Lifetime (22 page)

Anne Snapphane groaned and smoothed her hair.

‘He really knows how to spout bullshit. Did he say confer? He’s just a mouthpiece, he can’t do a damn thing without a go-ahead from London. Did you know that he fired her on the night that she died?’

Annika was amazed and stared at Anne.

‘He
fired
her?’

The wheels of the car’s right slipped off the road and she had to turn hard on the steering wheel to get back on track.

‘Take it easy. She was too old – she turned thirty-four last Monday.’

Annika eased up on the accelerator, rattled by the close proximity of the ditch.

‘What a hypocrite! “Our most esteemed associate” – like hell she was. All right if I use that?’

‘Not if you quote me. You see, I only heard it secondhand. Check and see if someone else can confirm it.’

They sat next to each other in silence, Annika gripping the steering wheel firmly with both hands, the bottle of cola like an icy erect penis between her thighs. Oblique rays of sunshine filtered down through the treetops, at times blinding her left eye. She pulled the visor over to the side window and glanced over at her friend. Anne Snapphane had her eyes trained on the landscape, but her gaze was focused inwards. Annika could sense what her friend was seeing in her mind’s eye.

‘Mariana mentioned a documentary,’ she said quietly. ‘Michelle was supposedly making a film about her own life, produced by her own company. Do you know anything about it?’

Anne Snapphane blinked a few times.

‘It’s been a major bone of contention all week. Most people felt that she had exceeded the final limits of conceit. It was all right if anyone else made a documentary about Michelle Carlsson, but she shouldn’t do it herself. Some people disagreed, but not many. There was Sebastian Follin, of course, and Bambi. Why shouldn’t a public figure be able to profit from their own celebrity? Why did it just have to be everyone else?’

‘What do
you
think?’ Annika asked, the dancing sunbeams making her squint.

Anne Snapphane fished around in the bag of candy, making a choice between salty licorice gummy fish and cola-flavoured gummy rings.

‘Making a tribute to yourself is kind of silly,’ she said. ‘From a journalistic standpoint it has no credibility whatsoever. I mean, who would dare criticize her?’

‘Was she really going to make the film herself?’ Annika asked. ‘Or would it be made by an independent producer and Michelle’s production company would just release it?’

Anne popped a sweet in her mouth and chewed for a while.

‘Would it make a difference?’ she said eventually, picking her teeth to remove the lingering licorice and preservatives. ‘She would still be making and marketing a movie about herself, making money from the fact that she was famous. Now, isn’t that kind of lame?’

Annika slowed down as they passed Björndammen, looking at the log cabin that housed a café, at the people who had stopped there for a cup of coffee and some home-made baked goods down by the lake.

‘What’s so lame about it?’ she asked. ‘If she used an independent producer who didn’t kowtow to her, then it wouldn’t really be a problem that the film was produced by her own production company. If the same reasoning applied to everyone else in the media world, it would be impossible for insiders to write about the business.’

‘That isn’t the same thing at all,’ Anne said.

‘Yes, it is,’ Annika countered. ‘Just take the family that owns
Kvällspressen.
They own the largest trade paper too, and the biggest TV network, along with radio stations and Internet companies. Let’s say the paper was going to fold – shouldn’t their network or their trade paper be able to cover the story?’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Anne Snapphane said.

They dropped the subject and the ensuing silence was stiffer. Annika fiddled with the car radio, but only managed to get static.

‘This Sebastian Follin person,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What’s the deal with him?’

Anne Snapphane laughed wearily and put the bag of sweets on the floor of the car.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘Of all the useless people on earth . . .’

Annika shot Anne a quizzical look.

‘I thought he booked Michelle.’

‘Sebastian Follin was on the payroll as Michelle Carlsson’s most avid supporter. His job was to always be there, waving a little flag that said “Michelle is the greatest”.’

Anne waved an imaginary flag.

‘Why?’

Anne Snapphane shook her head.

‘I guess Michelle needed it. She could never get enough applause. Sebastian Follin’s job was to give her an overdose.’

They both laughed, briefly and wistfully.

