Lifetime (30 page)

‘If you only knew what I’ve been through,’ he said, his back rigid. ‘Michelle could be impossible – we’d agree on something and a second later she’d change her mind and turn everything upside down, and I’d have to start all over again. She was capricious, as irresponsible as a kid, and just issued commands.’

He leaned back and suddenly began to mimic Michelle in a high voice.

‘“This doesn’t feel right, Sebastian.” “Do something about this, Sebastian.” “I can’t take this, Sebastian . . .”’

Follin leaned closer again.

‘Not to mention all the men,’ he hissed. ‘I was the one who had to clean up her messes. I’m the only one who really knows everything.’

Trying to conceal her astonishment, Annika stared at the man.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘So who shot her?’

Follin turned his head. The fluorescent lights of the lobby lit up his lenses, turning him into an insect. A telephone began to ring at the service desk, persistently and insistently. Tore Brand made no attempt to answer. He was waiting for Follin’s reply.

‘Someone who was fed up,’ Sebastian Follin said.

He picked up his coat and his briefcase, then got up and headed for the stairs, his shoulders slumped.

Tore Brand reached for the phone.

The apartment hadn’t cleaned itself during the weekend. Annika emptied the wastebaskets and opened the windows to air out the place as she took the rubbish downstairs to put it in the garbage bins in the courtyard.

The haze of the newsroom was banished from her mind, work receded, the sticky imprints left by Sebastian Follin dried up and were dismissed from her thoughts.

In the kitchen, the remnants of the children’s breakfast cereal had dried up in the saucepan on the stove. Despite her intentions to soak the pan in water last night, Annika had forgotten all about it – she hadn’t had the energy to deal with it.

Leaving the mess to stew a while longer, she stopped in the doorway to the children’s room, trying to gain some kind of perspective from what she saw there: Ellen’s crib in the corner, Kalle’s bed with the safety rail by the window, the sweet-and-sour odour of formula and dirty nappies. Her children, the meaning of her life, the whole purpose of being a human being. A damp breeze whispered through the rooms, slamming the bedroom door shut.

Annika turned her head, rested her forehead against the door frame and breathed in and out.

It’s going to work
, she thought.
It has to.

Then she pulled herself together and switched off her brain – work was the easy part of her life.

An hour later, the worst of the mess had been cleared up. The toys had been put away, a load of laundry was in the machine, the floors had been skimmed over with the vacuum cleaner, and the overloaded dishwasher chugged away, china clanking. Annika went over to the supermarket, Rosetten, and bought milk, butter, eggs, green onions, bread, fish and canned goods. Not having brought enough cash, she was allowed to buy some of it on credit.

As she was lugging the groceries upstairs she could hear the phone ringing, so she dropped her bags, breaking the eggs, and tried to unlock the door though her hands were shaking badly.

‘All right if I drop by?’

Annika sat down on the floor, resting her head in one hand, her cheeks burning and quivering with disappointment.

‘Of course it’s all right,’ she told Anne Snapphane.

‘You sound pretty blue – is something wrong?’

She tried to laugh.

‘I thought it was Thomas.’

‘Sorry,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll bring some chocolate pastries.’

Thomas hadn’t called once the whole weekend. She didn’t even know when he planned on coming home. A sense of failure reverberated throughout her system and her entire being howled out at the breakdown in communications between them. Her longing for her children was like a pain in her gut.

Annika got up and put the groceries in the fridge, her body as sore as if she’d been through a tough workout. Acting like a sleepwalker she made coffee. The image of Bosse, the reporter from the competition, suddenly flashed on her retina. She recalled his unselfish kindness.

The doorbell pierced a hole in the pleasant sensation.

Anne Snapphane handed Annika the bag from the bakery and sank down on her couch, limp and shaky.

‘I feel like I have a hangover even though I haven’t had a drop. This is truly shitty.’

Annika poured coffee into the mugs and set out a carton of milk.

‘We had this meeting at work,’ Anne said as she reached for the milk. ‘This business has really brought out the worst in us.’

The two young women sat next to each other on the couch, both holding a mug of coffee, and felt the liquid’s warmth.

