addresses in Sweden. She couldn't understand why. The houses were wholly unremarkable: The short sides of the buildings faced the water and some had balconies- that was it. But the heavy traffic in the street below must make it impossible to sit outside and enjoy the view. When they arrived, she paid with a Visa card, hoping the paper would reimburse her.
During the week, Annika always grabbed a copy of the paper from the big stand in the main entrance. She would normally have time to leaf through it to the middle before the elevator landed her on the fourth floor, but not today. The paper was so full of ads that it was almost impossible to get through it at all.
Spike had just gone home, so she was happy about that. Ingvar Johansson had just come in and was absorbed in one of the morning papers, the first mug of coffee in his hand. She picked up a copy of the rival and some coffee and went into her office without saying hello.
Both of the papers had the name and a photo of the latest victim. He was a thirty-nine-year-old builder from Farsta by the name of Stefan Bjurling. Married with three children. For fifteen years he had worked for one of the hundreds of subcontractors engaged by SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games. Patrik had spoken to his employer.
'Stefan was the best supervisor you could wish for on a building site,' the victim's boss said. 'He had a great sense of responsibility, always finished on time, didn't stop working until everything was done. There was no messing around if you were on Stefan's team, that's for sure.' He sounded like a great guy: hugely popular, wonderful sense of humor, cheerful temperament. 'He was a great workmate, fun to work with, always upbeat,' said another colleague.
Annika was angry, cursing whoever had killed this man and ruined the life of his family. Three small children had lost their father. She could only imagine something of how Ellen and Kalle would react if Thomas died suddenly. What would
And what a shitty way to die, she thought, feeling sick when she read the preliminary police account of the killing. The explosive charge had probably been tied to the back of the victim, level with the kidneys. The man had been tied, hands and feet, to a chair before the explosion. What type of explosives had been used and how the charge had been detonated wasn't established, but the killer had probably used some kind of timer or delay mechanism.
Christ, Annika said to herself, wondering if they shouldn't have spared the readers the most graphic details.
She pictured the man sitting there with the bomb ticking on his back, struggling to get free. What do you think about right then? Do you see your life flashing past? Did this man think of his children? His wife? Or just of the ropes around his wrists? The bomber wasn't just nuts; he was a sadist to boot. She shuddered, despite the dry electric heat of the room.
She leafed past Janet Ullberg's description of yet another empty arena at midnight and skimmed through the ads. One thing was certain: There were enough toys in the world.
She went out and fetched another cup of coffee and looked into the photographers' office on her way back. Johan Henriksson was working the morning shift and was reading the morning broadsheet
'Nasty murder, don't you think?' Annika said, sitting down in an armchair opposite him.
The photographer shook his head. 'Yeah, he seems like a real head case. I never heard anything like it.'
'Do you want to go and have a peek?' Annika said teasingly.
'It's too dark,' Henriksson said. 'You won't see a thing.'
'No, not on the outside, but maybe we can get inside. They may have removed the cordons now.'
'Not likely, they'll barely have swept the guy up yet.'
'The builders should be coming out there now in the morning. His workmates…'
'We've already talked to them.'
Annoyed, Annika got to her feet.
'Forget it, I'll just have to wait for a photographer who can be bothered to get off his ass…'
'Hey…' Henriksson said, 'of course I'll go with you. Just trying to be practical.'
Annika stopped short and tried to smile. 'Okay, sorry I lost my temper. My last photographer copped a real attitude.'
'Sure. Don't worry.' Henriksson said and went to pick up his camera bag.
Annika finished her coffee and went over to Ingvar Johansson.
'Do you know if the morning team needs Henriksson, or can I have him? I want to try to get inside Satra Hall.'
'The morning team won't get a word in the paper unless World War Three breaks out. That's how packed the paper is,' Ingvar Johansson said and closed the rival paper. 'We've got sixteen extra pages for the suburban edition, every column chock-a-block with ads.
'You know where to reach us,' Annika said and went to put on her coat.
They took one of the paper's cars. Annika drove. The state of the roads really was appalling; the cars on the West Circular were crawling along at thirty miles an hour.
'I'm surprised there are pile-ups. You can't go fast enough,' Henriksson said.
At least it was finally growing light- always a good thing. Annika drove south along the combined E4/E20 and the traffic eased up somewhat. She could drive at forty. She turned off at the Segeltorp/Satra exit and slowly drove down past Bredang. On the right hand, she dimly glimpsed row upon row of yellow, brick, terraced houses, while on the left were some drab tin buildings- some kind of warehouses or small factories.
'I think you missed our turning,' Henriksson said at the same time as they saw Satra Hall flicker past in the sleet on the right-hand side.
'Shit!' Annika said. 'We'll have to go all the way to Satra and turn around.'
She shuddered as she saw the gray tower blocks. The top floors were invisible through the snowfall. She had been up in one of them once, when Thomas was buying Kalle's first bicycle. Thomas believed in buying secondhand. It was cheaper and environmentally friendly. They had bought the most popular buy-and-sell magazine and pored over the ads. Once Thomas found a suitable bicycle, he became nervous that it might be stolen. He wouldn't pay until he had seen with his own eyes both the receipt and the child who had outgrown it. The family had lived in one of these houses.
'Cordoned off,' Henriksson pointed out.
Annika didn't reply but turned the car around. She drove back and parked between the snowdrifts in a deserted car park on the other side of the road.
She stood looking at the building. It was built of redwood. The sides were shaped somewhat like a standard UFO, and the slightly curved roof rose into a steep arch in the middle.
'Have you ever been here before?' she asked Henriksson.
'Never.'
'Bring the cameras and let's see if we can get in,' she said.
They trudged through the snow around to the back side of the facility. If Annika's calculations were right, they were at the furthest point from the main entrance.
'This looks like some kind of goods entrance,' she said and tramped on toward the middle of the short end. The door was locked. They trudged on through the snow, around the corner, and along the side of the building. Halfway down were two doors that looked like balcony doors; Annika guessed they were emergency exits. The first was locked, but the second was not. There were no cordons in sight. Annika felt a giddy sensation of joy in her stomach.
'Welcome,' she mumbled and pulled the door open.
'Can we walk in just like that?' Henriksson said.
'Of course, we can,' Annika said. 'Just put one leg in front of the other in a repeated and controlled falling movement.'
'But aren't we trespassing or something?' Henriksson said worriedly.
'That remains to be seen, but I don't think so. This is a public sports facility, owned by the City of Stockholm. It's open to the public and the door was unlocked. It shouldn't be a problem.'
