steps, followed by his colleagues. The media pack dissolved. The
'Right,' Henriksson said, 'that didn't tell us much.'
'Time to go,' Annika said. They left one of the freelancers behind and walked up toward Henriksson's car.
'Let's go past Vintertullstorget and get some eyewitness stories.'
They visited the people who lived closest to the arena. They met families with children, seniors, a couple of drunks, and some club kids. They spoke of the bang that woke them up, if it had, the shock, and how frightening it was.
'That's enough now,' Annika said at a quarter to seven. 'We've got to pull things together.'
They drove back to the office in silence. Annika composed intros and captions in her head. Henriksson mentally leafed through negatives, sorting them through, figuring which shots might work, pushing the film, and dodging the prints.
The snow was coming down heavily now. As a result, the temperature had risen and made the road surface dangerously slippery. They drove past four cars in a pileup on the West Circular. Henriksson stopped to take some shots.
They arrived at the newsroom just before seven. The atmosphere was composed but charged. Jansson was still there; on weekends the night editor also handled the suburban editions. Normally on a Saturday it was a question of changing the odd story, but they were always ready to change the whole paper around entirely. This was what was happening right now.
'Does it hold?' he asked, standing up the instant he spotted them coming in.
'I think so,' Annika said. 'There's a dead body on the Olympic stand, in pieces. I'd bet my life on it. Give me half an hour and I'll know for sure.'
Jansson rocked to and fro on his feet. 'Half an hour- not sooner?'
Annika threw him a glance over her shoulder while wriggling out of her coat. She picked up a copy of the early edition and walked into her office.
'Okay then,' he said and went back to his chair.
First she wrote the news article, which was nothing but a supplemented rewrite of the night reporter's work from the first edition. She added quotations from the neighbors and the statement that the fire was under control. After that she set about writing the 'I Was There' story, adding descriptions of sounds and other details. Twenty- eight minutes past seven she called her contact.
'I can't say anything yet,' he began.
'I know,' Annika said. 'I'll do the talking and you say nothing, or tell me if I'm wrong…'
'I can't do that this time,' he interrupted her.
Shit. She took a breath and chose to go on the offensive.
'Listen to what I have to say first,' she said. 'This is how I see it: Someone died at the Olympic stadium last night. Someone has been blown to bits on that stand. You have people there picking up the pieces as we speak. It's an inside job; all the alarms were disarmed. There must be hundreds of alarms at a stadium like this: burglar alarms, fire alarms, motion-sensor alarms- and they were all disarmed. No doors had been forced open. Someone with a key went inside and switched off the alarms, either the victim or the perpetrator. At this moment you are trying to find out who.'
She fell silent and held her breath.
'You can't publish that now,' the police officer at the other end said.
Quick release of breath. 'What part?'
'The insider theory. We want to keep it secret. The alarms were fully functional but had been disarmed. Someone has died, that's true. We don't know who yet.' He sounded completely exhausted.
'When will you find out?'
'Don't know. It could prove difficult to establish the victim's identity visually, if I may put it that way. But we do seem to have certain other leads. That's all I can say.'
'Man or woman?'
He hesitated. 'Not now,' he said and hung up.
Annika darted out to Jansson. 'The death has been confirmed, but they still don't know who it is.'
'Mincemeat, eh?' Jansson said.
She swallowed and nodded.
Helena Starke woke up with a hangover that was out of this world. As long as she stayed in bed it was all right, but when she got up to get a glass of water she threw up on the mat in the hallway. She stayed panting on all fours for a while before she could make it into the bathroom. There she filled the toothbrush glass with water and gulped it down. Dear God, she was never going to drink again. She lifted her gaze to meet her bloodshot eyes among the toothpaste specks in the mirror. Christ, would she never learn? She opened the bathroom cabinet and fumbled with the Tylenol container. She swallowed three with a great deal of water and prayed she'd keep them down.
Helena staggered out into the kitchen and sat down by the table. The seat was cold against her naked thighs. How much did she drink last night? The brandy bottle stood on the worktop, empty. She leaned her cheek against the tabletop and searched for memories of the night before. The restaurant, the music, peoples' faces- it was all one big flashback. Christ, she couldn't even remember how she got home! Christina was with her, wasn't she? They left the restaurant together, didn't they?
She groaned, stood up, and filled a jug with water that she took with her to the bedroom. On her way to the bedroom, she scrambled together the hall mat and threw it in the laundry basket in the wardrobe; she nearly threw up again from the stench.
The clock radio by the bed said five to nine. She groaned. The older she got, the earlier she woke up, especially if she'd been drinking. In years gone by she'd been able to sleep it off for a whole day. Not any more. Now she woke early, sick as a dog, and then spent the rest of the day sweating in bed. She'd drift off for short periods, but she couldn't sleep. Mustering all her energy, Helena reached for the jug. She piled the pillows up against the headboard and settled herself against them. Then she saw her clothes from last night folded up in a neat pile on the chest of drawers by the window, and a shiver went up her spine. Who the hell had put them there like that? Probably she did. That was the scariest thing about having blackouts when you drank: You went around like a zombie, doing normal things without having a clue. She shuddered and switched on the radio. She might as well listen to the news while waiting for the Tylenol to kick in.
The main news this morning made her throw up again. She also knew that there would be no more rest for Helena Starke today.
After flushing her vomit down the toilet, she picked up the phone and called Christina.
The news agency TT ran Annika's information at 9:34 A.M. So,
The last one was a gamble, but Jansson argued it would hold. Henriksson's picture from the Olympic flame dominated most of the center spread. It was a striking image: the illuminated circle beyond the hole made by the bomb, the men bent forward, the falling snowflakes. It was extremely nasty without being macabre. No blood, no body, only the knowledge of what the men were doing. They had already sold the picture to Reuters. TV2's
When the city edition had gone to press, the crime reporters and news editors gathered in Annika's office. Boxes with her ring binders and files with cuttings of her old articles were still piled up in the corners. The couch had been inherited, but the desk was new. For two months now Annika had been crime editor; the office had been
