Free The Bomber by Liza Marklund Page A

made off record for less than what you've described to me?"
     
     
"No, they wouldn't," the man said firmly. "If the threat were of a less serious nature, it would suffice to have a security flag in the Public Register."
     
     
"How many people have you approved for going off record during your time in Tyresö?"
     
     
He pondered the question then said, "Uh… three."
     
     
"Christina Furhage, her husband, and her daughter," Annika declared.
     
     
"I didn't say that," the tax director said.
     
     
"Can you comment on Christina Furhage being off record?" she swiftly continued.
     
     
"No, I cannot," the man said in a surly tone.
     
     
"What kind of death threat was directed at Christina Furhage?"
     
     
"I can't comment on that."
     
     
"What was the act of violence behind your decision to grant her off-record status?"
     
     
"I can't say anything more in the matter. We'll end the interview here," the man said and hung up.
     
     
Annika smiled happily. She was home and dry now. Without saying a word about Christina, the man had confirmed it all.
     
     
    * * *
After another couple of verifying calls, she wrote her copy on the threat scenario, keeping the terrorist theory at a reasonable level. Just after 11 P.M. she was done. Patrik still hadn't returned. That boded well.
     
     
She gave her copy to Jansson, who was now in full swing out by the desk, ruffling his hair and continually speaking on the phone.
     
     
She decided to walk home, despite the cold and the dark, despite her empty head. Her legs were aching; they always did when she was exhausted. A brisk walk was the best remedy, then she wouldn't have to take a painkiller when she got home. She quickly put on her coat and pulled the hat over her ears before she had time to change her mind.
     
     
"I'm on my cellphone," was all she said to Jansson on her way out. He waved to her without looking up from the phone.
     
     
The temperature had really shifted up and down today; now it was just below freezing again and large snowflakes were slowly falling. They were nearly hanging still in the air, wavering back and forth on their way to the ground. The snow wrapped all sounds and deadened them. Annika didn't hear the 57 bus until it drove past right next to her.
     
     
She took the stairs down to the Rålambshov Park. The path across the wide lawn was muddy and cut up by prams and bicycles; she slipped and nearly fell, swearing to herself. A startled hare leapt away from her into the shadows. Amazing that there were so many animals in the middle of the city. Once Thomas had been chased by a badger on their own street on his way home from the pub. She laughed out loud in the dark at the memory.
     
     
The wind was stronger here than up among the buildings, so she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. The snowflakes were wilder and wet her hair. She hadn't seen her kids all day. She hadn't called back since the morning; it would only have been painful. Usually she felt okay working in the week, since all the kids in Sweden were at daycare centers then and her conscience could rest. But on a Saturday like today, the last one before Christmas, you were supposed to be at home making toffee and baking saffron buns. Annika sighed, and the snowflakes whirled around her. The problem was that when she did organize a baking session or some other big activity it was never much fun. At first both children thought it was great and would quarrel about who would stand next to her. By the time they'd fought over the dough and messed up the whole kitchen, her patience would be giving out. It would be worse if she'd had a hard time at work; she'd end up blowing her top. It had ended that way on more occasions than she cared to think of. The kids would sulk in front of the TV, while she finished the baking at lightning speed. Then Thomas would put them to bed while she cleaned the kitchen. She let out another sigh. Maybe this time it would have been different. No one