Helena Starke woke up on the kitchen floor. At first she didn't know where she was. Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She was cold and her hip hurt. The skin on her face felt tight after all the tears.
She sat up laboriously, leaning her back against a cupboard and looking at the falling snow through the dirty window. She was breathing slowly and consciously, forcing air into her lungs. They also felt like sandpaper- she wasn't used to smoking. Funny, she thought, life feels completely new. My brain is empty, the sky is white, and my heart is calm. I've reached the bottom.
A sense of peace rose within her. She sat on the kitchen floor for a long time, watching the wet snow gather on the windowpane. Memories of the past days hovered like gray ghosts at the back of her mind. She thought she must be quite hungry. As far as she could remember, she hadn't eaten for ages, only drunk a bit of water and one beer.
The conversation with the newswoman last Monday had broken down all barriers. For the first time in her life, Helena Starke had felt deep and genuine grief. The hours that had passed since then had made her realize that she actually had loved someone- for the first time in her life. The realization that she was capable of loving had slowly dawned on her during the long hours of last night, making her grief all the more profound. She had loved someone and now she was dead. Her disorientation and feelings of loss had developed into a massive self-pity, which she understood she would have to learn to accept. She was the classic widow-in-mourning, with the difference that she never would receive any support or understanding from the world around her. These expressions of sympathy were reserved for the established institution of heterosexual relationships.
She struggled to her feet. She really was stiff. She had been sitting at the kitchen table, chain-smoking one cigarette after another, lighting one on the stub of the other. In the small hours of the morning, she hadn't been able to sit upright on the chair any longer, so she had moved down on the floor. She must have dropped off finally.
She grabbed a glass from the worktop, rinsed it under the tap, filled it with water, and took a sip. She felt her stomach turn. She remembered what Christina used to say, almost hearing her voice inside her head:
She knew she'd been important to Christina, perhaps
She opened the fridge and found- miracle of miracles- a small pot of yogurt only two days past its eat-by date. She took a spoon, sat down at the table, and started eating. It was vanilla, her favorite. She looked out at the sludge; it really was dreary. As the traffic rumbled on as usual in the busy street below, she wondered how she could stand it here. All at once she realized she didn't have to anymore. She was worth more than this. She had plenty of money in the bank and could go anywhere she liked in the world. She put down the spoon on the table and wiped the last of the yogurt from the pot with her finger.
It was time to move on.
Restaurant Sorbet lay on the eighth floor in the old lamp factory in Hammarby Dock. They served Swedish and Indian food. The owners of the establishment weren't fussy about opening hours. They let Evert Danielsson come in and served him coffee, although they didn't open for another fifty minutes.
Annika found the head of the Secretariat behind a trellis on the right-hand side of the room. His face was completely gray.
'What's happened?' Annika asked and sat down opposite him. She pulled off her scarf, gloves, and coat and threw them on the chair next to her with her bag.
Evert Danielsson looked down on his hands. As was his custom, he was holding on firmly to the table.
'They lied to me,' he said in a strained voice.
'Who?'
He looked up.
'The board,' he said.
'About what?' Annika asked.
The man gave a sob.
'The board. Hans Bjallra. They all lied. They said I would get another assignment, that I would be handling practical matters after Christina's death. But they lied to me!'
Embarrassed, Annika looked around. She didn't have time to nanny bureaucrats.
'Now tell me what's happened,' she said gruffly, gaining the desired effect: The man pulled himself together.
'Hans Bjallra, the chairman of the board, promised me I'd be involved in the formulation of my new assignment, but that won't happen now. When I came into the office today, a letter was waiting for me. It had been couriered over early in the morning…'
He fell silent and stared down at his white knuckles.
'And…?' Annika said.
'It said I should vacate my office before lunch. SOCOG doesn't intend to make use of my services anymore. Consequently, it's not necessary for me to be at the disposal of the organization. I'm free to seek employment elsewhere. My severance packet will be paid out on 27 December.'
'How much?'
'Five annual salaries.'
'Poor you,' Annika said tartly.
'I know- it's horrible,' Evert Danielsson said. 'And while I sat there reading the letter, a guy from the service department came in. He didn't even knock, just stepped right in. He said he'd come for my keys.'
'But you had until lunch to clear out?'
'The car keys, they took my car from me!'
He bent over the table and started crying. Annika looked at the top of his head. His hair looked a bit stiff, as if he blow-dried it and used hairspray. She noticed it was thinning at the top.
'You can always use some of your severance pay and buy yourself a car,' Annika suggested. As she said it, she realized it was pointless. You can't tell someone whose pet has just died that he should get a new one.
The man blew his nose and cleared his throat. 'I see no reason to remain loyal. Christina is dead. I can't harm her.'
Annika picked up her pen and pad from the bag.
'What was it you wanted to tell me about?'
Evert Danielsson gave her a tired look.
'I know everything about Christina,' he said. 'She was never the obvious candidate to head SOCOG or even the campaign to get the Games for Stockholm. There were other people, mainly men, who were considered more suitable.'
'How did you get to know Christina?'
'She started in banking; you probably knew that already. I got to know her about eleven years ago when I was head of administration at the bank where she was the deputy managing director. Christina was pretty much hated by the rank and file; she was seen as hard as nails and unfair. The first was true, but not the latter. Christina always acted consistently; she would never carpet anybody who didn't deserve it. Though she did like public executions, which meant people were scared of not making the grade. It's possible it had a positive effect on profits, but it was devastating for the working atmosphere at the bank. The union was talking about staging a vote of no confidence in her; such things are not common in the banking business, I'll tell you that. But Christina put a stop to that. The union representatives behind the move resigned and left the bank the same day. I don't know how she managed to get rid of them, but there were no more calls for a vote.'
A waiter brought coffee for Annika and gave Evert Danielsson a refill. Annika thanked him. She thought she recognized his face from a commercial for a credit card. She had a good memory for faces, so she was probably