‘What other clients has he represented?’

Anne sighed and leaned back against the headrest.

‘I don’t know, I’ve never heard him mention anyone else.’

After they passed the works at Länna, Annika made a right turn, taking a short cut through Åkers Styckebruk, the ancient gun factory, along a narrow and winding road.

‘Did you ever meet Michelle?’ Anne Snapphane asked.

Annika shook her head.

‘I don’t think so. But somehow it feels like I know her anyway. You’ve told me so much about her over the years. And then there’s all those articles too . . .’

‘You have met Karin, though. Karin Bellhorn. At the Christmas party. What did she say?’

Annika mulled it over for a few seconds.

‘She seemed pretty exhausted and sad. Talked about how fame does strange things to people, how it’s as addictive as a drug. And that once you’ve had a taste of fame, you would do anything to have more.’

Anne Snapphane nodded.

‘Karin would know. She hosted shows back in the 1970s.’

‘She did?’ Annika said. ‘Like she was the hippie equivalent of Michelle Carlsson?’

Anne smiled a little.

‘Not exactly, but she had to deal with critics and gossip too. Back in those days her name was Andersson. That was before she married that English rocker, Steven Bellhorn, and left the country.’

‘That’s right,’ Annika said. ‘Didn’t they get divorced a few years later?’

‘Yeah, he ran off with a twenty-three-year-old blonde. Some people say she hasn’t got over him yet. What else did she say?’

‘That fame was like having a wounded soul. The wounds can heal, but they leave scars. And anyone who’s been there will pick at the scabs, they won’t be able to leave them alone. She claimed that Michelle was like a bleeding wound. Was she?’

Anne Snapphane didn’t answer. She sat quietly while Annika drove out on the highway.

‘Did you meet them all?’ she asked interested. ‘The neo-Nazi girl? Mariana? Wennergren? Stefan?’

Annika swallowed.

Anne shot her a puzzled look.

‘That little Nazi girl,’ Annika said. ‘What an airhead. She knew who I was, which was pretty damn unpleasant.’

‘What do you mean?’

Annika’s breath was coming out in puffs. She pictured the transfigured features of the girl.

A predator showing its teeth.
What’s it like to kill
someone? Tell me. I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Was it hard? How did it feel afterwards?

‘She told me she’d heard that Thomas had left me. Mariana and Wennergren drove off without talking to me. So did Axelsson. Bambi Rosenberg did a little scene, but she seemed genuinely devastated.’

‘Michelle was her ticket to all the opening-night specials,’ Anne Snapphane commented. ‘Of course she’s upset.’

‘Well, these days she gets her own invitations, doesn’t she?’ Annika protested.

Anne looked out the window and didn’t reply. The highway traffic was slow and moved in surges. They were stuck next to a family in a minivan for kilometres on end. A girl who looked like she was around two waved at them the whole time.

‘Gunnar Antonsson,’ Annika said when they had left the family behind them, ‘he didn’t really count, did he?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Karin said he was easy to forget, and he didn’t seem to include himself in the group of journalists.’

‘Of course he wouldn’t, he’s a driver and an engineer. But I like the guy. He really knows his stuff. Did you talk to Stefan Axelsson?’

‘I tried,’ Annika said. ‘He definitely didn’t want to talk. How did he feel about Michelle?’

‘They had an affair,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘A short one, a couple of years back. After it was over he was really hard on her. Did you meet everyone?’

‘Apart from John Essex.’

‘So, what do you think?’

Annika shook her head and was quiet for a long time.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said at last.

‘Do you think it was one of us?’

A brief pause.

‘Probably.’

‘Who did it?’

Silence enveloped them. The surrounding cars braked and came to a standstill. They had reached Södertälje, the junction for the freeways heading south and west. There were endless lines in both directions.

‘It wasn’t you,’ Annika said as they waited in the exhaust fumes. ‘I don’t think it was Gunnar either. But it could be any of the others.’

The newsroom was sharply lit and the night editors were still hyper after a day of sleep. They picked up coffee, laughed, made calls and played pinball on their computers, getting in one last game before the night tied them to Quark Express and the art of the even margin.

