apartment: me, Thomas, Kalle, and Ellen on the way. When the building was finally renovated, we got a four-bedroom apartment at the front of the building. Not bad, eh?"
"Jackpot," Berit said.
"What's your rent?" Henriksson asked.
"Ask me something else, like how nice the wood paneling is or how high the ceilings are," Annika said.
"Goddamn yuppie," Henriksson exclaimed, and Annika laughed out loud.
* * *
The group from Kvällspressen was late and barely managed to get inside the press conference room. Annika ended up in the doorway and could hardly see anything. She craned her neck and saw reporters doing their best to show everybody else how extremely important and focused on their job they were. Henriksson and Olsson elbowed their way to the front, arriving there at the same time as the press conference participants filed into the room. There were fewer of them than the day before. Annika could only see the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström and the police press officer. Evert Danielsson wasn't there, nor was the Krim investigator. Above the head of a woman from one of the morning papers, Annika saw the press officer clear his throat and begin to speak. He summed up the situation and went through already known facts, that the Tiger was wanted for questioning by the police and that the forensic investigation was underway. He talked for ten minutes and then Kjell Lindström leaned forward, with the entire press corps doing the same. Everybody had an idea of what was coming.
"The identification procedure of the victim at the stadium is now more or less complete," the prosecutor said, as all of the reporters craned their necks.
"The family has been informed, which is why we have decided to make it public, although there is some work still to be carried out…. The deceased is Christina Furhage, Managing Director of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games."
Annika's reaction was almost physical: yes! I knew it! I knew it! When the excited voices at the press conference were reaching fever pitch, she was already on her way out of the building. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and dialed the number she had memorized. With out a sound, her phone called the other handset, and then the number was ringing. She stopped in the small lobby between the reception area and the front doors, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and focused all her energy on communicating a telepathic message: please, somebody, pick up, pick up! Three rings, four rings, and there was a click! Someone was answering! Christ, who could it be?
Annika screwed up her eyes even tighter and began talking quietly and slowly. "Good afternoon. My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from Kvällspressen. To whom am I speaking?"
"I'm Bertil Milander," someone said in a faint voice.
Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, surely that was Christina Furhage's husband? Wasn't that his name? To be on the safe side, Annika continued as slowly as before: "Is this Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage's husband?"
The man at the other end sighed. "Yes, that's right."
Annika's heart was pounding. This was the most unpleasant call a reporter could ever make— to the house of a person whose next of kin had just died. There was an ongoing debate within the press corps whether these calls should be made at all. Annika felt it was better to call than not, if for no other reason than to tell people what the paper was doing.
"Let me begin by saying how deeply saddened I am by the tragedy that has struck you and your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife Christina who died in the explosion at Victoria Stadium," she began.
The man said nothing.
"By the way, isn't this Christina's cellphone?" she heard herself ask.
"No, it's the family's," the man said in surprise.
"The reason I'm calling is to tell you
"Jackpot," Berit said.
"What's your rent?" Henriksson asked.
"Ask me something else, like how nice the wood paneling is or how high the ceilings are," Annika said.
"Goddamn yuppie," Henriksson exclaimed, and Annika laughed out loud.
* * *
The group from Kvällspressen was late and barely managed to get inside the press conference room. Annika ended up in the doorway and could hardly see anything. She craned her neck and saw reporters doing their best to show everybody else how extremely important and focused on their job they were. Henriksson and Olsson elbowed their way to the front, arriving there at the same time as the press conference participants filed into the room. There were fewer of them than the day before. Annika could only see the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström and the police press officer. Evert Danielsson wasn't there, nor was the Krim investigator. Above the head of a woman from one of the morning papers, Annika saw the press officer clear his throat and begin to speak. He summed up the situation and went through already known facts, that the Tiger was wanted for questioning by the police and that the forensic investigation was underway. He talked for ten minutes and then Kjell Lindström leaned forward, with the entire press corps doing the same. Everybody had an idea of what was coming.
"The identification procedure of the victim at the stadium is now more or less complete," the prosecutor said, as all of the reporters craned their necks.
"The family has been informed, which is why we have decided to make it public, although there is some work still to be carried out…. The deceased is Christina Furhage, Managing Director of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games."
Annika's reaction was almost physical: yes! I knew it! I knew it! When the excited voices at the press conference were reaching fever pitch, she was already on her way out of the building. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and dialed the number she had memorized. With out a sound, her phone called the other handset, and then the number was ringing. She stopped in the small lobby between the reception area and the front doors, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and focused all her energy on communicating a telepathic message: please, somebody, pick up, pick up! Three rings, four rings, and there was a click! Someone was answering! Christ, who could it be?
Annika screwed up her eyes even tighter and began talking quietly and slowly. "Good afternoon. My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from Kvällspressen. To whom am I speaking?"
"I'm Bertil Milander," someone said in a faint voice.
Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, surely that was Christina Furhage's husband? Wasn't that his name? To be on the safe side, Annika continued as slowly as before: "Is this Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage's husband?"
The man at the other end sighed. "Yes, that's right."
Annika's heart was pounding. This was the most unpleasant call a reporter could ever make— to the house of a person whose next of kin had just died. There was an ongoing debate within the press corps whether these calls should be made at all. Annika felt it was better to call than not, if for no other reason than to tell people what the paper was doing.
"Let me begin by saying how deeply saddened I am by the tragedy that has struck you and your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife Christina who died in the explosion at Victoria Stadium," she began.
The man said nothing.
"By the way, isn't this Christina's cellphone?" she heard herself ask.
"No, it's the family's," the man said in surprise.
"The reason I'm calling is to tell you
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