The adrenaline-fuelled prequel to Liza Marklund's bestselling thriller THE BOMBER Eight years before the sensational events of THE BOMBER, fledgling reporter Annika Bengtzon has just started a summer job at a Swedish tabloid. Before she can even begin to get her bearings in the gritty, fast-paced world of journalism, Annika learns that the body of a young woman has been discovered - raped, murdered and abandoned in a cemetery. A powerful government minister emerges as the prime suspect, with the general election only a few weeks away. Fuelled by ambition, hampered by inexperience, Annika finds herself immersed in a steamy underworld of sex clubs, sinister power plays and a media feeding frenzy. This murder case could become Annika's breakthrough story - or the event that seals her doom.
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Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
Liza Marklund is a newspaper and television journalist, who lives in Stockholm with her husband and three children.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"There's a dead girl in Kronoberg Park."
The voice was breathless, the words slurred, suggesting drug use. Annika Bengtzon looked away from her screen and fumbled for a pen amongst the mess on her desk.
"How do you know?" she asked, sounding more sceptical than was strictly called for.
"Because I'm standing right next to it, for fuck's sake!"
The voice rose to a falsetto and Annika had to hold the phone away from her ear.
"Okay, how dead?" she said, aware that the question sounded ridiculous.
"Bloody hell, completely dead! How dead can you be?"
Annika looked around the newsroom uneasily. Spike, the head of news, was sitting over at the newsdesk, talking on the phone. Anne Snapphane was fanning herself with a pad of paper behind the desk opposite, and Picture-Pelle had just switched on his Mac over at the picture desk.
"I see," she said, as she found a Biro in an empty coffee cup and an old printout of a news agency telegram, which she started making notes on the back of.
"In Kronoberg Park, you said. Whereabouts?"
"Behind a headstone."
"Headstone?"
The man on the other end started to cry. Annika waited in silence for a few seconds. She didn't know what to do next. The tip-off line - officially known as the Hotline but only ever referred to in the office as Cold Calls - was almost only ever used by pranksters and nutters. This one was a strong candidate for the latter.
"Hello . . . ?" Annika said cautiously.
The man blew his nose. He took several deep breaths and started talking. Anne Snapphane was watching Annika from the other side of the desk.
"I don't know how you keep answering those calls," she said when Annika had hung up.
Annika didn't respond, and just carried on making notes on the back of the telegram.
"I have to have another ice-cream or I'll die. Do you want anything from the canteen?" Anne Snapphane asked, standing up.
"I just need to check something first," Annika said, picking up the phone and dialling the police emergency desk. It was true. Four minutes ago they had received a report of a dead body in the section of the park facing Kronobergsgatan.
Annika got up and went over to the newsdesk, holding the telegram in her hand. Spike was still talking on the phone, his feet up on the desk. Annika stood right in front of him, demanding his attention. The head of news looked up, annoyed.
"Suspected murder, a young girl," Annika said, waving the printout.
Spike ended his call abruptly by simply putting the phone down, and dropped his feet to the floor.
"Is it from one of the agencies?" he wondered, turning towards his screen.
"No, Cold Calls."
"Confirmed?"
"The emergency desk have got it, at any rate."
Spike looked out over the newsroom.
"Okay," he said. "Who have we got here?"
Annika made her move. "It's my tip-off."
"Berit!" Spike yelled, getting up. "This year's summer killing!"
Berit Hamrin, one of the paper's older reporters, picked up her handbag and came over to the newsdesk. "Where's Carl Wennergren? Is he working today?"
"No, he's on holiday, sailing round Gotland," Annika said. "This is my tip-off; I took the call."
"Pelle, pictures!" Spike yelled towards the picture desk.
The picture editor gave him a thumbs-up. "Bertil Strand," he shouted.
"Okay," the head of news said, turning to Annika. "So what have we got?"
Annika looked down at her scribbled notes, suddenly aware of how nervous she was.
"A dead girl, found behind a headstone in the Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen."
"So it isn't necessarily a murder, is it?"
"she's naked and was strangled."
Spike looked at Annika intently. "And you want to do this one yourself?"
Annika swallowed and nodded, and the head of news sat down again and pulled out a pad of paper. "Okay," he said. "You can go with Berit and Bertil. Make sure we get good pictures. We can sort the rest out later, but we have to get good pictures."
The photographer was pulling on the rucksack containing his equipment as he walked past the newsdesk.