‘So it was rough?’ Annika said and took a sip.

Anne made a loud swallowing sound.

‘Mariana has always been a bit of a Jesus freak, but before today I never realized what a fucking fundamentalist she is. It’s scary. Highlander has the sensitivity and intelligence of a tank, Follin is nuts, and Karin hides behind a fussy mothering attitude.’

‘Sebastian Follin came to the office today,’ Annika said. ‘Right before I left for the day. I can’t quite figure out what he wanted.’

Anne snorted.

‘Try jockeying for position,’ she said. ‘He wants the world to know that Michelle lives on through him.’

Annika stirred her coffee and looked out the window. The grey daylight leeched all the colour from the surroundings.

‘One of you guys might have done it,’ she said.

Anne Snapphane drew a deep breath, a sigh that verged on a sob.

‘Why do people kill? To be able to go on?’

Annika let her spoon sink down into the mug of coffee.

‘Power,’ she said. ‘People kill for the sake of power, in one way or another. Power over another person, over a family, to obtain the power that money or political influence will provide . . . Power is the all-time number one motive for murder.’

‘Envy,’ Anne said. ‘Begrudging someone something. Feelings of injustice. Cain and Abel.’

‘Those things are also a kind of power play,’ Annika said, her eyes fixed on the greyness. ‘If I can’t have it, you can’t. Taking a person’s life is the ultimate show of power. End of story.’

‘That’s all, folks,’ Anne said. ‘No more Michelle Carlsson on TV.’

‘As I was saying before, Sebastian Follin came to see me at work,’ Annika said as she tried to fish out her spoon again. ‘I asked him who shot Michelle, and he said it was someone who got fed up. Who could that be?’

Anne shrugged.

‘Everyone, I guess.’

‘Did you know that they arrested the neo-Nazi girl?’

‘When was that?’

‘This morning. But she didn’t do it.’

‘I don’t think so either,’ Anne said.

They sat in silence for a while. Annika felt the coffee spreading warmth and tranquillity to her wounded senses.

‘Are you going to the memorial service on Tuesday?’ she asked as she put up her feet on the coffee table and snuggled back against the pillows.

Anne Snapphane shook her head, took a long, slow sip of coffee and rested her mug in her hand.

‘We’ll be getting access to the impounded tapes tonight and I’ve got to start going through the damned things and add time codes. It’s extremely tedious work and it’ll take days.’

Annika closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

‘Thomas hasn’t called since Friday.’

Anne bit into an almond-and-chocolate confection.

‘Would you have wanted him to?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘But you’ve been working around the clock. Would you have had the time to chat?’

‘I’d have made time. I don’t even know when he’ll be coming home.’

‘That, on the other hand, is pretty rotten,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Is he leaving you in limbo?’

Annika sighed and set her mug down on the floor.

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I brought it upon myself. I’ve never seen him as angry as he was last Friday.’

Wide-eyed and sceptical, Anne stopped chewing.

‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

‘About what?’

Annika tried to back away and pushed herself further into the cushions.

‘It’s not your fault that Thomas gets angry. How could it be? He has the right to get angry, but how does that make you the guilty party?’

Annika was thunderstruck, feeling as if she had her back to the wall.

‘I was the one who made him upset.’

‘Annika,’ Anne Snapphane said gravely and leaned towards her. ‘Stop doing this, you’re creeping me out. Thomas’s emotional life is not your responsibility. What is this, the S&M world cup? The World Guilt Championship?’

The air in the room ran out. Annika gasped for breath.

‘We’re responsible for each other,’ she countered.

‘I really don’t understand why you cater to Thomas so much, you’re certainly not a wimp in other situations. Have you always acted like this around men?’

Annika was breathing heavily as she pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.

‘And now you’re assuming the foetal position too,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Have a cookie so you don’t waste away.’

She handed her friend a cookie, and Annika took it mechanically, popping it in her mouth and chewing without tasting it.

‘What do you mean by “catering”?’ she said, crumbs of baked almond paste escaping from her mouth.

