Lifetime (16 page)

‘Do you mean . . .?’

‘The members of the board must have discussed this matter,’ Schyman said, getting up again. ‘All the lawsuits, the Press Ethics petitions, the dip in sales, the polls showing diminished credibility . . .’

‘It’s the recession,’ Herman Wennergren countered. ‘That and the increasing competition from broadcasting media and the Internet.’

Schyman shook his head.

‘They are all relevant factors, but they’re not the main problem. Our competitor’s sales are up, ours are going down.’

‘And you mean our editor-in-chief is to blame for that?’

‘Not entirely, of course. There is a substantial collective responsibility factor as well. But
Kvällspressen
is a hierarchical organization, one that requires powerful and visionary leadership. I’m convinced that the arrangement is a winning concept in the long run. It provides everyone with the scope to pursue excellence, but only if management can deliver.’

The chairman of the board stared at Schyman, struck by something the managing editor hoped was insight and not distrust. There was a stand-off. Finally, Herman Wennergren averted his gaze, folded his paper, put it under his arm and headed for the glass door. As he passed Anders Schyman, he stopped and spoke in a low voice:

‘No board has ever fired an editor-in-chief of this paper,’ he said. ‘Mine won’t be the first to do it.’

Mariana von Berlitz had come and gone, passing Annika without a glance. Annika didn’t have the strength to approach her – she couldn’t face the humiliation that she knew it would involve. However, the competition got a soundbite, Annika noted, though she doubted they would use it.

‘What a way to go,’ Mariana von Berlitz had said, her voice reverberating with an emotion that Annika was unable, or unwilling, to place.

‘I bet she arranged the whole thing herself, just to be front-page material again. It’s been a while.’

The competition asked Mariana something that Annika didn’t catch. But she heard the woman’s shrill reply.

‘She was making this documentary about her own life, produced by her own production company. I mean, can you get any more narcissistic and vain that that?’

Then the TV reporter flicked the locks of her snappy little Renault with her remote, tossed her bags in the front seat and drove off in a spray of gravel.

‘Christ,’ Annika said aloud and the reporter for the competition responded.

‘She certainly didn’t think much of Michelle Carlsson,’ he observed and walked up to Annika, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and offering her one. She declined politely and he took one himself.

‘One hell of a story we’ve got here,’ he said.

Annika sighed theatrically.

‘I’m not a huge fan of hers, I’ll admit that,’ the reporter went on, ‘but no one should have to die like that.’

They both shook their heads – a bullet in the brain was a truly godawful way to go. They stood next to each other and looked up at the castle, waiting for the next witness, rocking slightly on their heels. Annika closed her eyes and turned her face up to the pale yellow sun. The air was so delicate after the rain.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ the reporter for the competition remarked.

‘Why does almost everyone dislike TV show hosts?’ Annika asked.

The reporter blinked.

‘Do they? Who do you mean?’

She looked at him.

‘You, me, Mariana von Berlitz. The entire staff of my paper. Why are we so opinionated about people we’ve never met?’

‘They’re in the public eye,’ the reporter said tentatively, stubbing out his half-finished cigarette.

‘Well, does that mean we have to hate them?’ Annika countered.

‘I guess it’s the same deal as for columnists,’ the man said. ‘No one likes them, no one wants them around, and no one understands why they’re entitled to write a load of crap each week and deserve a huge byline. But still, we read their stuff. To be honest, I guess all of us would like the power to make our voices heard like that.’

Annika stared at the guy, perplexed to discover that her competitor was no dummy.

‘I’m Bosse,’ he said, extending his hand.

Annika blushed a little and cautiously shook his hand.

‘Here comes Bambi Rosenberg,’ Bosse said, forgetting everything else, dropping Annika’s hand and rushing over to the police tape.

She followed him with her gaze and looked up at the castle. A petite woman was walking towards the bridge, lugging a gigantic suitcase. The way her tiny torso slumped signalled defeat and frustration.

Michelle’s best friend
, Annika thought and moved forward to approach her. What if it had been Anne they’d found in the bus? She shook her head to throw off the thought.

