The Bomber

'What are we making, Mommy? What will it be? Will we get candy today, Mommy?'

Annika laughed and hugged them both while they stood in the checkout queue.

'Yes, you'll get candy today- we're making our own, won't that be fun?'

'I like Liquorice Cats,' Kalle said.

When they arrived home, she put big aprons on the kids. She made a conscious decision to ignore the outcome and let them enjoy themselves. First, she melted the chocolate in the microwave to a creamy sauce, in which they rolled little balls of marzipan. The marzipan balls that survived were few in number and not pretty. Her mother-in-law would surely turn up her nose at them, but the kids were having fun, especially Kalle. She had planned to make toffee as well, but she realized the kids couldn't help because the mixture was far too hot. Instead she started the oven and set about the gingerbread dough. Ellen was blissfully happy. She rolled out dough and cut out little figures and ate the dough between them. In the end, she was so stuffed she couldn't move. They made enough for a couple of baking trays, and they were quite acceptable.

'You're so clever!' she said to the children. 'Look how well you've done, all this yummy gingerbread.'

Kalle swelled with pride and had a biscuit and a glass of milk, even though he was quite full himself.

She placed the children in front of a video while she cleared up the kitchen. That took forty-five minutes. She joined the children on the couch when the film was at its scariest, the scene when Simba's father died. When the kitchen was clean, there was still some time to spare before The Lion King ended, so she took the opportunity to call Anne Snapphane. Anne lived alone with her little daughter on the top floor of a house in Lidingo. The girl, Miranda, lived with her father every other week. They were both there when Annika called.

'I haven't had the energy to start the Christmas shit yet,' Anne groaned. 'How come you always manage and I don't?'

Annika could hear the music of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. They were watching Disney in Lidingo, too.

'I'm the one who never manages,' she said. 'Your house is always spotless. I get a guilty conscience just visiting you.'

'All I say is Tonia from Poland,' Anne said. 'Are you okay otherwise?'

Annika sighed. 'I'm having a hard time at work. The same bunch of people always trying to put me down.'

'It's fucking awful when you first become a manager. I thought I was going to die during my first six months as a producer. My heart hurt every day. There's always some bitter and twisted little bastard out to spoil you.'

Annika chewed on her lip.

'Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. This is what I should be doing: baking with the kids and sitting with them when there's something scary on TV…'

'You'd go crazy within a week,' Anne said.

'I know. But the kids still matter most, you can't get away from that. The woman who was murdered, Christina Furhage, she had a son who died when he was five. She never got over it. Do you really think her work and success could erase that memory? Could make up for that?'

'That's terrible,' Anne said. 'What did he die of?'

'Malignant melanoma, skin cancer. Pretty gruesome, eh?'

'No, Miranda, get down from there!… How old did you say he was?'

'Five. Just like Kalle.'

'And died from malignant melanoma? Who told you that? It's not possible.'

Annika was lost. 'What do you mean?'

'He couldn't have died from malignant melanoma if he was only five years old. That's just impossible.'

'How do you know?' Annika said in amazement.

'Annika, we talked about it, remember. I had all my moles removed. I don't have a single one left on my body. I did all that research into skin cancer at the time. Do you think that I, of all people, would be mistaken about a thing like that? Annie, please…'

Annika felt confusion mounting within. Could she have misunderstood what Helena Starke said to her?

'Well, refresh my memory. Why couldn't he have had malignant melanoma?' she asked.

'Because the malignant, the fatal, variety of melanoma never appears before puberty. But he may have entered puberty very early. That's called…'

Annika racked her brains. Anne Snapphane was sure to be right. She was a full-blooded hypochondriac; there wasn't a disease she hadn't been through. Countless times she'd had herself rushed in an ambulance to the Accident & Emergency Department at Danderyd Hospital; even more times she'd visited the city's various emergency departments, public as well as private. She knew everything about all forms of cancer, could list the differences between the symptoms of MS and familial amyloidosis. She wouldn't be mistaken. Consequently, Helena Starke was wrong, or she lied.

'Annika…?'

'Listen, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later.'

She hung up and felt a thrill run along her spine. This was crucial, she could feel it was. Christina Furhage's son did not die from malignant melanoma. Maybe he died under altogether different circumstances. Did he suffer from another disease, was there an accident, or was he killed? Maybe he didn't die at all. Maybe he was still alive.

She got up and restlessly paced around the kitchen, adrenaline pumping. Shit, shit, she knew she was on to something! Then she froze. Her contact! He knew Christina had a son, he'd said so just before ringing off. The police were on the case! Yes, yes, that was it!

'Mommy, The Lion King has ended.'

They entered the kitchen in a small procession, Kalle first and Ellen one step behind. Annika resolutely pushed the thoughts of Christina Furhage to the back of her mind.

'Was it good? Are you hungry? No, no more gingerbread now. Pasta? What about a pizza?'

She called La Solo on the other side of the street and ordered one capricciosa, one with meat and garlic, and one calzone with pork. Thomas wouldn't like it, but that couldn't be helped. If he wanted elk casserole again today, he could've come home at two in the afternoon and started making it.

* * *

Evert Danielsson turned off the Sollentuna road and into the OK garage in Helenelund that had a good service department and a big do-it-yourself car wash. He came here once a week to pamper his car. His secretary had booked him in for three hours, starting at 7 P.M. You didn't have to book, but he didn't like to take chances because it might be difficult to get three uninterrupted hours without prebooking.

He first went into the shop and picked out the things he needed: a spray bottle of degreasing agent, car shampoo without wax, two bottles of Turtle Original Wax, and a pack of cloths. He paid at the checkout: 31.50 for the degreaser, 29.50 for the shampoo and 188 kronor for two bottles of wax. The three hours in the car wash cost 64 kronor an hour for members. All in all it came to less than 500 kronor for a full evening. Evert Danielsson smiled at the checkout girl and paid with his company card.

He went outside and drove the car into his usual spot, pulled the door to, took out his folding chair and placed his little portable stereo on the bench in the corner. He picked a CD with arias from famous operas: Aida, The Magic Flute, Carmen and Madame Butterfly.

While the Queen of the Night advanced to F sharp three octaves above middle C, he started hosing down the car. The sludge of mud, sand, and ice was running down the drain in little rivulets. He proceeded to spray degreaser all over the car. While he waited for the agent to work, he sat down on the folding chair and listened to La Traviata. He didn't necessarily have to listen to opera in the car wash; sometimes he'd play old R &B, like Muddy Waters, or Hank Williams. Sometimes he even ventured into contemporary music: He liked Rebecka Tornqvist and some songs by Eva Dahlgren.

He let his thoughts wander freely but soon ended up on the one subject that occupied most of his existence at the moment. His career. He had spent the day trying to put a structure to what his job could look like, prioritizing the most urgent tasks. Somewhere he felt a certain relief at Christina being gone. Whoever blew her up might