'Aren't you going to get it?' Berit wondered.
'It's Thomas,' Annika replied. 'Asking me when I'll be leaving- trying to sound sweet. If I don't answer he'll be happy because he'll think I've already left.'
The phone on the desk stopped ringing, and instead the cellphone started playing a melody that sounded familiar to Berit. Annika ignored that too and let the answering service take it.
'I can't get hold of this Helena Starke woman,' Berit said. 'She's not listed, and I've asked her neighbors to ring her doorbell and put notes in her letterbox asking her to call us and all sorts of things like that, but she hasn't been in touch. I don't have time to go there myself. I have to write up my Christina Furhage story…'
'Why?' Annika said with surprise and stopped writing. 'I thought the features department was taking care of that?'
Berit smiled a lopsided grin
'Yes, but the master of style developed a migraine when he heard the pull-out had been spiked. So I now have three hours to write a puff piece.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. Don't despair,' Annika said. 'I'll pass by Starke's on my way home. South Island, wasn't it?'
Berit gave her the address. When the door closed behind her, Annika tried calling her police contact again, in vain. She groaned quietly. She'd have to write the story now; she just couldn't sit on this information any longer. It would have to be a technical somersault, since the words 'security codes' couldn't be mentioned, but the essentials would be there.
She managed better than she'd expected. The angle was that the act was an inside job. She couldn't mention that the arena's alarms were not primed and nothing had been broken into. She quoted sources other than the police in connection with the entry card and the possibility of getting access to the arena in the middle of the night. She also wrote that the police were closing in on a small group of people who, theoretically speaking, could possibly have committed the act. Together with Patrik's stuff, it made two great stories. After that, she wrote up a separate piece about the police having already interviewed the person who threatened Christina Furhage a couple of years back. She was almost done when Anders Schyman returned.
'Why did I ever become an editor!' he exclaimed and sat down on the couch.
'What do we do? Splash the news of an international terrorist organization on the front page, or expose the Olympic Secretariat?' Annika asked.
'I think Nils Langeby is losing it,' Schyman said. 'He maintains his story is accurate but refuses to divulge a single source or say exactly what they've said.'
'So what do we do?' Annika said.
'We do the insider job, of course. But let me read it first.'
'I've got it right here.' Annika clicked on the document, and the editor got up and walked over to her desk.
'Do you want to sit down?'
'No, no, you sit…'
He glanced through the text.
'Crystal clear,' he said and prepared to leave. 'I'll talk to Jansson.'
'What else did Langeby say?' Annika quietly asked.
He stopped and gave her a serious look.
'I think Nils Langeby is going to become a real problem for both of us,' he said, leaving the room.
Helena Starke lived in a brown 1920s apartment block on Ringvagen. Naturally, the street door had a code lock and Annika didn't have the code. She pushed the phone earpiece into her ear and called information, asking for numbers for some of the residents at 139 Ringvagen.
'We can't just hand out numbers like that,' the operator said tartly.
Annika let out a sigh. Sometimes it worked to ask for numbers in that way but not always.
'Okay, I'm looking for an Andersson at 139 Ringvagen.'
'Would that be Arne Andersson or Petra Andersson?'
'Both,' Annika replied quickly and jotted down the numbers on her pad. 'Thank you!'
She called the first number. No answer, maybe he'd gone to bed. It was nearly half past ten. Petra was at home, and she sounded somewhat put out.
'I'm so sorry,' Annika said, 'but I'm visiting a friend who lives next door to you. I've been buzzing, but there's no answer. I know she's there. I'm getting a bit worried…'
'Which neighbor?' Petra asked.
'Helena Starke,' Annika said. Petra laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh.
'So you're visiting Starke at half past ten at night? Good luck, girl!' she said and gave Annika the code.
You hear so many strange things, Annika thought while walking inside. Helena Starke lived on the fourth floor. She rang the doorbell twice, but no one answered the door. She looked around the hallway, trying to figure out which direction Helena Starke's apartment faced and how big it could be. She went down on the street again and started counting. Starke ought to have at least three windows facing the street, and the light was on in two. She was probably at home. Annika returned inside and went back up in the elevator. She pushed the doorbell for a long time, then she opened the letterbox and said:
'Helena Starke? My name is Annika Bengtzon. I'm from
She waited in silence for a while, then she heard the door-chain rattle on the other side. The door opened slightly and she caught a glimpse of a woman with eyes swollen from weeping.
'What do you want?' Helena Starke said quietly.
'I'm sorry to bother you like this, but we've been trying to get hold of you all day.'
'I know. I've had fifteen notes through my letterbox from you and all the others.'
'Could I come in for a moment?'
'Why?'
'We'll be writing about Christina Furhage's death in tomorrow's paper, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.'
'What about?'
Annika sighed.
'I'll be happy to explain, but I'd rather not do it out here.'
Starke opened the door and let her in the apartment. It was extremely untidy. The air was heavy, and Annika thought she could smell vomit. They went into the kitchen, where the dishes were piled high, and on one of the burners stood an empty bottle of brandy. Helena Starke herself was dressed only in a T-shirt and panties. Her hair was in disarray and her face was all swollen.
'Christina's death is a terrible loss,' she said. 'There wouldn't have been any Stockholm Olympics if it weren't for her.'
Annika took out a pad and pen and took notes. How come everyone kept saying the same things about Christina Furhage? she wondered.
'What was she like as a person?' Annika asked out loud.
'Extraordinary,' Helena Starke said, staring down at the floor. 'She was a great role model for the rest of us. Driven, intelligent, tough, funny… everything. She could do anything.'
'If I've understood it correctly, you were the last one to see her alive?'
'Except for the murderer, yes. We left the Christmas party together. Christina was tired and I was pretty drunk.'
'Where did you go?'
Helena Starke stiffened.
'What do you mean 'go'? We said goodbye by the subway. I went home and Christina took a taxi.'
Annika raised her eyebrows. She hadn't heard anything about Christina Furhage getting in a taxi after midnight. Then there would be someone who had seen the woman after Helena Starke. The taxi driver.