‘Bambi?’ the reporter from the competition, Bosse, called out. ‘Bambi Rosenberg, may I ask you some questions, please?’

The woman approached the tape and slowly made her way under it, pulling the huge bag behind her. She had a hard time walking on the gravel path in her high-heeled sandals and tottered slightly. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were bloodshot and heavily made-up. When she saw the large cameras from the national broadcasting service, her hands instinctively flew up to yank off the elastic, releasing a cascade of blonde hair.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, so softly that Annika sensed her reply rather than heard it. ‘All right . . .’

‘How do you feel right now?’

The woman’s eyes filled with tears that she carefully brushed away with her fingertips to avoid smearing her mascara.

‘This is so awful,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the most terrible thing that’s ever happened to me.’

‘You knew Michelle well, didn’t you?’ Bosse asked.

Bambi Rosenberg nodded, then searched her pockets for a tissue and blew her nose.

‘She was my best friend.’

Annika could barely hear her. She took a step forward and spoke without introducing herself, due to her paper’s relationship with the deceased.

‘Is there anything in particular that you’d like to say about Michelle?’ Annika asked her in a soft voice.

The woman met Annika’s gaze and appeared to be mustering up some courage.

Looking unseeingly up at the treetops, she finally said: ‘There are a lot of people who should be taking a good look at themselves today.’ The large TV camera whirred in the wind, the reporter for the competition had whipped out a tape recorder, Bertil Strand was focusing his camera and a fascinated Annika studied the young woman.

‘Michelle Carlsson was a genuinely good person,’ Bambi Rosenberg said. ‘There aren’t many out there. I knew her, so I know it’s true. She wanted to make this world a better place. She had an obligation to the young women of Sweden – she wanted to be a role model, show them that you could make it on talent and ambition.’

She paused and took a few deep breaths, Annika wondered how much effort Bambi had put into preparing this speech.

‘The malice that was directed towards Michelle over the past few years was unprecedented,’ she continued, now looking them in the eye, one by one. Annika thought she held her gaze for an extra-long time and felt her cheeks grow hot.

‘The begrudging attitude to Michelle that characterized Swedish journalists was vulgar, it bordered on the disgusting. You enjoyed cutting her to pieces, you sneered when she made mistakes, you wished her the worst of luck, you wanted to hurt her. Now you’ve got what you wanted. Are you satisfied?’

The last sentence came out as a shriek, and she could no longer hold back the tears or save her make-up. Black rivulets coursed down her cheeks while Bambi Rosenberg bolted over to her red convertible, leaving the journalists stunned and uncomfortable.

‘There’s some truth in that,’ Bosse admitted, while the woman from the national broadcasting service just snorted.

‘You can certainly tell why Bambi Rosenberg won’t be offered any parts in a serious production,’ the woman said, and her cameraman and sound technicians snickered.

‘What makes you think that she would want those parts?’ Annika heard herself ask.

The TV team looked at her. The reporter’s expression of surprise gave way to one of disdain and she turned away.

‘It’s like assuming that I covet your job,’ Annika said, ‘just because you happen to think you’re superior. But you know what?’

The TV reporter turned around slowly and stared at Annika as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘I’d rather work the register over at IKEA,’ Annika informed her and walked back to the parking lot to write down Bambi’s little speech.

‘Well, aren’t we clever?’ she heard Bertil Strand say behind her. ‘Do you have to antagonize everyone in the business?’

‘Get any good shots?’ Annika asked him in a reserved voice. ‘Or didn’t you get enough notice beforehand?’

‘What the hell is your problem?’ the photographer demanded in a frosty voice, his eyes full of disapproval.

Annika sank down on the low wall by the parking lot, not caring that the seat of her pants would be soaked in no time.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied quietly, a lump forming in her throat. ‘It’s all so terrible.’

‘Pull yourself together,’ Bertil Strand snapped back.

Anne Snapphane entered the conference room. It appeared to have shrunk since yesterday: the ceiling seemed lower. The bus was still parked outside the window and a sense of unease engulfed her again, broadcasting her lack of confidence as clearly as sweaty palms.

‘Not as thirsty today, are we?’