"Where is it, again?" he said, aiming his question at Spike.
"Kronoberg Prison," Spike said, picking up the phone.
"Park," Annika said, looking to see where her bag was.
"Kronoberg Park. The Jewish Cemetery."
"Just make sure it isn't a domestic row," Spike said, before dialling a London number.
Berit and Bertil Strand were already on their way to the lift down to the garage, but Annika paused.
"What do you mean by that?" she said.
"Exactly what I said. We aren't interested in domestics."
The head of news turned his back on her demonstratively. Annika felt her anger rise through her body and hit her brain like a shot.
"That wouldn't make the girl any less dead, would it?" she said.
Spike's call was picked up at the other end and she realized the discussion was over. She looked up and saw that Berit and Bertil had already disappeared. She hurried to her desk, pulled out her bag from beneath the desk drawers and ran after her colleagues. The lift had gone, so she took the stairs. Fuck, fuck, why did she always have to argue? She was about to miss her first big story just because she wanted to put the head of news in his place.
"Idiot!" she said out loud to herself.
She caught up with the reporter and photographer at the entrance to the garage.
"Okay, we stick together until there's a good reason to split up," Berit said, making notes in her pad as she walked. "I'm Berit Hamrin, by the way. I don't think we've been introduced."
The older woman smiled at Annika, and they shook hands as they got into Bertil Strand's Saab, Annika in the back and Berit in the front.
"There's no need to slam the door so hard," Bertil Strand said, looking at Annika reproachfully over his shoulder. "You'll damage the paintwork."
Good God, Annika thought.
"Oh, sorry," she said.
The photographers treated the newspaper's vehicles as their personal company cars. Almost all of them took their responsibilities extremely seriously. Maybe that was because the photographers, without exception, were all men, Annika thought. Even though she'd only been at the Evening Post for seven weeks, she was already well aware of the sanctity of the photographers' cars.
She'd had to postpone several interviews because various photographers had been busy putting their cars through the carwash. And that also gave her an indication of just how important people thought her articles were.
"It's probably best to avoid Fridhemsplan and approach the park by the side streets," Berit said as the car approached Rålambsvägen. Bertil Strand put his foot down and just made the lights, heading off down Gjörwellsgatan towards Norr Mälarstrand.
"Can you run through what the bloke on the phone told you?" Berit said, swivelling in her chair so she could look back at Annika.
Annika pulled out the crumpled telegram.
"Well, there's a young girl lying dead behind a headstone in Kronoberg Park. Naked, probably strangled."
"Who was the caller?"
"Some junkie, from the sound of it. His mate was taking a piss against the railings and caught sight of her through the bushes."
"Why did they think she'd been strangled?"
Annika turned the paper to read something she'd written along the edge of the sheet.
"There was no blood, her eyes were wide open and there were marks on her neck."
"That doesn't necessarily mean she was strangled, or even murdered," Berit said, turning to look ahead again.
Annika didn't answer. She looked out through the Saab's tinted windows at the people sunbathing in Rålambshov Park. The glittering waters of Riddarfjärden spread out ahead of them. She had to squint, in spite of the tinted glass. There were two windsurfers heading towards the island of Långholmen, but they weren't doing terribly well. There was scarcely any breeze to lift the heat today.
"What a great summer we're having," Bertil Strand said, turning left into Polhemsgatan. "Pretty unexpected, after all the rain we had in the spring."
"Yes, I was lucky," Berit said. "I've just had my four weeks off. Sun every single day. We can leave the car just behind the fire station."
The Saab cruised the last few blocks of Bergsgatan. Berit had undone her seatbelt before Bertil Strand even hit the brakes, and was out of the car before it stopped. Annika hurried after her, momentarily taken aback as the heat outside hit her.
Bertil Strand parked in a turning circle as Berit and Annika headed off along the side of a red-brick building from the fifties. The tarmac path was narrow, with a stone kerb along the edge of the park.
"There's a flight of steps up here," Berit said, already out of breath.
Six steps later and they were up in the park itself. They jogged along a tarmac path that led to an elaborate playground. To their right were several sheds; Annika read the words "Park Games" as she ran past. There was a sandpit, benches, picnic tables, climbing frames, slides, swings and other things for kids to climb and play on. A few mothers and their children were in the playground, but it looked like they were packing up. At the far end two uniformed policemen were talking to another mother.
"I think the cemetery's a bit further down, towards Sankt Göransgatan," Berit said.
