corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindstrom and then pulled the young photographer along with her.
'Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow,' she told him.
Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left. Everything she was had been grilled to charcoal and died. She felt the salty tears running down her face, but she didn't feel she was crying. There was nothing but an echo in her body. Her body was a void, filled only with a roaring noise: Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead…
Someone knocked on the door.
She groaned and sank to the floor, curling up under the washbasin. Christina is dead, Christina…
Christina is dead, Christina is dead…
Something hit her, something that hurt. It was the light from the fluorescents in the corridor.
'Christ, help her up! What happened?'
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 Ostermalm, 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