Annika couldn’t see any of the supervisors at the desk, Schyman’s fish tank was empty too. They were probably in a meeting, handing over the day’s business somewhere. She went over to her desk and pulled out her laptop. She rested her forehead against her knuckles and took a few deep breaths, then listened to her answering service – nothing. Her cellphone – you have . . . no messages.

According to the original plan they would be coming home tomorrow, on the
Cinderella
in the afternoon, and be back right before six. She picked up the phone on her desk and dialled Thomas’s cellphone number. The service picked up and she listened to his distant voice, her chest constricting. Without saying a word, she hung up and pulled out her phone book to find the number of her inlaws’ summer cottage. She’d tried to memorize the combination but for some reason Annika could never remember that number, despite having a good head for figures. Once more, she put her hand on the receiver, letting it remain there until her fingers prickled.

He’s walking along the shore in the sunset, and he’s not missing me.

Annika jumped up and walked over to the coffee machine, leaving images of red suns and blue-tinged beaches behind, and selected a cup of extra-strong coffee. With her back to the wall, she drank the hot liquid as she gazed out over the sharp lines of the newsroom, hearing the echoing sounds and laughter, and tried to banish her throbbing sense of loneliness with controlled breaths.

I’m never going to forgive you for this. Damn you!

The plastic cup crumpled in her hand, the sharp edges cutting the skin. With her gaze fixed on the floor she returned to her desk.

What was she going to write?

Pad and pen in hand, she sketched out the body of the story.

One of the articles should certainly deal with Michelle’s final hours.

Annika sighed. The true course of events couldn’t be described without dishonouring the deceased; Michelle Carlsson had been roaring drunk, had screamed at her associates, and had reeled around semi-nude while brandishing a gun. She had been fired, she’d fired her manager in turn and she’d been generally out of control.

Still, this had to be suggested somehow – Annika knew it was relevant in some way. Michelle Carlsson’s death was a public affair, just like her life had been. The scandals would inevitably leak out. Even if the Swedish press refrained from dishing the dirt, the English tabloids would pull no punches, especially since John Essex was involved.

Annika made a few notes and continued.

The quarrels. The trouble when the shows were taped. They were easier to describe.

The mysterious car that drove up to the castle at a time when the murder could have been committed, probably to pick John Essex up. That was easy too.

The witnesses had been released, but they were expected to hold themselves available for additional interviews.

This was a more delicate situation. Annika chewed on her pen and pondered for a while.

All she had to go on were the cryptic words of Q:

‘We cannot rule that out.’

That doesn’t really mean anything, though
, she thought. Or then again, maybe it meant: any one of them could have done it, or not.

‘Bengtzon!’

She jumped and looked up in confusion.

The managing editor was standing in the doorway of his fish tank, waving at her. She picked up the pad with the lists of different items and headed for the corner office.

‘Shut the door,’ Anders Schyman said and sat down on his creaking chair.

Annika studied him. Her boss looked hot and upset. There were spots on his collar and his eyes were rimmed with red.

‘I haven’t discussed all the material with Berit yet,’ she said, ‘but I’ve tried to set down the basic structure––’

‘Discuss that with the guys at the news desk,’ Schyman said, interrupting her, his voice hollow with fatigue.

She stopped in mid-explanation. The managing editor was sitting slumped in his chair with his hands over his eyes.

‘Is there something wrong?’

Quickly, Schyman leaned forward, his forearms falling on the desk with a thud.

‘Will you be working at the beginning of next week?’ he asked.

Annika hesitated.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘You’ve been at work during the entire holiday. When were you planning to take some time off?’

‘As soon as possible. I’ll be taking a whole week . . .’

The managing editor made a dismissive gesture with one hand and rubbed his brow with the other.

‘I might need your help on Monday with an extremely delicate matter. You aren’t allowed to mention it to anyone here at the paper, not even to Berit.’

A sense of surprise bubbled up Annika’s spine like a cold carbonated drink, forcing her to sit and lean forward.