Anders Schyman walked past with an empty, dirty coffee mug in his hand. He looked tired, his hair was tousled, and he had loosened his tie.
'How are you doing?' he stopped and asked.
'We've been to see Furhage's family.'
'Anything we can use?'
Annika hesitated. 'Yes, I think so. Some. Henriksson took a picture of the husband, who was quite confused.'
'We'll have to look at it carefully,' he said and continued walking in the direction of the cafeteria.
'What pics do we use for the news stories?' Pelle Oscarsson asked while clicking the portrait away.
Annika swallowed the last of her coffee.
'We'll have to run through that with the others as soon as they arrive,' she said.
She threw her plastic cup in Eva-Britt Qvist's wastepaper basket, went into her office, and shut the door behind her. It was telephone time. She started off with her contact; he was on the day shift today. She dialed his direct number, past the police headquarters' switchboard. She got lucky- he answered on the first ring.
'How did you figure that out, about her being off-record?' he wondered.
'When did you figure out it was Furhage?' Annika retorted without answering the question.
The man let out a sigh.
'Almost straightaway. It was her stuff at the stadium. But the actual identification took a bit longer, of course. You don't really want to make a mistake…'
Annika waited in silence, but he didn't continue. So she said:
'What next?'
'Checking, checking, checking. At least we know it wasn't the Tiger.'
'How do you know?' Annika said in surprise.
'I can't tell you that, but it wasn't him. It was someone on the inside, just like you thought yesterday.'
'I have to write that story today, you know that, don't you?' she said.
He sighed again.
'Yeah, I guessed as much,' he said. 'Thanks for keeping it under wraps for twenty-four hours, though.'
'Give and take,' Annika said.
'So what do you want?' he asked.
'Why was she off-record?'
'There was a threat, a written one, three or four years back. A kind of violent incident, too, but not very serious.'
'What kind of violent incident?'
'I don't want to go into that. The person in question was never prosecuted. Christina didn't want to 'ruin' them, as she's supposed to have put it. 'Everyone deserves a second chance,' she is also reported to have said. She was content with moving and asking for- and getting- herself and her family classified as off-record.'
'How magnanimous of her,' Annika said.
'Absolutely.'
'Did the threat have anything to do with the Olympics?'
'Not in the least.'
'Was it someone she knew- a member of the family?'
The policeman hesitated.
'Yes, you could say that. The attacker had purely personal motives. That's why we don't want to make it public; it's too close to her. There is absolutely nothing that points to the bomb attack on the arena being a terrorist act. We believe it was aimed at Christina personally, but that doesn't mean the perpetrator was someone close to her.'
'Will you question the person who threatened her?'
'We already have.'
Annika blinked.
'You're not exactly sitting around doing nothing, from what you're saying. What did that give you?'
'We can't comment on that one. But I can say this: There is today no one person who's under more suspicion than anyone else.'
'And who is 'anyone else'?'
'That you can figure out for yourself. Anyone who's ever had contact with her. That must be about four or five thousand people. We can rule out quit a few of them, but I don't intend to tell you who.'
'There must be a lot of people with entry cards,' Annika coaxed him.
'Who are you thinking of?'
'The Olympic Secretariat, the members of the IOC, the caretakers at the arena, people from all the contractors building the facilities, electricians, builders, foundry workers, transport firms, architects, security firms, the TV sports people…'
He remained silent.
'Am I wrong?' she asked.
'Not really. All the groups you mentioned have, have had, or will get entry cards, that's correct.'
'But?'
'You won't get into the arena in the middle of the night with just an entry card,' he said.
Annika racked her brains.
'The security codes! They've only been given to a small group of people!'
'Yes, but you'll have to keep that under your hat for the time being.'
'Okay. For how long? Who has access to the security codes?'
The man laughed.
'You're incorrigible!' he said. 'We're working on that right now.'
'Couldn't the alarms at the arena have been disarmed?'
'And the doors unlocked? Come on, Bengtzon!'
She heard two voices in the background, then her contact covered the handset and said something. He removed his hand and said:
'I've got to go now.'
'One more thing!' Annika said.
'What?'
'What was Christina Furhage doing at the stadium in the middle of the night?'
'That, my dear, is one hell of a good question. Speak to you later.'
They hung up and Annika tried phoning home. No answer. She called Anne Snapphane, but she only got the fax machine. She called Berit until the automated answering service switched on. The phone-freak Patrik answered, however. He always did. It was one of his little quirks. Once he had answered while in the shower.
'I'm at the Olympic Secretariat,' he yelled down the phone, another of his quirks. Despite his fondness for the phone, he didn't quite trust it, so he always had to shout to make sure his voice would be heard.
'What's Berit doing?' Annika asked, noticing that she too raised her voice.
'She's here with me, doing Furhage's last night,' Patrik shouted. 'I'm doing the Secretariat in shock.'
'Where are you just now?' Annika forced herself to lower her voice.
'In some corridor. People are really upset,' he roared.
Annika could imagine the Secretariat staff listening to the yelling tabloid reporter from behind their half-open office doors.
'Okay,' Annika said. 'We'll have to concoct something about the police hunt for the Bomber. When will you be back?'
'In about an hour,' he shouted.
'Good, see you then,' Annika said and hung up. She couldn't help smiling.