Q had a different outfit today, a T-shirt instead of the Hawaiian shirt, khakis instead of jeans. Anne sat down and folded her hands, trying to appear calm and collected.

The police officer switched on the tape recorder and proceeded to rattle off: ‘Interview with Snapphane, Anne, held by Lieutenant Q at Yxtaholm castle in the conference room of the New Wing on Saturday, 23 June at 12:55. Anne Snapphane is being interviewed with regard to the murder of Michelle Carlsson. This is interview number three.’

‘People are going home,’ Anne said as soon as he was finished.

‘I would like to continue where we left off yesterday,’ Q said and leafed through some papers.

‘Why don’t I get to leave? Why do I have to stay here? Am I a suspect?’

‘If you answer my questions in the order that I ask them, you might get to go home too, at some point.’

‘Do you really have the right to detain me here?’

Anne Snapphane was unable to control her voice – it went revealingly shrill.

‘Let’s get back to the run-in at the Stables . . .’

She jumped up, her chair scraping the wooden floor.

‘What would happen if I walked out right now? What would you say? If I simply marched out the door, could you keep me here? Could you?’

Q remained expressionless.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘This isn’t funny. Now tell me what happened over at the Stables.’

Anne remained on her feet and screamed at the man.

‘I’ve already told you that!’

‘That’s right, you have,’ the policeman said. ‘Only there’s a catch. I think you lied.’

She stared at him. Sensing that her armpits were drenched in sweat, she held her arms stiffly at her side as she sat down again.

‘I believe you are withholding vital details,’ Q said. ‘I’m not going to allow you to go until you tell me the truth. If that means I have to arrest you, I will.’

She forced herself to glare at him.

‘You’re bluffing.’

He shrugged, got up and called out into the corridor:

‘Could you ask Karin to come in here?’

Panic spread throughout Anne’s body, an icy sensation radiating from slightly below her navel.

‘Karin?’ she said. ‘Who’s Karin?’

‘She’s the DA,’ Q told her. ‘She’s up at the castle right now.’

‘No!’ Anne Snapphane cried, getting up and taking a couple of steps towards the door in confusion. ‘Christ, I’ve got to go home. There’s Miranda, my little girl, she’s only two and I can’t . . .’

She remained frozen in place, panic drilling a hole in her gut, feeling again as though she was going to pass out. Q waited for her to calm down, his arms folded across his chest, his face expressionless.

‘All right,’ she whispered and returned to her seat, trembling. ‘What would you like to know?’

Completely deflated, she felt the ceiling closing in on her.

Q walked slowly around the table and sat down again.

‘The Stables,’ was all he said.

She kept her eyes shut for a few seconds, and breathed with her mouth open.

‘Like I already told you, the fight was in full swing by the time I got there.’

‘And who were the people involved?’

‘Michelle and Mariana. They were both pretty wasted and they were screaming at each other when I came in.’

‘What were they fighting about?’

‘It had started over something to do with John Essex. As far as I could tell, Michelle had got it on with him, and that freaked Mariana out. But I’m not positively certain – that’s just what I heard . . .’

‘Was John Essex in the room when you got there?’

Anne shook her head and the policeman sighed and pointed at the microphone.

‘No,’ she said and leaned closer to the mike. ‘No, he was in the kitchen, only I didn’t know at the time.’

‘Why did it bother Mariana that Michelle Carlsson had something going on with John Essex?’

Anne Snapphane snorted.

‘Everything Michelle did bothered Mariana. She would almost go as far as sabotaging the taping sessions just to ruin things for Michelle.’

‘How did Michelle feel about that?’

‘She detested Mariana and tried to get her replaced on the set. Only Zero has been cutting back on staff – they’ve been affected by the recession, you know. And Mariana’s terms of employment meant that she couldn’t be budged. We just had to lump it. And that hardly improved their relationship.’

‘What were they screaming about when you walked in?’

‘Something about a contract. Michelle was coming apart at the seams, her voice was really high-pitched and shrill and she was reeling around like she was drunk as a skunk . . .’

Anne paused.

‘What else?’

‘From the waist down she wasn’t wearing any clothes. It looked bizarre. She was reeling around the room half-naked, and . . .’