled. Annika turned to him: "And how are you getting on?"
"I've done the blast itself. You can look at it for yourself; it's on the server. I've matched it to the picture of the arena, like you said. But I don't have much on the actual hunt for the murderer, I'm afraid. The police have done door-to-door interviews around the Docklands during the day, but not many people have moved into the apartments of the Olympic Village yet, so the place is quite empty."
"Who is the dark man, and who is the witness?"
"I haven't been able to get anything on that," Patrik said.
Suddenly Annika remembered something her driver had said in the car on the way out to the stadium early that morning. "There's an unlicensed club out there," she said, straightening up in her chair. "The injured driver had a fare there when the bomb went off. There must've been people there, both guests and staff. That's where we'll find our witness. Have we talked to them?"
Patrik and Berit looked at each other.
"We've got to go to the docks and talk to them," Annika said.
"An unlicensed club?" Berit was skeptical. "How keen will they be to talk to us?"
"What the hell," Annika said, "you never know. Let them speak anonymously or off the record— they can just tell you if they saw something or know anything."
"Sounds like a good idea," Patrik said. "It could be productive."
"Have the police talked to them?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask," Patrik said.
"Okay," Annika said. "I'll call the police. You get out there and try to find the club. Call the injured driver. We've got him hidden away at the Royal Viking. Ask him exactly where the club is. They won't be open tonight, I presume; the place is probably inside the police cordons. Still, talk to the driver and see if he had a name for the customer he drove there. Maybe it was he who recommended the club because he knows someone there, you never know."
"I'll go right now," Patrik said. He picked up his jacket and was gone.
Berit sighed. "I can't really believe it was a terrorist attack," she said. "Why? To put a stop to the Games? Then why start now, it's a little late in the day."
Annika doodled on her pad. "One thing I
do
know," she said. "The police better catch this Bomber person, otherwise this country will have a hangover it hasn't seen since Olof Palme was killed."
Berit nodded, picked up her things, and went out to her desk.
* * *
Annika called her contact, but he wasn't available. She e-mailed an official police communication about the illegal club to Patrik. Then she went and picked up a copy of the Government's official yearbook and looked up the name of the director of the local tax office in Tyresö. It gave his name and the year of his birth. His name was much too common to be easily found in the phone directory, so Annika had to Reg him first. This way she got his home address, then information found him quick as a flash.
He answered on the fourth ring and sounded quite drunk. It was Saturday night after all. Annika switched on her tape recorder.
"I can't say a word about Christina Furhage," the tax director said, sounding like he was about to hang up on her straight away.
"Naturally," Annika said calmly. "I'd just like to ask a few general questions about people being off record and about threat scenarios."
A group of people burst out laughing simultaneously in the background. She must have called in the middle of a dinner party or a Christmas drinks party.
"You'll have to call me at the office on Monday," the tax director said.
"But the paper will have gone to print long before then," Annika said in a silky voice. "The readers have a right to a comment tomorrow. What reason shall I give for you not answering?"
The man breathed silently down the line. Annika could feel him debating with himself. He understood that she was alluding to his intoxication. She wouldn't ever write anything like that in the paper; you just don't. But if an official was awkward, she didn't hesitate to use a few tricks to get her way.
"What do you want to know?" he said icily.
Annika smiled. "What does it take for a person to be off record?" she asked.
She knew that already, but the man's words when describing it would be a recapitulation of Christina's case.
The man sighed, giving it some thought. "Well, there has to be a threat. A real threat," he said. "Not just a telephone call, but something more, something serious."
"Like a death threat?" Annika said.
"For example. Though there has to be more, something to make a court issue a restraining order."
"An incident? Some kind of violent act?" Annika asked.
"You could put it that way."
"Would someone be made off record for less than what you've described to me?"
"No, they wouldn't," the man said firmly. "If the threat were of a less serious nature, it would suffice to have a security flag in the Public Register."
"How many people have you approved for going off record during your time in Tyresö?"
He pondered the question then said, "Uh… three."
"Christina Furhage, her husband, and her daughter," Annika declared.
"I didn't say that," the tax director said.
"Can you comment on Christina Furhage being off record?" she swiftly continued.
"No, I cannot," the man said in a surly tone.
"What kind of death threat was directed at Christina Furhage?"
"I can't comment on that."
"What was the act of violence behind your decision to grant her off-record status?"
"I can't say anything more in the matter. We'll end the interview here," the man said and hung up.
Annika smiled happily. She was home and dry now. Without saying a word about Christina, the man had confirmed it all.
* * *
After another couple of verifying calls, she wrote her copy on the threat scenario, keeping the terrorist theory at a reasonable level. Just after 11 P.M. she was done. Patrik still hadn't returned. That boded well.
She gave her copy to Jansson, who was now in full swing out by the desk, ruffling his hair and continually speaking on the phone.
She decided to walk home, despite the cold and the dark, despite her empty head. Her legs were aching; they always did when she was exhausted. A brisk walk was the best remedy, then she wouldn't have to take a painkiller when she got home. She quickly put on her coat and pulled the hat over her ears before she had time to change her mind.
"I'm on my cellphone," was all she said to Jansson on her way out. He waved to her without looking up from the phone.
The temperature had really shifted up and down today; now it was just below freezing again and large snowflakes were slowly falling. They were nearly hanging still in the air, wavering back and forth on their way to the ground. The snow wrapped all sounds and deadened them. Annika didn't hear the 57 bus until it drove past right next to her.
She took the stairs down to the Rålambshov Park. The path across the wide lawn was muddy and cut up by prams and bicycles; she slipped and nearly fell, swearing to herself. A startled hare leapt away from her into the shadows. Amazing that there were so many animals in the middle of the city. Once Thomas had been chased by a badger on their own street on his way home from the pub. She laughed out loud in the dark at the memory.
The wind was stronger here than up among the buildings, so she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. The snowflakes were wilder and wet her hair. She hadn't seen her kids all day. She hadn't called back since the morning; it would only have been painful. Usually she felt okay working in the week, since all the kids in Sweden were at daycare centers then and her conscience could rest. But on a Saturday like today, the last one before Christmas, you were supposed to be at home making toffee and baking saffron buns. Annika sighed, and the snowflakes whirled around her. The problem was that when she did organize a baking session or some other big activity it was never much fun. At first both children thought it was great and would quarrel about who would stand next to her. By the time they'd fought over the dough and messed up the whole kitchen, her patience would be giving out. It would be worse if she'd had a hard time at work; she'd end up blowing her top. It had ended that way on more occasions than she cared to think of. The kids would sulk in front of the TV, while she finished the baking at lightning speed. Then Thomas would put them to bed while she cleaned the kitchen. She let out another sigh. Maybe this time it would have been different. No one would have burned their fingers on the sticky toffee and they could all have eaten freshly baked saffron buns together in front of the fire.