"You certainly know your way around," Annika said.
"Do you live near here?"
"No," Berit said. "This isn't the first murder in this park."
Annika saw that the police were busy unrolling their blue and white tape to cordon off the area. So they were emptying the playground and closing it off to the public.
"It's a good job we got here quickly," she muttered to herself.
They turned off to the right, following a path that led to the top of the hill.
"Down to ... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
The voice was breathless, the words slurred, suggesting drug use. Annika Bengtzon looked away from her screen and fumbled for a pen amongst the mess on her desk.
"How do you know?" she asked, sounding more sceptical than was strictly called for.
"Because I'm standing right next to it, for fuck's sake!"
The voice rose to a falsetto and Annika had to hold the phone away from her ear.
"Okay, how dead?" she said, aware that the question sounded ridiculous.
"Bloody hell, completely dead! How dead can you be?"
Annika looked around the newsroom uneasily. Spike, the head of news, was sitting over at the newsdesk, talking on the phone. Anne Snapphane was fanning herself with a pad of paper behind the desk opposite, and Picture-Pelle had just switched on his Mac over at the picture desk.
"I see," she said, as she found a Biro in an empty coffee cup and an old printout of a news agency telegram, which she started making notes on the back of.
"In Kronoberg Park, you said. Whereabouts?"
"Behind a headstone."
"Headstone?"
The man on the other end started to cry. Annika waited in silence for a few seconds. She didn't know what to do next. The tip-off line - officially known as the Hotline but only ever referred to in the office as Cold Calls - was almost only ever used by pranksters and nutters. This one was a strong candidate for the latter.
"Hello . . . ?" Annika said cautiously.
The man blew his nose. He took several deep breaths and started talking. Anne Snapphane was watching Annika from the other side of the desk.
"I don't know how you keep answering those calls," she said when Annika had hung up.
Annika didn't respond, and just carried on making notes on the back of the telegram.
"I have to have another ice-cream or I'll die. Do you want anything from the canteen?" Anne Snapphane asked, standing up.
"I just need to check something first," Annika said, picking up the phone and dialling the police emergency desk. It was true. Four minutes ago they had received a report of a dead body in the section of the park facing Kronobergsgatan.
Annika got up and went over to the newsdesk, holding the telegram in her hand. Spike was still talking on the phone, his feet up on the desk. Annika stood right in front of him, demanding his attention. The head of news looked up, annoyed.
"Suspected murder, a young girl," Annika said, waving the printout.
Spike ended his call abruptly by simply putting the phone down, and dropped his feet to the floor.
"Is it from one of the agencies?" he wondered, turning towards his screen.
"No, Cold Calls."
"Confirmed?"
"The emergency desk have got it, at any rate."
Spike looked out over the newsroom.
"Okay," he said. "Who have we got here?"
Annika made her move. "It's my tip-off."
"Berit!" Spike yelled, getting up. "This year's summer killing!"
Berit Hamrin, one of the paper's older reporters, picked up her handbag and came over to the newsdesk. "Where's Carl Wennergren? Is he working today?"
"No, he's on holiday, sailing round Gotland," Annika said. "This is my tip-off; I took the call."
"Pelle, pictures!" Spike yelled towards the picture desk.
The picture editor gave him a thumbs-up. "Bertil Strand," he shouted.
"Okay," the head of news said, turning to Annika. "So what have we got?"
Annika looked down at her scribbled notes, suddenly aware of how nervous she was.
"A dead girl, found behind a headstone in the Jewish Cemetery in Kronoberg Park on Kungsholmen."
"So it isn't necessarily a murder, is it?"
"she's naked and was strangled."
Spike looked at Annika intently. "And you want to do this one yourself?"
Annika swallowed and nodded, and the head of news sat down again and pulled out a pad of paper. "Okay," he said. "You can go with Berit and Bertil. Make sure we get good pictures. We can sort the rest out later, but we have to get good pictures."
The photographer was pulling on the rucksack containing his equipment as he walked past the newsdesk.
"Where is it, again?" he said, aiming his question at Spike.
"Kronoberg Prison," Spike said, picking up the phone.
"Park," Annika said, looking to see where her bag was.
"Kronoberg Park. The Jewish Cemetery."
"Just make sure it isn't a domestic row," Spike said, before dialling a London number.
Berit and Bertil Strand were already on their way to the lift down to the garage, but Annika paused.
