Free The Bomber by Liza Marklund Page B

would have burned their fingers on the sticky toffee and they could all have eaten freshly baked saffron buns together in front of the fire.
     
     
When she reached the footpath along the water by Norr Mälarstrand, she quickened her pace. The pain in her legs was already easing and she was forcing herself to keep a steady, resolute stride. Her breathing increased and the heart found a new, more intense rhythm.
     
     
She used to think it was more fun to be at work than to be at home. As a reporter she would see quick results, get everyone's appreciation, and have a picture byline several times a week. She had full command of her beat and knew exactly what was expected of her in different situations; she could swing things and make demands. At home the demands were more numerous, harder, and less explicit. She was never sufficiently happy, horny, calm, efficient, parental, or rested. The apartment was always more or less in a mess, the laundry basket always on the verge of overflowing. Thomas was very good with the kids, almost better than she was, but he never, ever wiped the cooker or the worktop, hardly ever put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and always left clothes and unopened letters lying in mounds on the bedroom floor. It was as if he thought the dirty dishes found their own way into the dishwasher and the bills paid themselves.
     
     
But it wasn't as much fun to go to work anymore, not for the past eight weeks since she became an editor. She hadn't had the faintest idea of how strong the reactions to her promotion would be. The decision hadn't even been particularly controversial. In practice she'd been running the crime desk alongside her job as a reporter for the past year. Now she was paid for it; that's how she saw it. But Nils Langeby had hit the roof, of course. He considered the job his. He was 53, Annika only 32. She had also been astounded by how people felt they had a right to openly discuss her and criticize her over all kinds of matters. Suddenly people would comment and question her dress, something they'd never done before. They would say things about her character and abilities that were completely insulting. She hadn't realized that she became public property when she put on the editor's hat. Now she knew.
     
     
She quickened her pace further. She longed to be at home. She looked up at the houses on the other side of the street. The windows gave out a warm, welcoming glow over the water. Nearly all of them were decorated with Christmas lights or Christmas candelabra. It looked beautiful and safe. She left the bank and turned into John Erics-sonsgatan, up toward Hantverkargatan.
     
     
    * * *
The apartment was quiet and dark. Carefully she wriggled out of her boots and coat and tiptoed into the children's room. They were sleeping in their little pajamas, Ellen's with Barbie on them and Kalle's with Batman. She sniffed them slightly, as Ellen moved in her sleep.
     
     
Thomas was in bed but not yet asleep. A reading lamp cast a discreet light over his side of the bed. He was reading The Economist.
     
     
"Exhausted?" he asked, after she had pulled off her clothes and kissed him on his hair.
     
     
"So-so," she answered from inside the walk-in closet where she was pushing her clothes into the laundry basket. "This explosion has turned into a nasty business."
     
     
She was naked when she came out of the closet and crept in beside him.
     
     
"You're freezing cold," he said.
     
     
All of a sudden Annika noticed how cold her thighs were. "I walked home."
     
     
"The paper didn't pay for a taxi? You've worked for twenty hours, a whole Saturday!"
     
     
A feeling of irritation immediately hit her. "Of course the paper would have paid for a taxi. I wanted to walk." She was almost shouting. "Don't be so bloody critical!"
     
     
He put the magazine on the floor and switched off the lamp, demonstratively turning his back.
     
     
Annika sighed. "Come on, Thomas, don't sulk."
     
     
"You're