‘Thomas can stand living with you, so you have to forfeit your life. You turn into a shadow, running around and slaving away, taking care of everything. You’ve been on maternity leave for a few years now, but now that you’re back on the job it just won’t work.’

‘Come on.’ Annika could barely conjure up the strength to protest. ‘That’s not how it is, is it?’

Anne flung her arms out and said:

‘You’re a prize, don’t you realize that? He should be so damn grateful that he was lucky enough to catch you. You deserve flowers every single day, and kisses and shouts of joy, and lots of good sex for dessert . . .’

Annika felt laughter bubble up inside. The warmth made her body relax and her feet drop to the floor once more.

‘Well, if you say so . . .’

‘By the way, do you know what Schyman’s up to?’

Anne Snapphane leaned back and munched on her second cookie. Annika felt her muscles tense again.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘He called Mehmed and asked how long they’ll be doing the news show this summer.’

The pieces of information clicked into place like a jackpot on a slot machine. Annika could hear the
ka-ching.
She smiled.
The wily old bastard . . .

So that’s what he had up his sleeve.

Anders Schyman could sense the tenseness of the newsroom, the electricity in the air. It was much too quiet; too many men were gathered around Spike. He studied them out of the corner of his eye as he headed for his fish tank, noticing that Carl Wennergren had ignored his request to take his vacation earlier. Schyman took off his jacket and shook it out a bit before hanging it up. It had started to rain again. He had taken a walk along the shore of Lake Mälaren. It wasn’t possible to take the time to travel to his home by the sea; come summer the roads leading to the seashore were jammed every single weekend, and traffic moved as slowly as a rolling protest action by French farmers.

He took off his soaking wet shoes and realized that he didn’t have another pair here at the office. In one of the filing cabinets he located a pair of dry socks, which was better than nothing.

Then Schyman studied the group at the desk more closely, noticing the excited and fascinated expressions on the men’s faces. Only Torstensson stayed aloof, sitting at the foreign correspondent’s desk, wearily leafing through a foreign paper.

Schyman sighed, opened the door and walked over to the group. The men looked at him, the identical expression of uncertainty flashing briefly on all their faces.

‘Wennergren has a new job,’ Spike said, grinning. ‘He’s a porno photographer now. All he has to do is learn to focus the camera.’

The men snickered, their eyes slightly glazed.

‘Turn that screen in my direction,’ Schyman said.

The image on the computer was underexposed and grainy, but you could clearly see what was taking place: a man and a woman having sex on a dining-room table.

‘Michelle Carlsson and John Essex,’ Spike said. ‘Wennergren shot these the night she was murdered.’

The excitement tingeing his voice had a duality: fascination with this outpost of the journalism of the macabre mixed with a dose of prurient sexuality.

The silence was palpable. All eyes were on Anders Schyman. Even Torstensson stopped leafing through his paper, even though he didn’t look up. The managing editor tried to sort out his impressions and emotions and quickly assessed just how angry he would be.

‘What is this picture doing in the paper’s computer?’ he asked, keeping his voice under control.

‘It’s not on the computer,’ Spike said. ‘Wennergren has the pictures on a disk.’

‘Eject the disk,’ Schyman said. ‘And give it to me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Wennergren said. ‘It’s my property.’

The managing editor looked at the reporter: a carefree smile, thick blond hair and broad shoulders – one of the boys, a role model. He could sense how the other editors sided with Spike and Wennergren. Without being able to explain it, he knew Torstensson did too.

‘Eject that disk,’ Anders Schyman said emphatically. ‘Before anyone decides to transfer those pictures to a server. We don’t want garbage like that in our system.’

The silence intensified.

‘Why not?’ Wennergren asked, seemingly playful but with an undercurrent of aggression. ‘We could post them on some hidden page of our lousy website, and then we could leak the address to a few choice hackers. For the first time in history, our site would have more visitors than our competitor’s gets and it would only take a few hours.’

Mouths twitched and shoulders shook. This was what they had found so amusing.

‘Would you like me to do it?’ Schyman asked coolly.

Spike sighed dramatically, removed the disk from the drive, and handed it to Carl Wennergren.