"What do you mean by that?" she said.
"Exactly what I said. We aren't interested in domestics."
The head of news turned his back on her demonstratively. Annika felt her anger rise through her body and hit her brain like a shot.
"That wouldn't make the girl any less dead, would it?" she said.
Spike's call was picked up at the other end and she realized the discussion was over. She looked up and saw that Berit and Bertil had already disappeared. She hurried to her desk, pulled out her bag from beneath the desk drawers and ran after her colleagues. The lift had gone, so she took the stairs. Fuck, fuck, why did she always have to argue? She was about to miss her first big story just because she wanted to put the head of news in his place.
"Idiot!" she said out loud to herself.
She caught up with the reporter and photographer at the entrance to the garage.
"Okay, we stick together until there's a good reason to split up," Berit said, making notes in her pad as she walked. "I'm Berit Hamrin, by the way. I don't think we've been introduced."
The older woman smiled at Annika, and they shook hands as they got into Bertil Strand's Saab, Annika in the back and Berit in the front.
"There's no need to slam the door so hard," Bertil Strand said, looking at Annika reproachfully over his shoulder. "You'll damage the paintwork."
Good God, Annika thought.
"Oh, sorry," she said.
The photographers treated the newspaper's vehicles as their personal company cars. Almost all of them took their responsibilities extremely seriously. Maybe that was because the photographers, without exception, were all men, Annika thought. Even though she'd only been at the Evening Post for seven weeks, she was already well aware of the sanctity of the photographers' cars.
She'd had to postpone several interviews because various photographers had been busy putting their cars through the carwash. And that also gave her an indication of just how important people thought her articles were.
"It's probably best to avoid Fridhemsplan and approach the park by the side streets," Berit said as the car approached Rålambsvägen. Bertil Strand put his foot down and just made the lights, heading off down Gjörwellsgatan towards Norr Mälarstrand.
"Can you run through what the bloke on the phone told you?" Berit said, swivelling in her chair so she could look back at Annika.
Annika pulled out the crumpled telegram.
"Well, there's a young girl lying dead behind a headstone in Kronoberg Park. Naked, probably strangled."
"Who was the caller?"
"Some junkie, from the sound of it. His mate was taking a piss against the railings and caught sight of her through the bushes."
"Why did they think she'd been strangled?"
Annika turned the paper to read something she'd written along the edge of the sheet.
"There was no blood, her eyes were wide open and there were marks on her neck."
"That doesn't necessarily mean she was strangled, or even murdered," Berit said, turning to look ahead again.
Annika didn't answer. She looked out through the Saab's tinted windows at the people sunbathing in Rålambshov Park. The glittering waters of Riddarfjärden spread out ahead of them. She had to squint, in spite of the tinted glass. There were two windsurfers heading towards the island of Långholmen, but they weren't doing terribly well. There was scarcely any breeze to lift the heat today.
"What a great summer we're having," Bertil Strand said, turning left into Polhemsgatan. "Pretty unexpected, after all the rain we had in the spring."
"Yes, I was lucky," Berit said. "I've just had my four weeks off. Sun every single day. We can leave the car just behind the fire station."
The Saab cruised the last few blocks of Bergsgatan. Berit had undone her seatbelt before Bertil Strand even hit the brakes, and was out of the car before it stopped. Annika hurried after her, momentarily taken aback as the heat outside hit her.
Bertil Strand parked in a turning circle as Berit and Annika headed off along the side of a red-brick building from the fifties. The tarmac path was narrow, with a stone kerb along the edge of the park.
"There's a flight of steps up here," Berit said, already out of breath.
Six steps later and they were up in the park itself. They jogged along a tarmac path that led to an elaborate playground. To their right were several sheds; Annika read the words "Park Games" as she ran past. There was a sandpit, benches, picnic tables, climbing frames, slides, swings and other things for kids to climb and play on. A few mothers and their children were in the playground, but it looked like they were packing up. At the far end two uniformed policemen were talking to another mother.
"I think the cemetery's a bit further down, towards Sankt Göransgatan," Berit said.
"You certainly know your way around," Annika said.
"Do you live near here?"
"No," Berit said. "This isn't the first murder in this park."
Annika saw that the police were busy unrolling their blue and white tape to cordon off the area. So they were emptying the playground and closing it off to the public.
"It's a good job we got here quickly," she muttered to herself.
They turned off to the right, following a path that led to the top of the hill.
"Down to ... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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